Take THAT, PEG*heads!

* PEG*heads = Protest Easy Guns

It's a beautiful day (finally!) and I'm sitting here at Starbucks, blogging on my netbook over their Wi-Fi, with a 1911 in Condition 1 on my hip.

And it's not jumping out of the holster all by itself and shooting up the place. Funny, that.

On Being A Fertilizer Magnet

Some years back, certain folks saw other people who were different from themselves and decided the way to deal with this differentness was to fly some planes into buildings. That same attitude is alive and well, albeit on a slightly smaller scale, in our local communities today.

We all face the choice at some point in our lives to Be True To Ourselves or Be Obedient Sheep. For the Conformity At All Costs crowd, there are planned communities with homeowner associations, where little Nazis can enforce approved paint colors, landscaping requirements, storage shed bans, and other examples of institutionalized codependency. They should stay in their gated enclaves instead of spreading through the countryside like a poo-flinging plague.

No, I don't think it was a coincidence that the BTK Killer worked in Compliance Enforcement.

The story of my life

Since I chose the other option, I constantly draw the ire of those who feel Everyone Who Is Not Just Like Them Must Be EVIL.

Now, I live out in the country surrounded by farmland. The closest occupied dwelling is over a quarter mile away. Law enforcement response time can be 20 minutes on a good day. There are no homeowner associations. But there is no lack of codependent idiots.

When my old mare was alive, the We Watch Too Much Animal Planet crowd figured in heavily as well. At age 22, she ruptured the lateral collateral ligaments in her right stifle joint fooling around in a muddy paddock. The local big-name-leg-man-horse-vet told me the injury wasn't survivable, but Margo had other ideas. With the help of my holistic vet, she healed and lived another six years, but developed a permanent hitch in her gitalong from fooling around and reinjuring her leg.

Margo a year after her "fatal" injury

Passers-by who saw her standing the way she was most comfortable or moving carefully ASSUMED there was Something Terribly Wrong and called the sheriff. After repeated discussions with my vet and my documentation that I was spending over $1,000 a month on her well-being, they advised me to post my property against trespassing and keep my gate locked.

Oh yeah, I forgot the earlier complaint by a Rural Living N00b that had a deputy nearly rolling with laughter when he came to check it out. Seems some fool reported I had a blindfolded horse after seeing her wearing one of these.

And the guy who showed up telling me I needed to sell my horse for slaughter since he never saw me riding her? I could get real good money from the killers for a big, fat horse like that, don'cha know. He'd even haul her to the auction for me, for a cut of the profits. I told him to leave while he still could.

Then there was the woman who showed up saying she'd just moved in down the road and didn't have any friends. She wanted to be my friend, and we could have coffee together, and swap recipes, and go shopping, and everything. Ick, ick, ick, ick, ick. I choose my friends, and that kind of crap doesn't qualify.

All my life, I've wanted to live in the woods. So an acreage out in the country should be just perfect for finally meeting that goal, right? Not so much. OF COURSE you must really want all those nasty trees cut down, and there are lots of people willing to tell you how they'll "help you out" by bulldozing everything, or even better, report you to the sheriff as being somehow incompetent because you don't have a chemically-dependent biological wasteland pretty wall-to-wall lawn like they do.

Then there's the series of people who want to buy my place. Call me stupid, but I generally figure a property that's for sale will, like, have a FOR SALE sign out front, or be listed with a realtor somewhere. If I saw a place I liked, I might make a note of it and inquire if I saw it go on the market, but I would never look up the owners' names and contact them saying I wanted to buy the place. Nor would I ever dream of justifying such behavior by claiming I'm somehow more entitled to own the property than they are.

Nor would I enlist the aid of friends in the county zoning office to bombard the owners with violation after violation (most of which were for violating the in-town zoning regulations of the county seat -- how stupid do you think I am?) in an attempt to convince them they should move elsewhere.

I had to go to the county attorney with my attorney on that one. Fortunately the old-boys club doesn't extend everywhere, and zoning employees lost their jobs before all was said and done.

Now I'm on the fourth round of wannabe-buyers who don't understand No Means No. This time they looked me up on the assessor's website (THANK YOU for enabling harassment and identity theft, you tools) and sent me a letter. They had bought the adjacent 150 acres and felt that entitled them to my little corner of the world as well. Let's see, they have over 100 times as much land as I do, and feel that only makes it "right" they have mine? Greedy much?

I sent them a response saying the property was not for sale and I wanted no further contact with them. So of course they later left a note on my gate saying I needed to call them ASAP or they'd show up at my door over the weekend. Did I mention the locked gate and the No Trespassing sign?

I called my lawyer who called them immediately, telling them I was not selling and they were not to contact me again. What happened next?* An anonymous call to the sheriff's office saying they need to check on me because I have VEHICLES and DOGS THAT ARE BIGGER THAN PIT BULLS. Oopsie, the dogs' fully fenced exercise yard is only visible from their property, not from the road. They also helpfully gave the sheriff's office an account of when I leave and return home every day. Nobody can see that from their kitchen window.

That got me a "welfare check" at 10:00 pm on a Friday night. More lawyer calls, more documentation sent in writing to the sheriff's office. This crap is getting to smell like stalking.

Why the bloody hell can't these morons just leave me alone?

There is one consequence of all the stupidity I'm thankful for. It was a sheriff's deputy years ago responding to an intruder trouble call who first suggested I should consider getting a gun.

* Almost forgot to include this incident and another where I came out my front door to find a pickup in my driveway with activity outside the privacy fence. They saw me coming and left in a hurry. I photographed the tracks in the snow where they were going to try to get around my fence. Oh, and the earlier one when I heard men's voices outside my window in the middle of the night. Calling out they had one chance to vacate the premises backed up by racking my 12-gauge shut that one down real quick.

Irish Appreciation Day

My genetic heritage is pure Slavic, but over the years I've had many Greyhounds with Irish bloodlines. Ireland has so far resisted the demonization of all hunting, and the persistence of coursing is reflected in the quality of their hounds.

Irish Thoroughbreds are also legendary, and two of my current horses have Irish ancestors.

So in honor of Judge and Sarge, and in loving memory of Dubh, Jessie, Duke, Jolie, and all the others from great Irish breeding in the past, tonight we're having Irish stew made with Guinness. May Brigid forgive me.

Has It Been Ten Years Already?

Last census, I hit the FedGov Annoyance Jackpot with not only the Long Form but a Household Survey, gov-speak for a whole series of face-to-face visits. A woman kept showing up at my door asking the same questions over and over again.

"Has the number of people living here changed in the past month?"

"No."

"Do you still own your house?"

"Yes."

Et cetera, et cetera, rinse, repeat. This time I got the 10-question version, which is about nine too many. Since I don't need any more fertilizer in my life and seem to be a fertilizer-magnet in general, I answered them all and mailed the damned thing back.

But if some idiot shows up at my door with a clipboard this time around, we're going to have words.*

* Gee, do I get put on a List somewhere for saying that?

DST Ennui

DST Lag just puts the icing on the cake of day after day of gray, foggy weather combined with general slop-season malaise. Meh.

It's That Time Of Year Again

Several feet of snow kicked into melt-overdrive by a solid week of rain.

Terra not-so-firma

Muck Boots -- don't leave home without 'em.

You Ride Like A Girl

You wish.

And halfpassgal/Shannon's piece de resistance:

Breathe

I've been riding twice as long as halfpassgal's been alive, and wish I had half the velcro-seat she does. When I work with horses who were messed up by ignorance and/or arrogance, I make sure I've stacked the deck way more in my favor before ever getting on them.

Even so, like the mare in the first video, sometimes they flash back to past bad memories and revert to old behaviors they developed way back when to save themselves. When that happens, the only way out is through. You have to stay on, stay calm, not punish, and straighten things out.

No funky sticks, magic ropes, waving flags, or endless circling. Just good classic horsemanship, pure and simple. As the late Col. Alois Podhajsky said, "Riding forward is the essence of correct training."

Calm, straight, and forward beats all those funky sticks, magic ropes, and round-penning ad-nauseam every time.

BAG Day 2010

Jay G reminds us that Buy A Gun Day is a little over a month away.

Makes me wonder if these will be on the shelves by then.

Thanks, Brady Bunch!

I'm not a coffee drinker (heresy for a computer geek, I know, but there are plenty of other caffeinated beverages to get you through those all-night change-control sessions). I had never set foot inside a Starbucks until the whole open-carry brouhaha broke out.

I e-mailed their corporate office when the Brady Bunch first went after them, and received a very nice response. After they held the line on staying in compliance with the law, I e-mailed them again to thank them. Since I believe in putting my money where my mouth is, I figured I might as well check out their website and see what they sell that I might like.

Well, in addition to a great hot chocolate, they have these:

Red Velvet Cupcakes!

I love Red Velvet Cake and have made it from scratch many times in years gone by. As recipes go, it's a huge pain in the rear. How often I made it was pretty much a function of how long it took the memory of just how big a pain it was to fade.

These cupcakes have the double advantage that somebody else has the mess to clean up, and they're just enough to satisfy the craving without inconvenient leftovers. You know, the kind you feel compelled to eat because good food shouldn't go to waste. Or should that be spelled waist?

So now Starbucks has a new, loyal, armed* customer. Had it not been for the Brady panty-wetting, I'm sure I still would have never set foot inside one of their stores.

So thanks, Brady Depend-Soiling Campaign To Prevent Gun Ownership And Effective Self Defense. If not for you, I would not be a regular 1911-carrying Starbucks customer today.

* While open carry is legal in Nebraska, I prefer concealed since I have that option and appreciate its many advantages.

Melting

Temps are finally starting to get back up to "normal," and the tons of Global Warming are melting. As much as we got this year, I'm amazed Milton The EvilPony™ didn't high-center.

The dogs' yard is still fence-to-fence ice, but they don't have any problems getting around. Me, when picking up poop, not so much.

As usual, the amount of mud on my horses varies directly with how light in color they are. The two grays are beyond gross and disgusting, while the chestnut, bay, blue roan, and black are nearly spotless. I tried to get some pictures, but it was already getting dark. No problem, I'm sure I'll have plenty of other chances to get pictures of filthy horses before the mud dries out.

Sarge's scar made it through the winter in great shape. I was concerned how all that hairless skin would tolerate the long stretches of double-digit-subzero days and nights, but it did just fine. Sarge will be four years old on June 1, and it looks like he's grown over the winter.

Early spring is flood season, when ice breaks up, floats down the rivers, and forms ice jams. They're calling for rain on four of the next five days. Neither my property or the barn is in a floodplain, but more wet is not what anyone needs.

At least the horses are starting to shed. Hope they're right.