I had an appointment in the city today, and I was late. Why? Because, as I was driving past Greyledge Farm, I saw a Black Angus calf stretching his neck up as high as he possibly could so that he could peer in the window of the barn. It was INSANELY cute.

I had to pull over (sorry white honking minivan, you were tailgating though, Mama, you know you were) to take a picture. Of course, when I approached on foot, the calf stopped looking into the window and turned his attention to me:

His mom was a little suspicious at first. She put herself between me and her calf. “I’ll veal chop you,” was her message. Look at those eyelashes.

Then, when I began taking photos, she saw what I was about and she did what all mothers do in such a situation. She started fussing with her boy, trying to make him look all nice for the pictures:

Then he was clean as a whistle and all ready for his portrait, so Mom stepped aside:

So I made a big deal – heaped on the praise, tickled baby’s nose, scratched Mommy’s ears, complimented her on her eyelashes and slim waist and ample bosom. And then I was late.

I’ve blogged before about how I have recently taken up tennis, and how it has become a bit of an obsession. I’m a little frustrated, at present, with my lack of skills. I just want to be great at tennis, is that too much to ask? I don’t mean Venus and Serena great. Just great enough to have people not feel suicidal when they realize that they’re stuck with me as their partner in doubles.

I occasionally play with a doubles group that consists of women who are all better players than me. They’ve been playing longer. They’re better athletes. They have better skills. When it comes time to partner up, I have to gaze off into the horizon and pretend that I’m all absorbed in the beauty of the nearby dumpsters, so as not go through the squirming agony of watching the women try to shove their way over to the other side of the net. The good sport who is last to move away, always bravely chirps, “Okay, Ann and I will be partners then!” And of course, she braces herself for a battering by our opponents.

Tennis is a gentleman’s sport, thank God. It’s just not polite to whack your partner on the back of the head with your racket when she hits a volley right into the net, again. Instead, my dear, patient partners always begin the game with encouraging words like, “Nice try!” or “That’s a tough shot!” (this last, said through gritted teeth, after the ball lands squarely in my racket and, in a fit of astonished excitement, I send it soaring over our opponents, over the base line, over the fence and into the parking lot).

Right now, we’re sort of between seasons. In the summer, we play outdoors, but the rest of the year, we play in an indoor tennis court. The fall season starts in a week, and in preparation, I have been taking private lessons from a man named Val Stoiana. Val is a genius. He fixed my forehand swing (my backhand has always been stronger) and taught me how to put more spin on my serve IN ONE LESSON! He yells at me, and insists I do better. He’s from an eastern European country and teaches by drilling, not coddling. I can’t get enough.
I know I’m late to the party, but I want to become better at learning. Working with the Little Britches kids, and observing my own kids over the years, has made me become very interested in the way we process information and gain new skills. I have a lot of excess energy and my mind tends to wander. I’ve noticed that my kids’ friends who are the best students, with the highest SAT scores, are not necessarily the brightest bulbs. They just are just able to receive, process and then retain information in what seems to be a relatively effortless and systematic way. Their minds don’t wander the way mine does. Somebody will be explaining to me how to hold a tennis racket and my mind will wander right off the court and into the next week, when I have a dinner planned with an old friend, and haven’t quite figured out what I will wear.

But Val has turned out to be a perfect coach for me. He keeps me in the moment by sending balls at me again and again and again – forehand, backhand, forehand, forehand then an overhead lob. There’s no time to fret about my book, about kids, about next week’s dinner. Just hit the ball. In the sweet spot. Again. Again. Again.

Yesterday a nice photographer and journalist from the New York Times were here to interview us for a piece that will run in October. The journalist is very much into my blog. She quotes from it!

So I adore her.

They wanted to photograph us outside with the animals, so we let Mark and Snoopy come down onto the front lawn. When the Times people left, it was still gorgeous out, and I thought I’d check my emails while enjoying the company of the horses. They were very interested in the computer and what I was typing, certain that it was about them.

I showed Snoopy some photos that I had taken of him recently:

He clicked on his favorites. That lip works quite well on the keys:

Then I got a kiss.

Mark was worried about the way he looked. He thinks I should have left his mane alone. It’s impossible for me to look at this horse without smiling:

Later, he had a word with me. He doesn’t like the direction the blog is taking. He feels it’s too “doggy.”

Here’s Dev and Snoopy. Snoopy just adores Devin:

What’s not to love?

Today it’s raining, so I must work indoors, without my assistants.

All photos (except the photos of her) were taken by Devin Leary.

I’m working on a proposal for a book about many animals (and some people) I have known. Part memoir/part profiles of famous people and their animals and famous animals and their people.

I’ve been thinking about my earliest childhood memories and I keep recalling all the books that I have read and loved. The only books I read, as a child, were about animals. I read all the classic animal books – Lassie Come Home, My Friend Flicka, White Fang, Lad, A Dog, all the Black Stallion books – and, working on this proposal, I suddenly had a desire to read these books again.

So I wandered into my town library. I live in a town with a rather small but very useful library. The children/young adult section is tiny, and when I entered it, I doubted very much that they would have room to stock those relics from the 1930s and 40s with all the Harry Potter and Twilight books. But I was wrong! There they were! There they all were! Most were in their original jackets and my hands were actually shaking as I pulled them from the shelves.


The librarian – a lovely woman who seemed to be about my age (but I think everybody is about my age and they’re usually about 20 years younger) had also read all these books as a child and we were both gasping as we reminded each other of the characters and storylines. “Remember how Alec Ramsey got the Black Stallion onto the boat?” “Remember how poor Lassie dragged herself to Joe’s school?” “Remember Merrylegs and Ginger?”
So, I’ve spent the better part of the last 24 hours curled up with all my old friends – Alec Ramsey, Ken McLaughlin, The Black, Flicka, Lassie, Lad, Beauty. And, or course, Sounder.

Why were all the main human characters in these books boys and men? Why didn’t I care?

So, as many of you know, I joined Twitter a couple of months ago. I didn’t really want to be a part of Twitter, but went there to defend my husband’s honor. I had received several emails, here on the blog, that somebody was pretending to be Denis Leary on Twitter. He wasn’t just being a fake Denis Leary, he was being a really annoying, unfunny fake Denis Leary who was trying to prove he was real by tweeting about upcoming episodes of Rescue Me. He had a lot of followers and a lot of enemies because he was incredibly obnoxious. I told Denis about these outrageous goings-on . His response? Who gives a f***? Well, I did. So I joined Twitter and announced that @denisleary was a fraud.

Then I took a little look around.

Well, what have we here?

Four hours later, I closed my computer just long enough to take some nourishment, and then I was back on Twitter.

I “followed” some writers I admire. @susanorlean is a very lively twitterer and my friend @michaelmaren got me some followers and showed me the lay of the land a little bit. Then I happened upon some people whose tweets I love, and I don’t know how I originally came upon them. One of these is @TremendousNews.

@TremendousNews had a great laugh at my expense when he saw that I had blogged about how I followed and liked this person on Twitter called @shutupmeg. It turns out @shutupmeg is not a person at all, but some sort of spam bot. Anyway, since then, Mr. Tremendous and I have kept in touch and we decided that I would interview him for his blog. I really wish I had spent more time thinking of clever, funny questions, but he made it funny anyway, because he’s hysterical. To read this groundbreaking interview, go here.

Here’s a sketch of Denis and I and our new friend, young Dee Tremendous (he drew it himself):

The London Times is doing a Twitter fiction contest and I have been sort of compulsively submitting entries. It turns out that I very much like writing in the micro-fiction format. 140 characters or less. Mine tend to all have a theme involving some kind of marital hell.

So come on over to Twitter, those of you who have been holding out. Come follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow me (@annleary).

That come follow, etc is from a song we sang in kindergarten.
But really, come follow. Me. Me and Dee Tremendous.

Meet Edgar Allan Pony:
We fell in love with, and bought our Shetland Pony, Edgar, when he was a two-year-old colt. The idea was that the kids would ride him, but unfortunately, by the time he was old enough to be ridden, the kids were too big for him.

Edgar is a GREAT pony. Shetlands are tough, smart little ponies (the smallest of all the pony breeds) that originate from the Shetland Isles – a series of cold, windy islands off the northern coast of Scotland, and they were used for multiple purposes over the centuries. They hauled cargo, carried riders large and small, and were the famous “pit ponies” used in the coal mines in England and Scotland and later in the U.S. To me, they’re the terriers of the horse world. What they lack in size, they make up for in toughness, tenacity, intelligence and humor.

We used to bring Edgar into our house to have an apple in the kitchen with us. We used to have birthday parties for our animals and somewhere I have photos of Edgar, on our porch, wearing a party hat and eating cake at Sneaker’s birthday party. I decided to have Edgar trained to pull a cart and sleigh, as he was too small for us to ride and he needed something to do. A wonderful trainer named Stu came and taught Edgar to pull a cart. Edgar was a quick study and took it up instantly, trotting up and down our driveway with his jaunty rig in tow. I was not such a great student. Though I was taught, over and over, I could never rig the harness up correctly. I didn’t have the patience for it. So Edgar just hung around and started getting fat on all our grass in the field. Early one summer he developed a slight case of laminitis, which can come from too much grass, and not enough exercise.

Edgar Allan Pony needed a job.

And he found one with my friend Betsy at Corgi Hollow Farm. Betsy loves to drive and had been driving her pony, Tumbleweed, for years. More importantly, Betsy runs a program for special needs riders called “Pegasus,” from her farm, and she was in need of a pony for the little ones. So Edgar went off to live at Corgi Hollow and work with children.

In the photos at the top and bottom of this page, Edgar is all dressed up for the Pegasus Halloween party.
He considers all his young riders to be very precious cargo and is extremely careful when he works with them. Then, often, Betsy will take him out for a spin in the cart, which he loves.

Betsy’s dogs feel quite important being drawn in a sleigh:

He’s very busy as you can see, and when he’s not doing therapeutic riding with the kids, or driving with Betsy, he’s out promoting his book. It’s called, The Alphabet According to Edgar Allan Pony, and it’s just adorable. I wasn’t able to load photos from the book onto the blog. Maybe Betsy can provide us a link so you can all see little Edgar posing in a pair of big rubber boots on the page that says, “B is for Boots.” I believe the proceeds from the book go to the Pegasus Therapeutic Riding Program.

So that’s the story of Edgar Allan Pony, a good little pony who works hard, helps others and likes to dress up for parties. I know, he really belongs in Hollywood, but then he’d lose his innocent charm, which he has in abundance.

Back Yard
by Carl Sandburg

Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.
An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month;
to-night they are throwing you kisses.
An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a
cherry tree in his back yard.
The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking
white thoughts you rain down.
Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.

A good friend of mine just got a puppy. Her first puppy. Marcia grew up in a home with no pets and, until last week, has shared her adult home with her husband, children and… no pets. Now they have a puppy and she has been seeking the advice of her dog owning friends. Crate or no? Walk the puppy to one spot to go, or just let him relieve himself, outdoors, anywhere he wants? Send the dog to a trainer or no?

I grew up in a house in which we welcomed quite a few new puppies, and I recall that there wasn’t a lot of advice sought, or particular thought put into the care and training of these puppies. My parents had grown up with dogs too. There were no crates, no professional trainers. The dogs, like us children, were expected to spend a lot of time outdoors. If they misbehaved, they were punished and they all got the lay of the land pretty fast. Kids = snacks. The mom = meals. That man who came home at the end of the day was good for a few pats. The cat was to be harassed only when it displayed outrageous behavior, like running.

I spent a great deal of time teaching tricks to my childhood dogs. Tricks were big with dogs when I was little. Now, people train their dogs to sleep in a crate or to be “therapy dogs”, but I’ve noticed very few dogs who know how to crawl along the floor on their bellies (like Lassie), or dance in circles on their hind legs, or, on command, to tear around the house looking under cushions and behind curtains for a toy that has been hidden. We had a dog that would balance a dog biscuit on his nose for entire episodes of Hogan’s Heroes. Others would, on command, jump a course we had set up, with cushions, overturned furniture and sometimes children lying on their sides. We would judge the dogs on their form and on their speed. This was before video games, so we were limited on rainy days. I try explaining this to my kids and their eyes well up with tears of pity for us.
Here’s Daphne as a pup, harassing old Pongo. Jack is about to put antlers on one of them, because it was Christmas eve:

Clancy the wolfhound, ended up wearing the antlers, because he was the size of a large reindeer, and because he was too noble to swipe them off with his paw:

So, when Marcia called and asked what it was like to be a dog owner, I was a little at a loss for words. It was like being asked what it’s like to breathe air, to sleep, to eat or to love. I gave her a disclaimer first. My husband, kids and I are a little bit more dog-centric than most families. A good chunk of our dinner conversation always includes the recollection of one of the dog’s antics that day, and we’ve never crated a puppy, though I know it’s a great training tool. We just let them sleep with us. “We co-slept with our babies too,” I hastily inform people who are trying to decide whether to crate. Then they can write us off as freaks and tuck little Scamper into his crate. If he cries, they are somehow able to not carry his lonely, despairing little soul back to their warm bed.

I am writing this, on my bed, with my dogs Daphne and Coco curled up next to me. Lulu is on the floor – she’s too big and lame for the bed. Our furnace needs a part, so we have been without heat, these past cold nights but my girls and I have slept a little closer for warmth. If I get up to get another coffee, they will follow and then return with me to the bed. If I go to the bathroom, they will follow, then return with me to the bed. I have told them that they don’t need to do this. Why not just stay in the bed? They insist it’s no problem, that in fact, it’s their pleasure.

I’m so excited for Marcia. I don’t know if she realizes it yet, but she’s lived a sort of half-life until now. I haven’t met the new pup, but I can smell his delicious, musky puppy breath from here!

Must not start fantasizing about new puppy. Must not obsess about getting new puppy. No new puppy….

Somebody needs a little horsey Prozac:
He was just sad to be left behind today. Have I mentioned that I’m rather fond of this horse?
Well, I was up with the dawn to feed the horses and then I met up with the Little Britches gang at the Washington Horse Show. The Washington Horse show is an annual horse show to benefit Steep Rock Land Preserve and there is a category for handicapped riders. I assisted three young riders who all won ribbons (deservedly so, they all did an outstanding job). Then, when the Little Britches riders went home, it was still early so I drove home, watched Denis and his friends play street hockey for a nanosecond, then loaded up Snoopy, picked up Jen and a new horse she’s trying out and headed BACK to Steep Rock, just to see how the new horse would do with the show crowd and the trails and the river and everything. New horse (yet unnamed – have at it, blog readers) did wonderfully.
He’s a Paint Horse, which is a type of horse that usually has large white splotches on a darker colored coat. Sometimes it’s the opposite – dark splotches on a white coat. This horse has a white splotch that looks like the continent of Africa on his rump. I wish I took a photo of that. I thought Africa might be a good name, but Jenny already has a mare called India.

Well behaved Paint Horse with Africa on his butt is for sale by the way. Christmas is just around the corner!

(Blogger’s note – photos below were added later. They were sent by our friends whom we saw at the show):

And to prove you can hug your horse with helmet on:

It was just another gorgeous fall day. When I arrived home, I let Snoopy graze in the yard while Denis and I sat outside, and I heard all the gossip about this week on the set, while the dogs put on a show:


Then I hung with Mark a little. Sorry about the dumpster. It’s still there from my dehoarding weekend with Meg.

Remember Oliver? I last photographed him when he was two days old:
Well, his mother, Jen, sent me some new photos of four-month old Oliver the other day. I hasten to inform you that I’m not one of those people who calls the owners of dogs, cats or horses, “moms” or “dads.” Oliver really thinks Jen is his mother. This is why:
(It’s a sad story, sorry, but there’s a happy ending)

Oliver’s birth mother was Mimi, a beautiful chestnut Thoroughbred mare, whom Jenny had owned and loved for years. During Oliver’s birth, unfortunately, Mimi suffered a ruptured uterine artery, which is an unpreventable, unforeseeable birth complication and poor Mimi didn’t survive the birth. Jen is an equine veterinarian and did all she could to help her, but she lost the mare.

Fortunately, Oliver survivied. So Jen bottle fed him and comforted him until she was able to find, through some kind of veterinary network, a mare who had foaled, but who had lost the foal. Jen had the mare brought to her farm the very next day, but by this time, little Oliver had already imprinted on Jen. He believed that Jen was his mother, and when the sweet foster mare arrived, she became his milk wagon, but in Oliver’s mind, Jen was his real mommy.

Once, I was visiting and we were playing with Oliver in his stall. Jen left the stall and as soon as she was out of view, Oliver hastened to the stall door, his ears pricked, listening for Jen. When she said something, he tilted his head, just like a dog, trying to locate her by the sound of her voice. I know that most of you aren’t horse people, but this is very untypical foal behavior. Usually foals are seen peering out from behind the flank of the mother. They follow the mother mare all over the field and will approach humans if the mother does. Oliver roams around their field very boldly on his own, only returning to the foster mare’s side for refreshments. He also will race over to the fence (like my Mark) whenever he sees any human and engage in adorably naughty behavior, like pulling on our clothes and trying to otherwise get attention any way possible. I personally think Artful Dodger might have been a more appropriate name for him.

Well, he’s a lucky (and very happy) little orphan, young Oliver:

(Photo by Katie Hylen)
Isn’t he gorgeous?

(Photo by Kate Hylen)
“Wh-e-e-e-ere is love?”

Photo by Katie Hylen)
“I’ve taken to you so strong, it’s clear …we’re… going to get along!”