Posts Tagged ‘treats’

Food Matters

I love my food;
There is no doubt.
With my nose in the hay
There’s no reason to pout.

I like it wet,
So in water I dunk
Each mouthful I eat
To get rid of the gunk.

Carrots I love;
They’re juicy and sweet.
Served in pieces bite-sized
They’re a wonderful treat.

And apples are great
When in eight pieces hewn.
Served in some other way
Well, I’m likely to fume.

Bran muffins with berries
Are best fed by hand,
And you know that I’ll
Tolerate only one brand.

Yet, more sacred than all
Is my grain morn and night.
By itself in my bucket —
Or I’ll put up a fight!

Yes, I love my food,
But I like it just so.
And if anything’s wrong
Believe me, you’ll know.

*

I’ve been trying to impress upon the one who shall remain nameless how important it is to my mental health that my food be delivered to me in exactly the way I like it every single day.

No need to review it all as the above poetic rendering pretty much covers it.

But let me just say that recently the esteemed British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) noted in the documentary Out of the Vortex: Poems Inspired by Depressive Illnesses that, based on a study of major British and Irish poets between 1600 and 1800 by eminent psychologist, Kay Redfield Jamison:

“ … poets are 20 times more likely to end up in an asylum than the general population.”

The report also notes that a lot of creativity comes from a conflict somewhere in the mind; that is, if your mind is “alive” it can produce both positive and negative responses.

Now, my mind is very much alive, (some might prefer to say it’s conflicted) and while I don’t wish to make light of a serious subject, I might venture that for this particular poet to be truly sound of mind he must be well fed, well exercised, well groomed and well amused by the world around him.

Being well fed is of utmost importance, for it is from the well-satisfied stomach that all things worthwhile emerge.* And note that in my alive mind well fed implies method as well as madness … food matter (i.e. grain, treats, etc.) so, as I have already indicated, while I am an easygoing kind of guy I do enjoy my food served in a very particular way.**

Truthfully, I have been known to freak out when my food routine is disrespected. For instance, just last week the scribe had the audacity to place carrots in my bucket while I was still working on my grain. I just about lost it! Nothing exasperates me more than having to nose dive into a pile of root vegetables to get to my grain!

And I love carrots — I just don’t want them with my grain! Ever! I’m sure my incessant bucket banging against the wall to dislodge the offending objects clearly demonstrated my disapproval. I hope the scribe got the message.

As a prolific and sensitive poet I feel that to be productive in mind, body and spirit my temporal needs simply must be met as I dictate, else I shall surely …

(Scriptus Interruptus — Geez, Bear, way to be melodramatic! Cease and desist or I shall be 20 times more likely to smite thee with a carrot in thy grain! Seriously!)

Alas, see you again in Poet’s Paddock …

Shakespeare “The Equine”

* This is true of non-poets also, though I might venture that a little bit of the poet lives in us all.
** Note that in the summer months I prefer to bob for my apples in the paddock trough — very stimulating.

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011

Day Dreaming

Summer seems so far away

The trees are so green
And they’re waving at me.
The sun beating down
Is a warm reverie.

Mild winds blow ‘cross my face,
And dance through my mane.
Apple bobbing is fun —
Can we do it again!

So lush is the grass,
And the sky is so blue.
The birds sing so sweet
What they sing must be true.

And the scent of the hay
Freshly cut is a dream.
I’m soaking it in when
Things aren’t as they seem.

“Hi Bear!”

The door opens wide.
The snow’s blowing in.
Mom’s in her old parka.
I know where I’ve been.

Dreaming of summer
And all its repose.
When the winter’s this dreary
That’s where my mind goes.

* * *

I know I’m not the only one that day dreams about summer, especially on days like this when the snow’s coming in sideways and the temperature is too frigid to think about. Frosticles on my whiskers tickle my nose and snow wedges around my toes, even with snow pads on, make it tricky to move around. The blankets shift when I roll and the ground is slippery and not suitable for rough housing with Sam. So, it’s dreary, and my mind imagines the winds 20 degrees warmer, and the sun beating down on my bare back, and apples bobbing in the unfrozen water trough, and as much grass as I can eat and little birds telling me about their winter travels while perched on my back and … well … you get  my drift.

The only things that make this at all tolerable are communing with the scribe, my regular work schedule and all the lovely treats in which I get to indulge. Oh yes, and nightly barn banter.

But when I’m on my own and snuggled in my blankies in my warm stall chowing down on sweet hay my mind drifts to summer. Doesn’t yours?

See you next time in Poet’s Paddock …

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011

My Day Off

Musing early morning’s light
I yawn and stretch away the night.
It’s my day off to be a horse,
And do what horses do, of course.

So, first light throws a flake of hay
A tasty way to start the day,
Soon followed by a scoop of grain —
My stomach’s happy once again.

Then to the paddock I am bound
Where Sam is usually to be found.
We re-acquaint and squeal and snort,
Our pecking order we must sort.

I usually win as he concedes,
Prefers to fill his dietary needs.
So after tag and gleeful fun
We’ll graze and snooze under the sun.

That is unless it rains, of course,
That’s when we get to play “Sea Horse:”
See horse splashing watery spray;
See horse roll in mud all day.

When day is done into the barn
We go to share a yawn and yarn.
The day of rest goes oh, so fast.
Why do the good things never last?

* * *

It’s my day off. I get to do whatever I like within the bounds of equine reason (whatever that is) and rest from a rigorous five-day week of one-hour work days.

In fact, I have the weekend off. The scribe, in her wisdom (no doubt acquired from spending time with me) has determined that it would be best for us both if we worked steadily five days in a row and then took the weekends off.

The first day of the weekend, which is today, we get to do nothing beautifully. She will stop by to groom me and indulge me with my favourite treats, and I get to amuse her endlessly.

Tomorrow we flex our mental and spiritual muscles with some ground play in the arena — a combination of me running around getting the heebeegeebees out before we get back to work on Monday, and the scribe taking notes. She’s good at that. And then we’ll walk around, cool off and do tricks. (If I do a trick, she’ll give me a treat … I like doing tricks. Must ask her to teach me some new ones.)

I like this new schedule. The scribe is making better progress with her riding because we’re building a more consistent connection, both on the ground and in the saddle. With the old schedule we worked two days, took a day off, worked three days, took a day off. It was too disruptive; disconnected, and we never got to feel really rested.

And I can tell this new way of working makes the scribe happy because I feel happier too.

The importance of a day (or two) off cannot be underestimated.

See you in Poet’s Paddock!

Shakespeare “The Equine”

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011

A Little Problem

In corner stall down yonder
There dwells a distant friend.
I know him just in passing
As he lives at the far end.
He’s got a little “problem.”
And I don’t like to pry, but
Were I in his steel shoes
I know I’d want to cry.
It seems he is allergic
To any kind of treat.
His taste buds must be dreary
With nothing fun to eat.
He can’t have any carrots;
He can’t eat any hay;
Stud muffins are a no-no.
Why him? I often pray.
Somehow he is so stoic
About this nasty turn.
If I were him I’d have a fit,
My insides how they’d churn!
I’d offer him my sympathies
But he’s aloof as he can be.
I guess he’s found a way to cope
Which means there’s more for me!

* * *

It’s true, believe it or not. There is a horse in the barn that’s allergic to every treat I love!!! I don’t know how he manages it. When the treat wrappers are rustling and people are hovered around the carrot bag I am almost crazy with anticipation. From where my stall is located I can see my entourage bustling in and out of the tack room fetching stud muffins, extruded apple chunks and best of all, on Muffin Mondays, Timmies cranberry blueberry bran muffins. And the carrot bag is barely 12 feet away from me!

No, if I were Jack Jack I’d have a BIG problem. In sympathy I always eat his share. I’m sure he appreciates it …

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010