I had a really frustrating, irritating, maddening afternoon.
Probably typical for Christmas Eve if one has to be out and about, which I did. But by the time I got home, I was thoroughly depressed, and it took Wings to remind me how blessed I am.
Because I've already had several gifts today.
It started this morning, when he woke me to tell me the puppies wanted to go out. Normally, not too big a deal, but especially annoying this morning. Why? Because I was right in the middle of an incredibly sweet dream.
In my dream, the weather was warmer. We had some outbuildings here at home that we don't actually have, including a second enclosure for the chickens. In my dream, I went inside it to check on the chickens, and lying inside it, on his side in the dirt, in a little doghouse-like structure, was Griffin. It was the Griffin of today — graying muzzle, damaged right eye from having been hit by a truck four years ago. Half-covered in dirt and straw, but looking very happy.
With Cherry, the red chicken, perched on him.
I let myself in, asked him what he was doing, and he stretched and Cherry squawked contentedly, then hopped off. And out from under Griffin's warm body hopped a fluffy yellow chick.
In my dream, with Cherry's connivance, he was keeping her chicks warm.
I turned around, and there were fuzzy little chicks hopping everywhere, cheeping away.
And then someone woke me up to let the dogs out in the still-dark, single-digit morning.
I'm not sure what it means. We don't have any roosters — but the neighbors do. I guess if Cherry pops up knocked up in the spring, we'll know it was premonitory.
Still, it was the happiest dream I can remember having in . . . well, I can't remember the last time I had one like that. And it stuck with me all day.
That's a gift.
There were others today, too.
Among other things that conspired to depress me this afternoon is the fact that I have no gift for Wings.
Not that I could afford anything expensive, but that wasn't the point. I just wanted to find some small gift, some little token, that would be a reminder of what he means to me. Something for him to open tomorrow. But until today, there's been no time.
My trip into town was . . . discouraging, to say the least. One of the perils of living in a tourist area.
Eventually, I returned home empty-handed.
He was in one of the pens, soaking Cree's forefeet. And after a very harried afternoon day week month indefinite, seemingly interminable period of time consumed with everything else, it all caught up to me. I told him I was sorry, but I wouldn't have anything for him tomorrow, and I felt myself begin to tear up.
And he told me that our life together and everything I do was gift enough.
He also told me I was beautiful. These days, when I mostly live in jeans and boots and no make-up and with plenty of lines in my face, that's a pretty amazing gift in itself.
And then he wanted to take some photos. Which served as a reminder of yet another gift.
You remember what Miskwaki looked like when he showed up here eight months ago. This is him this evening:
Happy. Healthy.
My baby.
Well, one of them.
But apparently the universe wasn't done yet.
What came next . . . well, it's still up in the air as to whether it's precisely a gift. But it's certainly a reminder.
Two days ago, a white horse showed up in the field north of us. It was staying right along our fenceline — making no attempt to find a way through, but clearly not interested in straying away from the fenceline, either.
It was also clearly starved — not quite in the same shape as Miskwaki was when he showed up here, but close.
Today, she apparently found a gap in the fence and crossed over.
And while I was haltering Miskwaki, she was over by the north willows, watching.
While Wings was taking photos, she was drawing ever closer, curious. And hungry.
I turned around, and she was a few dozen yards away, near the north pen. Wings got a few distance shots of her.
I put Miskwaki back in the pen, and before feeding ours, Wings pitched a little hay over the panel where she could reach it. She moved closer, and began to eat.
I came out and walked toward her. The closer I got, the more ready she looked to bolt — eyes wild, nostrils flaring, chuffing and snorting.
But she let me walk up to her.
She let me touch her. Stroke her neck. Scratch her chin. Give her handfuls of hay to eat from my hand.
She has eyes like pools of liquid onyx. Two charcoal-colored forehooves. A dappled black undercoat beneath the white. A thoroughly Roman nose. A fine white overcoat and mane with individual hairs that look like spun-silver ice crystals.
Wings brought some more hay, and she shied and backed away, ready to bolt. Men scare her. I don't know whether she's not afraid of women, or simply not afraid of me. But to stay her flight, I said softly, "Ice."
And she stopped and looked me in the eyes. And then slowly, ever so slowly, came back to eat out of my hand.
Another gift.
I have no idea how long she'll stay. I only know, as with Miskwaki, that we can't let her starve in the meantime. It's Christmas, and the nights are bitterly cold, and her life is in our hands, at least for this night.
So for this night, she stays.
Tomorrow — or the next day, or next week — is time enough to figure out where she belongs.
She's beautiful.
Merry Christmas, happy holidays, a healthy and prosperous new year, and love and gratitude to this community from all of us.