A new barn door

The sky is pale grey through the sunroom windows. Christmas lights hang over the plants and preen themselves in the reflection of the window. The fire preens itself too, flames circling the logs as if they had read the fire lighting manual. Judge lies asleep on his bed. No tail chasing, no middle of the night Annie hysterics. The coffee is hot. The clock ticks. The infants sleep and Papa too. All is well. Annie is out hunting or cavorting or hiding after a good night’s sleep at the foot of our bed…and other places.

Annie may be talking with the resident rodent population of the barn. Perhaps they are avoiding her. She does consider the barn her territory. Annie was born under the barn we think. Her mother moved the litter from the crawl space after it flooded on a bitter rainy day. Maybe, with the snug fitting new door, Annie can’t get in. There were lots of holes before, and a little third door in the Dutch doors of the back.

We approved of the Dutch doors as they were on the OFFICIAL BARN of Mr. Ed, of ‘A horse is a horse of course of course’ fame. Mr Ed talked. Possibly our horses talked. They breathed cool air in and warm air out, that steamed on cold winter mornings. Their hair was warm and fuzzy in the winter. They chewed their oats and looked about to say something profound and reassuring. Their great eyes shown affectionately, especially as we dropped oats into their feed boxes. They never did say anything in my hearing. If they had, it might have been «We are ponies, not horses. We want more oats. You dropped hay onto the floor and now it is mixed with straw. Whose turn is it to muck out the barn? My hooves are coated with muck, speaking of muck. And my coat needs currying. Oh, and by the way, would you warm up the water a little more before you bring it out to us?»

The top of the barn held the hay loft and we went up and snipped the chunks free and dropped them through the trap door to the hay mound below in the stalls. The horses loved fresh hay. Or, if they were out, we would toss it out the back window. Which was fine, if the weather was dry. The weather wasn’t often dry.

Mr Ed probably did not create manure. Perhaps he had a flush toilet designed for talking horses. Our horses did, being the more strong and silent types. Really an impressive amount. And a big Saturday job. I think it must always have been my turn.

There is no manure now. The last was dug into the leek bed long ago. There are no horses. There is a new barn door, though, a Dutch door, just like the old one. Except it does not have a little third door at its base.

«Where are the tricycles?» asks a grandchild. «Where are the horses?» I think. «Where are the mice?» Annie wonders. I think, in this new year, we will find the tricycles. Annie will find the mice. And we will visit the mounds where the horses rest where they wait for the bugle cry «Arise, horses! Beat you to the barn!»

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