“We haven’t started unloading the hay wagon yet, and I’m already covered in sweat,” I said. The wisp of a breeze outside barely stirred through the barn.

Martina, Sandy, her husband, and I moved old hay bales aside to create space for our new hay delivery. I dreamed of windows in the barn, as I examined my sticky shirt. I lifted and moved a bale, and then turned to grab another.

“Lucy!” Martina screamed.

“What? Where?” I asked, frantic.

Martina lifted the little chicken from behind a hay bale, revealing a small, perfect, pink egg.

The chicken’s comb lay shriveled on her forehead, and she made no sound. She didn’t fight when I pulled her from Martina’s arms. We rushed to the tack room and I filled up containers with food and water. Lucy drank deeply, over and over.

I hugged Martina, and we grinned.

Chickens have disappeared. Swiftie and Buster are MIA. As of this morning, so is Lucy.

Luckily, Gladiator, the rooster; our two guineas, and Nugget, the Americana, are alive and well.

We own six new(ish) chicks; three Barred Rocks and three Australorps.

If Melody hadn’t miscarried, last year, we’d have 11 horses at Firefly Farm.

Sage left a while ago. Her owner found a wonderful home with young children to ride the lovely Standardbred mare and give her all the attention she deserves.

Lexi is now at Silver Fox Stable, owned by a Vet, Dr. Esterline’s, wife. I hear wonderful things about their facility and wish them all the best.

Lexi left on Sunday.

We’re down to 10 horses.

We’d have 11 if Melody hadn’t miscarried last year.

Yet..

This morning I recieved a phone call from my friend Sandy. She’s looking to have me train her horse, Cappy.

We’re down to 10 horses.

I wish, oh, how I wish Melody’s foal were here. I’d be training her or him and working her or him every spare moment.

I can handle training a new horse. It’s what I wish I were doing at this very moment.

Training–oh, training!

I love to train. I love the young ‘uns. I adore teaching them how to behave, how to respect others, and how to be a proper citizen.

I love the way they’re defiant at first, and then calm, then ask “What would you like, Ma’am?”

Then, when I tell them what to do, they give me a great, big, “Yes, Ma’am!”

Spring sweeps over our farm.

Cappy’s adventure begins sometime next week.

I hope Lucy comes home.

I can’t wait until Honey is bred.

Last year’s worries tumble and flow away with the wind. The future is bright.

But oh, how I miss the foal that should have been mine this spring.

His lips wrap around the grass, and he raises his head at an angle. The tender shoots rip and snap from their roots. His muscles ripple beneath the skin, and he strains for the last few nibbles.

His nose won’t reach.

He readjusts himself, preparing for the battle to come.

I hold steady. This is a fight he cannot win.

Zeus is allowed a certain length of rope as I graze him in the back yard. He isn’t allowed to step out of our “bubble.”

The Alpha horse in each herd decides when to stop and eat, when to move on, and when to drink. The Alpha is In Charge. He’s a kind, benevolent leader–but in the end, is also a dictator.

Zeus needs to learn that he is not the Alpha of any human.

He pulls and yanks and nods his head in irritation. I stand firm.

He sighs, snorts, and shakes his head. I smile. He sniffs the desired greenery, but steps back. His nose wiggles as he munches on the tuft near his feet.

I step forward one step. He lifts his head, a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead, buddy. You earned it.” I scratch behind his ears, and he lifts his head. He arches his neck, begging for me to find his itchiest spot. I oblige. Grey hair trickles through my fingers as his spring coat sheds from my touch.

“C’mon. I’ll groom you. It’ll be nice,” I say.

We mosey back to the barn through the now-forgotten grass.

“Thanks. My Boyfriend, Sidney, bought them for me,” I said.

Her eyes widened and she glanced away.

The husband knows about Sidney. He doesn’t care. He encourages me to have buddies.

“Just don’t cheat on me,” he jokes.

No worries there. Our love is completely platonic.

My boyfriend, Sidney, is an excellent listener. He loves to cuddle and kiss. Yesterday we enjoyed a one-year anniversary of the day we met. He bought me a gift.

Three bathing sponges. One for each of my horses.

I love Sidney. He and I are on the same wavelength.

Today I talked to him about Melody’s issues. He understood completely and didn’t judge my decisions. He’s cool like that.

He just nods his head and lets me talk.

When it’s time to let him go, I smack his tushie and tell him to go have fun with his friends. He needs male bonding time, too.

I love my husband–and I also love my “boyfriend.”

Dare I look?

Heads. Tails.

It doesn’t matter.

According to the MSU Equine Reproductive Laboratory, Melody has a 20-50% chance of carrying a foal to term in her current state.

Gambling is for fools.

I can’t fall in love again with a foal who may die the second it begins to live.

I can’t bear the odds.

I’m fortunate to be working with a wonderful stallion and owner at Autumn Breeze Acres in Howell. They’re online at http://www.autumnbreezeacres.weebly.com.

Tuffs Frosted Image is still our boy.

However, another mare must stand in for Melody.

They’re best friends and rivals.

They love each other and love to tease.

They’re both mine.

Little Honey Bear will be a mommy.

The chances of Honey conceiving are far better than Melody. We’re checking her sometime in the next few days to make sure she’s ready to take the first steps into motherhood.

No coins necessary. The odds are in her favor.

I knew it stirred. Deep inside.

Restless, hormonal, and irritated, my mare’s pleasant attitude plummeted. My heart soared.

Then, nothing.

The baby.

My baby.

(Actually, her baby.)

There was a tiny foal in there last year, but she lost it.

My heart belonged to that baby. My expectations, my fears, the challenges ahead–I plunged forward, until–

Nothing.

Today, the veterinarians examined Melody, and concluded that her breeding didn’t take. Again.

Nothing.

All my life, I’ve dreamed of breeding my own foal. My own. From the moment it’s conceived to its last aged breath.

Mine.

I want it. I ache for it.

This weekend, the head of Repro at MSU will take a uterine biopsy from Melody to see if she can become pregnant.

And if she can keep the baby to term.

Maybe it’s asking too much for a sweet little foal to run around our farm, bucking and playing and snorting and falling asleep on a soft bed of spring grass.

The foal would nicker at me and gently nudge me to say, “More sugar! Now!” and lick her lips and lick the salt from my hand.

I hope.

Until then, the stallion owner has kindly worked to “talk me off the ledge”–that moment of hysteria where I imagine I’m falling into a deep abyss of never-getting-my-dream-baby. Of feeling the despair of a thousand near-misses.

We need one hit.

To return my pleasant mare into the restless, hormonal, irritated, pregnant beast.

My heart will soar again.

“Cheeseburger in Paradise, Heaven on earth with an onion slice, not too particular, not too precise–it’s just a Cheeseburger in Paradise…”

Jimmy Buffett loves horses. He would embrace this use of his “Margaritaville” CD set.

“Oh, whoa, whoa, Jolly Mon sing…”

He would, perhaps, balk at soprano overtones, but whatever.

Phoenix redoubles her pawing, nodding her head in time with the music. Lexi shakes her entire body, shivering off a layer of chocolate water and hair. Twist sighs and snorts. Dusty and Braveheart engage in a game of “Who will move his feet first?”, biting the other’s neck.

I open the boys’ gate, and they can’t run in fast enough.

I open the girls’ gate just in time–”Hey, where did we go, Days when the rains came…” Water beats a heavy tattoo across the indoor arena’s roof as I serenade the two “Brown-Eyed Girls” into stalls with Jimmy Buffett’s cover of the Van Morrison song.

I pour grain into each stall feeder as the gentle strains of a foreign tongue soar through the air. “Ia ora te naturaj, E mea arofa teie ao nei…” 

It’s almost time.

I let the boys and girls out; the girls back into their pasture, but the boys trot into the meadow.

“Lakes below the mountain, Flowin’ to the sea…”

It’s almost time.

I breathe deeply, remembering not to strain; to allow the notes to float freely from my center. The electric guitars fade, and suddenly, there’s nothing. Silence permeates the barn and I feel empty.

It’s time.

I skip to the CD player and press a button.

“Nibblin’ on sponge cake, watchin’ the sun bake, all of those tourists covered with oil…”

Ahh.

I allow the words to flow forth as Lexi and Phoenix enjoy dinner and a show.

The stall door squealed a protest as I pulled it open.

“Zeus! Time to go play!”

Every other gelding had already raced to the pasture–except Zeus. The large grey horse snorted as he walked into the aisle. He refused to leave my side, so I ushered him forward.

“C’mon, buddy! Everyone else is inhaling the hay.”

He tossed his head and nuzzled me for a treat. I obliged.

We reached the pasture gate, and I pointed out to the boys at the far end.

“Look, buddy! Do you see them?”

He leaped forward and plunged into a gallop. I shoved my glove-less hands into the depths of my pockets, and realized my mistake.

“Zeus–I forgot your treat! Sorry, buddy. That’s ok. Go have fun with your friends. I’ll give it to you later.”

At the sound of my voice, his head whipped around and he skidded to a halt. He wheeled and turned, galloping straight back to me.

Gentle lips closed around the offered treat. He nodded twice, then darted toward his friends.

Confused, I examined her from each angle.

The creamy egg, nestled safely under her tummy, seemed to have green spots. Green. Spots! I lifted Lucy from her nest and realized someone truly played a joke on me. The egg, a plastic run-of-the-mill Easter Egg, contained a seam all the way around the edge.

I laughed until my sides hurt.

The joke didn’t end there, however.

Lucy, the proud momma, stopped laying eggs. She insisted that this egg would hatch, and that she needed no other until her precious baby appeared.

Lucy hasn’t laid an egg since.

April Fools, Lucy.

Afternote: Lucy started re-laying eggs today–April 7th. The joke was played by Zeus’ owner’s husband. I think it’s hilarious–not only did he play a joke on me, he played a joke on my chicken, too!