Kenny Mayonnaise Balliet

Many years ago when I was showing our plantation walking horses, Kenny, my cat, was my biggest supporter and riding critic. I'd come home after a day of teaching my eager high school students, quickly change into jeans, and head out to the barn to put in my daily training regimen in preparation for the up-coming weekend show.

Fancy and I would go through our practice paces, she flicking up her hooves in an almost perfect running walk, her head nodding with each step. The concentration coming from both of us was intense: if we had a good couple of laps around the ring, we could quit early. Ultimately, the goal was to get it right early on, not make mistakes that took a lot of correcting and, therefore, more effort and time. So, Fancy and I practiced turns, circles, stops, backing, and, most of all, squeezing out the largest overstride she could muster. Our workouts together were demanding for us both, but, if they went well, they were gratifying, too.

During these practice sessions I had only one admirer looking on: my teenaged kitten, Kenny. Every day after school when I headed out to the ring with Fancy saddled up beside me, he followed us from the barn. Then, he staked a look-out atop one of the fence posts. There he sat for as long as it took us to go through our riding routine: doing serpentines, large circles, cantering on the correct lead and coming to a dead stop, even executing a cross-canter, which a judge sometimes asked a rider to do. Whatever we did and however long we did it, Kenny watched, completely mesmerized. He sat on a fence post, no doubt evaluating, acting the part of the judge himself. I always wondered if he approved our efforts to perform the best running walk.

When Fancy and I rounded the curve past Kenny, he didn't shrink away, afraid we were going to run him over. No, he sat upright, his eyes drilling us and our exhibition. I secretly hoped he was liking what he saw because if he didn't, then it was likely the judge at that weekend's show wouldn't like what he saw either. Blasting past my attentive cat, I yelled from the saddle, "Hey, Kenny! Hey, Kenny! How're we doin'? Are we getting a foot and a half overstride?" Overstride was the length that the horse's back foot overstrode the mark made by the front foot while striding forward. A long overstride won a rider and horse major points at a show. But Kenny never said anything--just stared and evaluated our ride with silence. Evidently whatever he saw he was keeping to himself. I was performing for my cat, who, after watching us daily for all these months, had certainly developed a critical and discerning eye for good horsemanship. Another lap past my cat perched atop his post, and I hollared out, "Is this better, Kenny? It feels better! I really feel her rear end coming up under me." And Kenny sat stalwart on his post--no comment. But he was judging all the while.

When Fancy and I pulled into the center of the ring as we would do at a regular horse show, Kenny got off his fence post and came over--uncannily much like the judges do at the end of a class. But Kenny didn't have a paper and writing utensil in his paws. "What do you think, Ken-Man? Think we'll win this weekend? I think Fancy is doing an outstanding job, don't you?" And Kenny stood on the ground next to us, looked up, and meowed, which I interpreted as a resounding, "Yes!"

I got off Fancy, dropped the reins and reached down for Kenny, who, after I finished every ride, was accustomed to hopping into my arms for the walk back to the barn. Fancy walked freely beside me while Kenny draped himself along the length of my lower left arm, his chest cupped in my hand, his head facing away from me but in the direction we were walking, and his back legs draped over the side. In that quirky way he rode my arm back to the barn.

Kenny is very old now with some evidence that his kidneys aren't working real well. He's also losing his hair for some reason. But he's happy here on the farm and is living out his last years in comfort. Over the years he acquired many nicknames: "Kenny Man," which turned into a sing-songy, "Kenny May-an," which ultimately turned into a "Kenny May-o-nnaise." Yep, "Mayonnaise" was Kenny's middle name. Kenny still comes out to the riding ring to watch me, though Fancy died of old age last October and had been retired from riding for probably ten years before that. But Kenny still observes my equestrian skills on Bo and Lola. He's too large for me to carry him along my arm now, so he grudgingly walks back to the barn on his own.

Though he's not a youngster anymore, he's still my feline riding buddy, and I hope to enjoy his company a while longer as he sits ringside with those big cat eyes turned to slits--critiquing our ride, as ever.

Farmer Rick

This is my Cornish Rex, Ricky, helping me mow Bo's pasture. Before the drought hit us here in eastern PA, we were mowing the horse pastures every week--thank goodness for the enclosed cab complete with air-conditioning and radio. Now the grass isn't growing, so mowing pastures has temporarily ceased.

Mowing grass is only one of the reasons why I haven't been writing on my blog. I had neck surgery to fuse two vertebrae, probably off-set on one of my five falls from my horse, The Bo-ster. The surgery set me back on a lot of yard work and my over-bearing garden, so when I finally recovered, I had to make up for lost time. Luckily, Farmer Rick was there to assist me.

Ricky truly is a weird cat--loves riding in my golf cart, rides at the front of the tractor cab, and is always up for adventures. In this picture he is wearing his summer collar, the transmitter that allows me to track him to the exact bush or mat of poison ivy where he is stalking a butterfly or shrew. Just a bit of information for pet lovers out there: www.petlocator.com sells tracking devices for pets, including cats. It's a handy tool when you can't find your dog or cat and can't spend a whole day searching every nook and cranny. I've been using my locator for years and can't be without it. It'll track an animal that has wandered about half a mile away, on average. It saves me a lot of time and, most of all, worry.

In addition to the surgery and catching up with chores that seems to be getting larger as we are getting older, Edgar and I drove up to Boston to walk the last two miles with Luke Robinson and his two Great Pyrenees, Hudson and Murphy. A trip to Cape Cod found us at Race Point Beach. Loads of sunbathers had gathered sand-side to soak up sun and balmy breezes, but only one crazed person was actually in the fifty-degree ocean: me. Yep, me--the only one bobbing, cringing with cold, in the waves. Edgar dutifully tried to accompany me into the sea. but when he got in up to his knees, he screamed bloody murder and yelled, "I can't stand it! I'm getting out!" And he raced back to the blanket. But I hadn't suffered a six hour drive not to enjoy my favorite summertime treat: jumping in the waves. So, I grit my teeth and went it--for at least a half hour. I provided entertainment for all the sane people lounging on the beach.

So, now that the yard work is caught up, I can be more faithful to my blog. Thanks for bearing with me and my tribulations.

Pardon my Absence

Dear Followers: Sorry I'm behind in my posts. I've been under the gun and the weather since before Christmas. Thank goodness for the company of my cats and pigs, or I would've gone stark-raving mad lying 24/7 on the couch staring at the boob-tube. December 23rd I went in for carpal tunnel surgery on my right hand. I had to have someone else open my presents on Christmas Day! I'm going in for the other hand on February 17. Both hands had severe nerve damage--probably caused by my writing books on the computer, riding the horses, and manic tending of the garden and its produce throughout the summer.

My right hand is still not very good: fingertips are still numb, but at least I'm able to better hit these keys on the computer. A few weeks after the surgery my husband and I contracted a severe bronchitis. In my case, pair asthma with bronchitis, and I was a hurting buckeroo. Beware this cold, this bronchitis that's circulating: you don't want it. I heard from many others who had it: it lingers. And I can verify that: I've been struggling to breathe, had been to the doctor at least five times, and had a chest X-ray for pneumonia within the last three weeks. Ugh! Finally, though, I am able to breathe more freely--the wonders of steroids

Being so sick, I was unable to feed all our animals, and my husband has been doing all the work with them--thank goodness. He had it too, but not nearly as severe (above picture on right is him and Ralphie taking a "sicky" nap). All the animals survived our disease, and today I think I might venture outside to get a bit of exercise.

Here's an update on our four new kittens: Li'l Ralphie's one eye has a cataract, as diagnosed by my own eye doctor, so on Monday I'm taking him to an opthalmalogist to see about having it removed. I think he got it because of the bad eye infection he had when we rescued him from the side of the highway. He squints from that eye as though it bothers him, and because he's so young, if the surgeon recommends it, we'll spring for the surgery because I want him to be able to see as much out of that damaged eye as possible. I'll keep you posted on Ralphie's eye.

Elliot and Eveyln are growing. Lyla, the cat I rescued from a shelter in North Carolina, has one of those extreme pushed-in noses that won't allow her to get air easily from her one nostril--poor thing. We always know where Lyla is in the housebecause of her continual snorting. But she is a kind, wide-eyed cat that is grateful to have a loving home and attention. (her pic is upper left).

Of course, in the middle of all this disease and disability, the Haitian earthquake took place, and I was immediately worried about all the animals left in the disaster. I donated funds to Best Friends Organization, and their people are down there now trying to feed and support the animal population there. If you'd like to help the stranded pets in Haiti, go to info@bestfriends.org. Any donation is appreciated, and you can donate also through www,bestfriends.org. I write for this organization and can attest to its integrity.

Other news around here includes my attending a pet writing conference in February where I am scheduled to meet with three editors and pitch my three mss. that are so deserving of a publisher. I had a reject the other day: the editor said she absolutely "loved, loved, loved" my THE SUMMER OF RUSTLE book (a memoir of my having raised a baby raccoon during the summer of 2005) but that things were so bad in the publishing industry, she was afraid to take a chance. Oh, well. At least I know my material is attractive and entertaining. Economics is what is rejecting my books.

When I go to this pet-writing conference in NYC, I'm going to remind the editors that my books reflect how our pets sustain us, define us, and keep us honest and sincere. I'm going to stress the uniqueness of my own approach to appreciating animals and the literary quality of my writing that several editors have commented on. But my focus will be on the purity of the animals and how my books enlighten readers to that fact. I am very hopeful that my own sincerity, derived from my long-time association with my animal comrades, will be able to persuade the editors to consider my works for publication.

We who have our best friends in our pets truly realize what gifts they bring us. For instance, Li'l Ralphie has jammed himself, here as I'm writing, between a stack of papers and my laptop. He's singing to me--well--purring, and watching my fingers dance over the keyboard. He makes what would be a somewhat lonely task that much more bearable. Ralphie's not too busy today that he can't share time with me.

Thanks Li'l Ralphie.