The Faces of Kindness1

Happy Monday!

Lorraine Tasker Small
My favourite neighbour, ever, is scowling at you. My kid sister used this photograph to get into photography school. It's a classic Lorraine expression, when you were pissing her off. My sister is taking her picture. That pissed her off.
Her favourite saying to me was "Oh, Barb! It doesn't Matter."

Lorraine was my favourite neighbour, ever. I called her Mrs. Small, until the week before she died, the last time I saw her. I pissed her off, walking in at a crucial point in a tennis match. Lorraine Tasker Small died of lung cancer, at 85 years old, smoking to the bitter end. My kid sister eventually got used to calling her Lorraine, but I never did.

Well after my parents split up, Mom, kid sister and I moved to old Oakville, the town of my birth. One street over from the house I was born in, 21 years later. It was kinda cool, I'd often come across familiar places/things, not knowing why they were familiar. Kid sister was sent off to Alma College, she needed the, um, lack of men. I was going to university and teaching through this time.

Mr & Mrs Small were an semi-elderly couple with two ancient GSD's when we first moved in. They were very shy. They spoke to each other with veddy prop-ah British accents, mostly calling their dogs out of our garden. Old Sam and Mary, the ancient dogs. I'm sure they looked a bit askance at the single Mom and her mostly grown daughters. I bet they worried that the neighbourhood had been shot all to hell. Loud music, public foolishness.. There was a huge hedge between the two properties, and it shielded Austin & Lorraine from having to deal with us face to face too much. We scared the heck out of them:)

As Mr & Mrs slowly realized how normally boring we were, the hedge got clipped shorter, and shorter:) Mom charmed the heck out of both of them, as she was naturally able to do, and became their fast friends. Me and sis came later, after Mr. Small & Sam & Mary passed on.

Mrs Small was livid one afternoon, not long after her losses, and Mom asked her why. Mrs. Small's (in her words) "idiotic sister-in-law" was sending her a standard poodle puppy, with no warning, no asking, Nothing. A very nice gesture, if you're a bit sadistic, in my opinion. Puppy's on it's way, you're welcome! Mom calmed her down, and came home to tell me the news. You know what I thought. A puppy's coming!! And Mon Ami came into our lives, and changed all kinds of wires in my fledgling animal training brain.

Mon Ami was "my" first dog that I trained, with no help, at all. Mrs. Small was thrilled that I was willing to help out with walking and training and general puppy thievery. We spent hours just thanking each other back and forth. "Oh, BahBra, thenk you so MUCH for helping me with Ami, he ate a whole pound of butter off the counter yesterday!" "Oh, Mrs' Small, don't be silly, I'm having a wonderful time!" And I was. What great dogs the Standards are. So smart! Mon Ami is the dog that cheered up a horse I was riding.

Kodiak, sad old eeyore type gorgeous Trak/TB cross, with a woe-is-me attitude. I used Mon Ami as our hound to chase. Kodiak was just a hoot to ride, after I restored his sense of humour. Nothing funnier than a joyous poodle out-racing a horse, at least to this Kodiak horse. Kodiak's owner couldn't get over the difference in him, after I started riding him. I never did tell her a dog did it.

Mrs. Small Hated that her dog was a poodle, (too "frou-frou") and for his first year and a half, refused to have him clipped or groomed. You can imagine the state his coat was in by this point. It took weeks of me pleading that Ami was suffering, and then I finally took my horse ear-clippers to just his head and neck. Only. HeeHEE, a HUGE body, and a TINY head. Mrs. Small made the call to the groomers, the next day. After she got over her pique, she grudgingly admitted I was right.

We had a good laugh about it, later. Mrs. Small was very stubborn in her opinions, and it was like pulling teeth to get her to admit Ami needed a "lamb" clip, at least twice a year. But I did it. I'm stubborn, too.
Remind me to tell you about Mrs. Smalls' house-keeping skills. She didn't have any. Gawd, she was inspiring.



Horses and Hearts
It's hurting my heart again, the whole darned horse thing. Just the way it used to, only with the stories exponentially increasing in ability to cause visceral pain.

My stomach hurts, when I think of the horses. The more terrible the story, or the more foolish/savage/violent the drama & or the truth, the less I even want to think about the horses in my life. The foolishness rampant in horse-ownershit today is scary as hell. It hammers at my non-combatant sensibilities. I want to say something. So here, I'll say it. I'll let it go here, and take that deep breath, and square my shoulders, again.

And remember what I've been trying to communicate, before I kick the bucket. Hey, I'm allowed! My Mom passed away at 62. I'm 53, do the math. Ya never know..

The horses can teach us everything else we need to know about ourselves, things that other animals just can't teach us. They can show us how to stay in the moment, and how to think honestly about ourselves. Their hearts bring tears to my eyes, without even seeing them in the real life world.

Like "my" old Chinook horse, the belgian cross schoolie. 'Nookies was a coca-cola addict, as I was. It's always a smile that comes to my heart when I think of chestnut Chinook. Three and a half socks and a big blaze. Tallest and beautifully built up top, short-coupled, well-balanced, but with the shortest, straightest pasterns you ever would see. Chinook lived with navicular. His regimen of bute and turn-out kept him mobile.

Chinook would always leave his stall very stiff and stumbly, but give him a few minutes, and he'd re-find his feet. Chinook would stumble occasionally, stopping my heart for the first few weeks as I got to know him. But Chinook was as sure-footed as a billy-goat, on our "suicide trails", and loved to gallop them flat-out in the spring, regardless of the wishes of his rider.

I found that out, on my first hack out with two of the advanced students. I rode Chinook. He was GONE! Took off with me like a bat out of hell, until he realized that I wasn't screeching and trying to stop him. I was laughing my head off. It was so funny. Chinook had a great sense of humour. He loved to get loose from the barn, by sliding open his stall door, whenever an unwary student would trust him for two seconds, and forget the special latch. Chinook would come CHARGING outside, student calling him madly, he'd gallop Maybe three whole strides, and then stop and eat, all he liked doing in life, besides galloping the trails and causing a brou-ha-ha.

Oh, and drinking Coke. At the end of his advanced lesson, I just had to whisper "Nooookies?" and into the centre he'd come, for us to share the dregs of my third or fourth Coke. Yeah, can't drink THAT anymore. Chinook loved to jump, limited in scope of course, but with the cutest, tightest knees. Oh, my old chestnut friend. Chinook and Sparky were lovers, in that they had been together forever. They were never far away from each other. Their friendship haunts me. I hope, I hope they both got to go together, at least.

"My" boys..
There goes my heart again..


Here's a local blog that's actually trying to make a difference. Would that I could.
Interestingly, the slaughter plant in Ontario has been harassed by activists lately. They keep a very low profile, apparently. I wonder who they are? I'd dig more, but I need to be able to sleep at night.

To Chinook. Broad of back, stout of heart. Sweet, kind soul.
Love you, buddy. Miss you, and love you, forever.
And I'm so sorry I had to leave you.
Dammit, eyes are burning..


Checkout the Belgian on Trooper and Sarah's blog. The jumping picture is the spittin' image of "my" old Nooks.