Crashes Stink

Crash 1/18/2011

7:40 AM on a frosty cold Tuesday. Ring! Ring! Ring! The barn phone was clamoring to be answered, but my hands were busy shoveling frozen horse crap from one of the stalls. Anyway, by the time I’d get to removing my gloves, running to the front of the barn to grab the phone that was perched atop a cabinet, and then stepping outside to get phone reception, the person would have hung up. The hell with it. I went back to using a metal shovel as a sledgehammer to break up a particularly wicked pile of manure that had frozen to the stall floor. Our dogs, Vida and Keltie, were roaming around the barn, scaring up barn cats to chase. I was so deep in my chores; it scared me when the barn door slammed open and my husband, George, stepped in. "Let's go! he shouted. "Meg's been in a car accident!"

The dogs were swirling around the barn door, excited from the elevated energy. What was I going to do with the dogs-- run them in the house-quick? The house seemed far and I sensed the tension in George’s quick steps as he jumped into the truck's driver seat and gunned the engine. My instinct was to throw the dogs in the waiting vehicle. Vida loves car rides so as soon as she saw the car door open, she jumped into the rear of the Suburban without hesitation. Keltie, Meg's border collie, was not so keen on traveling so I grabbed the smooth coated pup and threw her into the back of the truck. The back seats were down and the dogs crouched and gripped the rubber mats, trying to maintain their balance while the vehicle careened out of the driveway and onto the road.

"What happened?" I was still trying to catch my breath. My heart thudded under my winter jacket, already preparing itself for the worst. George rapidly fired out information-- machine gun style. "Meg called and said she was driving to school and was going to stop at the gas station to get some gum. When she turned off the highway and onto a side street, she slid into another vehicle stopped at a stop sign. I could barely understand her on the phone. She was crying so hard, I'm not even sure what street she turned onto. Dammit, the roads are icy. I hope she wasn't driving too fast." My mind tried to process the information as fast as George was saying it. The two of us chose to remain in worried silence and we concentrated on the road ahead, looking for "Fred", our army green colored Caravan that our sixteen-year old was allowed to drive. A quick cell phone to Meghan and we learned she was just up ahead.

"I see it! Fred's at the next corner. There's Meg! She's on the side of the road with the other driver!" Both George and I visibly relaxed now that we could see that she and the other car driver were uninjured. Thankfully, neither driver had passengers. As we turned the corner to park, a nasty smell assaulted my nose. "What's that smell?" "What smell?" George asked, as he brought the Suburban to a halt to the side of the road. "THAT smell. It smells like crap." I looked down at my snow boots. Did I step in horse apples and now the stuff was melting off my boots and riding the smell waves of the truck? Other than the usual crud, there were no new smelly hitchhikers on the soles of my shoes. My jacket made a sharp rustling noise against the slick bench seat as I twisted around to look in the back.

"Are you kidding me?" I yelled. "Are you KIDDING me?" In the far corner of the van was a large pile of fresh poo. Judging from the size of the poo, I had a good idea that it was produced by a 65 pound, Vida dog. Once the dogs realized that the poo had been discovered, they tried to bail from the back end by leaping over the back seats on to the front bench. “Off! Off!! GET OFF!!! I screamed, simultaneously shoving dog snouts back toward the rear.

Already frazzled, George and I got out of the car and inspected Meg and the car damage before talking to the other driver. I went back to our vehicle and tried to sort out how to get rid of the poo. Vida and Keltie watched me with downcast eyes from the opposite end of the trunk, their bodies pressed against the back of the rear seat. In a corner of the trunk was a plastic clamshell filled with stale and frozen cookies George received from a friend and had forgot to bring into the house. My eyes darted around to make sure no one was looking before I dumped the once edible load into the curb’s snow bank, save for one large cookie. With the saved snickerdoodle, I edged each poo log onto the cookie and chucked it into the clamshell, snapping the lid shut after the whole pile was in the container. Thank God the poo was compact and firm. Once the poo was contained, the dogs felt a little better about their space. Me too. My hope was that the stink would be contained.

I don’t know if I got used to the smell or if it really was trapped in the clamshell, but I was glad it was out of sight because the other driver ended up sitting in the rear seat, waiting for the police officer to arrive. Occasionally, I saw him peer over the seat, toward the trunk. I was hoping he was looking at the dogs and not picking up poo smell in the heater’s blasting air.

In the end, the police officer did his thing in writing out an accident report. We hobbled Fred home, literally, because the front wheel was canted and the driver door wouldn’t close. Meg stayed home for the day.

And the dogs? I’m just glad that it was one of them that had the poop scared out of them and not one of us.

Baby It's Cold Outside

I think the thermometer is frozen at somewhere below zero. It's snowing outside--small white pellets propelled by some giant weather fan across our pond of ice.

The horses are gathered around billowy piles of hay in our round pen like employees around a coffee station. Nobody really has anything to say, but it sure beats doing work.

Our house is cold today. Feels like the breeze outside is leaking through the walls. If I had a laptop, I'd be sitting in front of the wood burning fireplace downstairs, happily snorkling a hot cup of anything. Instead, my feet wear wool liners and thick bottomed slippers, my body trying to shake the chill with a pair of sweat pants and a long sleeved shirt. My nose does not appreciate having to hang out naked so it drips like a complaining faucet while my fingers fumble numbly over the computer keyboard in my little bedroom nook.

I recently finished my last class on Healing Touch for Animals. I'm now a bonafide practitioner, with another year to get certified. Of course, the word, practitioner, has the root, "practice" in it. That's a problem. To get certified, I need 50 case studies of animal clients. Thinking along clever lines, I figured the local humane society would be a convenient source of lots of creatures. Though I was able to work on many cats and dogs, the employee turnover was so great that I never got the feedback results I needed.

So now I'm cold calling barns and vets. I HATE cold calling. I know, who loves cold calling? Still, I didn't imagine my business starting out this way. The scenario playing in my head was clients banging down my door once they heard I was an animal Healing Touch practitioner. Fancy that. I agonized over, and eventually wrote myself, a cheat sheet about myself, Healing Touch, and what my intent was at said animal place.

My first vet call was horrific:

(Ring, ring). "Hi, may I speak with Dr. Lowe? Dr. Lowe? (my face now flushing). My name is Emily Vondriska. I'm a Healing Touch practitioner for animals and I'm currently working toward getting my certification. To do this, I need to do 50 case studies on animals. I'm willing to offer my services to your office for free in order to accomplish this goal." "Uh huh." (I clear my throat here): "Um, do you know what Healing Touch is? No? It's a holistic energy-medicine technique that promotes well-being and self healing. It helps reduce stress and anxiety. It develops confidence for training and competition and aids in the recovery of injury, trauma, and illness. Healing Touch also supports transition during euthanasia."

There was a small silence through the phone line before I was privy to Dr. Lowe's response. "Uh, no, we don't believe in that kind of stuff at this clinic. If you want to practice that, you can go down the road to that other vet that does all that alternative stuff." "Okay, um, thanks for your time".

Good thing my cold call couldn't see my initial reaction. My skin was red and hot and my heart was thudding like a lab dog's tail wagging against a hard surface. I knew exactly what vet he was referring to. He was talking about the vet I use. If my own vet hadn't already had a Healing Touch person working with him, I'd be knocking on HIS door instead of cold sweating cold calls like this.

My next call fared only slightly better. I was able to talk a local horse boarding barn into having me out. The barn manager, Nancy, seemed bored and skeptical over the phone. "When a horse is hurtin', I call out the vet or an acupuncturist. I'm not into that massage stuff." I reply, "Well, that's okay because I don't currently do massage. Healing Touch is a shift and transfer of energy through touch." "Yah, well, you can work on one of the horses here." "That'a wonderful! What's his issue?", I ask. "He foundered about a year ago and I don't want him to do it again. "Oh". (I'm thinking, "What does she want, a miracle? That's like breaking your ankle a year ago and going to a doctor to prevent another one from happening!) My head quells the urge to tell her this so instead I tell Nancy that Healing Touch doesn't prevent founder and if he's not displaying any symptoms or currently foundering, I don't think I can do much for that issue. I add, "Why don't I come out and just do a well check on him?'' The barn manager hesitates before ending the conversation with, "Whatever." Quickly, I set up an appointment time with her before Nancy clicks off.

For the next couple of days, the little gerbil wheel in my head was on overdrive, trying to keep up with my internal voices. "What if I work on him and nothing happens? Of course nothing will happen because nothing's wrong with him! What if I look crazy out there, swinging my pendulum and rubbing oils into my hands? Uh, DUH, you WILL look like a witch doing voodoo work! Can't be helped...Can't be helped... I've got to do the best I can". I gathered up my tools, my essential oils, and wrapped up in cold weather gear to make the trek to the farm.

Following the sounds of voices, I found myself standing in a heated barn, watching the barn manager tack up a horse for a horse-boarding client. Nancy waved me over and pointed to a stall hallway. "He's in there. I already cross tied him in the aisle. He won't be a problem. He's a good boy." Nancy continued her lesson with her client and I was left to myself with the liver chestnut Arabian named, "Freedom". Occasionally, boarders drifted past on their way to check on their horses.

I was thankful it was warm in the barn. Freedom immediately relaxed as my hands moved about his body. His eyes became half closed and his head and neck dropped until his chin was to his chest. He was licking and chewing too, all good signs that he was feeling comfortable and at ease. I adjusted a couple of Freedom's chakras and did some vibrational therapy on the feet that had foundered earlier. When I was finished, I found Nancy to sign some forms and told her I'd call for a follow up discussion. "Yah, whatever" trailed in my ears as I stepped out into the chilly air.

It was no surprise for me to learn that Freedom was just the same after the treatment as he was before. Ah well. The good news was that in my follow up call, Nancy did not seem opposed to me checking in or coming back if there were horses that needed care.

So, for now, I'm still broke. I've got no clients. Just this post to bookmark my journey.

Sure is a cold world today.