Dreaming Memories

For about 10 years of my life I lived on a small farm on the Olympic Peninsula. We dug up an old horse corral filled with sandy soil and years of horse manure and built 20 foot long raised beds where we grew peas and squash, artichokes and beans. In the pasture, we provided a home for a variety of rescued animals and my ex-partner's old, old mare.

Farm life was part chop wood/carry water, but it was also part overwhelming and exhausting. When my relationship broke up (over 5 years ago), I was thankful in one way to be done with farming. Most of the heavy tasks fell to me (part of the reason why the relationship didn't work though there were many other reasons as well) so my days on the farm began feeding sheep and llamas and ended cleaning stalls and clearing the pasture of unwanted debris. In between it all was tilling and planting, weeding and harvesting.

Most of the animals who lived with us were rescues. Our friend, Jan the large animal vet, was always the recipient of half-eaten and close to death critters. Two of the llamas, for instance, had been chased by dogs who ripped out the back end of one llama and scarred the other. The wounds did not heal easily and required flushing out of cavernous holes and picking out maggots that formed almost overnight. That llama, Paco, survived but spent most of his life with limited vision learning to depend upon the other llamas as his guides around the pasture and on our excursions through the woods.

The llama he depended upon the most was Lupine, a skinny, short-haired ruffian with the temper of a snake. Lllamas spit, it's true, but generally at each other and usually only after serious provocation. Lupine, on the otherhand, spit as a matter of principle, hurling green slime at anyone who dared to test his patience. This became interesting when Lupine developed acid reflux, not a pretty picture in a long-necked llama. Anything chunky got stuck in Lupine's throat and he'd gag and choke until we put a tube down his throat to clear whatever was dislodged there. This made feeding Lupine difficult as he couldn't eat hay or fresh spring grass.

But he had to eat so we cordoned off sections of the pasture with sheep fencing and confined him to the parts of the field that had short grasses or had been eaten down by the other llamas. He could have no hay, which is the main staple for llamas and his grain had to be made into a goopy mush in order for him to eat it.

Atticus was the third lllama. Spunky and graceful, he had an overbite that made him look even more like a Dr. Seuss character than llamas already do. Atticus eventually went to live with friends who raised sheep where he served well as a guardian of their flock, chasing off coyotes and even once, a mountain lion.

We had rescued sheep, too who were also chased down by a pack of dogs. The sheep were part of a large flock used primarily for dog herding practice. The flock was about 30 sheep strong when a pack of domesticated dogs gathered together and broke into their pasture. Fueled by instinct and shared energy, the dogs turned ruthless and violent killing all the sheep except for two ewes. Those two ewes came to live with us where their gashed and bloody loins were nursed back to relative health. After a few weeks of care, I finally decided to name the sheep knowing they were most likely permanent residents.

Dotty received her name for the brown dot on her right hind leg while Fiesty was named for her temper. A black-faced sheep with spiraled horns, she protected Dotty from any human contact by stamping her front hoof hard against the floor of the barn and then lowering her head and charging. I was hit once by those horns and the brusie left me limping for a week.

What we didn't know about Dotty and Fiesty is that they were pregnant. Of course, it became obvious quickly as the grew in size and developed swollen teats. Then one day, when I got home from work, I found the ewes tucked away in the corners of the barn each nursing twins. Our flock went from two sheep to six and soon we were naming the new lambs just as we'd named their mothers. Truth, Justice, Honor, and Ukelele.

Now that I live in the city, there are parts of farm life I miss. The smells mostly -- the warmth of a llama's neck, the breath of a new lamb, the dust of hay, even the sour smell of the mush I'd mix three times a day for Lupine. I even miss the blistered hands and the sore shoulders from lifting 100 pound bales of hay or 50 pound sacks of grain or from repairing broken fences or clearing away brush.

Sometimes, when I'm deep asleep, I dream of the animals on the farm. In addition to the horse and the llamas and the sheep, there were four cats, two dogs, and a parrot. My dreams are ethereal with llamas galloping in the sky above me and cats lined up like birds on the barn rafters. I can smell all the scents I miss in those dreams and I float around the garden and pastures with my arms outstretched trying to hug a lamb or a dog.

Things did not end amicably with my ex. I was the "leaver" and so I was seen as the evil one. My old dog, Abbie, had died a few years before I left and though I wanted to take a cat or two or even the German Shepard, Ali, I left the house without any of the animals in tow. Perhaps that is why I dream about them or why sometimes my dreams are filled with worry -- who is feeding Lupine? Is anyone scratching Paco on the warm white spot on his chest? Is Bella (the cat) still catching swallows from the rafters of the barn or is Ali digging holes in the garden searching for moles? And what of Rico, the parrot? My ex purchased him before our relationship began, but he was difficult and demanding and instead of committing time to him, she ignored him, which made Rico all the more difficult and demanding. What has become of him?

Recently, Jan (the vet) got ahold of me. I'd loaned her some money years ago and through some wheeling and dealing she'd managed to scrape together the funds to pay me back. She called to get my current address and we talked, not about my ex but about the animals I've missed so much.

Paco and Mesmer (a llama who came into the picture later) still live with a family I found for them after I left. Lupine died shortly after I'd moved to Seattle. Unable to keep food down any longer, Jan helped euthanize him to end his suffering. Rico, the parrot, was given to a woman who rescues birds and is much happier now that someone is paying attention to him. All the cats are gone except for Kiffa, the 25 pound calico who adores Jan and rolls on her socks whenever she visits the farm. Ali the shepard was put down this last Christmas after suffering from bad hips and crippled legs. All the sheep died except two -- Dotty, the stalwart mother, and her fat, round daughter, Ukelele. They live with Jan now. Jan's old dog Vern is still alive, but crippled and aging.

And my ex? Well, I didn't ask about her. She's rarely in my dreams though when I do dream about her I am always struggling to correct the dream. "This is not my life," I say to myself, "She doesn't belong here." And then I wake up, roll over and look at Ann to make certain the dream was just a dream.

The animals on the other hand, are always in my dreams though since Jan's phone call, I haven't dreamt of them once. Perhaps Jan's report provided closure or now that I know their fates, my dreams no longer need to be filled with worry or concern or the heavy weight of responsibility to feed and care for them.

There are days when I miss the farm and there are days when I'm glad I live in a city. There are days when I long to nuzzle the warm neck of a llama or stroke the rough muzzle of lamb, and there are days when I marvel at the creativity and ingenuity of city crows. There are days in the city when I know I haven't worked hard enough and there are days when I am thankful there isn't wood to stack or stalls to clean. There are days when I wish the city weren't so loud, when the sound of the wind down a long valley whistles in my memory. But there are also days when I hear the organ from the church, the whine of the electric bus, and the songs of Avery, our neighbor, singing along with his iPod as he walks to or from work that make me appreciate the diversity of city life.

What I miss the most... if there were one thing I could bring with me to the city it would be the brillance of the stars at night. On warm summer nights I loved to lie out in the pasture with the musky smell of llama dung all around me and the black shadows of the tall trees above me, and just blur my eyes to the silvery sparkles cast like dust across the sky. Often the llamas or the sheep would lie close by, close enough to hear their breathing. The dogs would lie down too, and in the spring, when the lambs were trusting and curious, they'd curl up with their butts tuck into the dogs' bellies like some biblical scene.

Sometimes, in those dreaming memories late at night, I'm spread flat in that pasture pretending to count stars when in actuality I'm counting the heartbeats of all the different animals around me. Though it's sad to know Bella is no longer chasing birds and Rico is no longer calling my name, in my dreams everyone is right where they should be -- nearby, content, breathing -- and so am I.