Einstein - World's Smallest Horse

EINSTEIN- TEENY WEENY HORSE, BIG HEAD

BLUE EYES!

"IT'S MY CAMERA, MS. HORSE"

THIS PONY WHISPERS DAKTARI!

Today I find out that the world’s smallest horse lives in the ‘hood. Of all the places on the entire planet he was foaled 10 days ago in Barnstead, NH. His name is Einstein and he weighed only 6 pounds at birth. His parents are miniature horses but Einstein (as you can see by his photo) is a genuine mini-miracle.

“Hey Kat. Wanna go see the world’s smallest and only fairy horse?” “Not possible,” she shoots back. “I’m busy, busy, busy with lots of important stuff to do.”
(My friend Kat is usually good for an adventure, although she sometimes needs poking with a sharp stick to get her started . . . mornings especially.)

“Come on. Just think of it,” I wheedle. “What are the odds that of all the places on all the planets of this solar system the world’s smallest horse would incarnate just one hour drive from Amesbury. It‘s gotta be a sign from the Gods! It’s once in a lifetime.”
“Oh, all right,” concedes Kat. “If you put it that way, I’ll go.”
“Atta girl. It will be fun. You’ll see.”

We hop into my ten-year old adventure-wagon. (The white Pontiac -- Mass 74-A-JOI with the purple “Don’t Postpone Joy” bumper sticker glued securely above the rear plate)
Supplies include the usual water, peanut butter sandwiches, and M&M’s for dessert. We also have duct tape, twine, bailing wire, an electric drill and a garden hoe. (just in case)

Joy, it seems, is eminent!

The White Mountains are just above the horizon to the North as we drive up to Einstein‘s birthplace at ‘Tiz a Miniature Horse Farm‘. A three- inch orange barrier tape extends across the driveway, which is further blockaded by the family Ford.

“Looks like they’re expecting visitors,” I offer.
“And looks like they’re not too happy to see them,” opines Kat. “Also, what about the dogs?” (Kat is deathly afraid of dogs.)

“Think nothing of it,” I reassure my canine-phobic colleague. “You wait here and I’ll go see what’s happening.”

I duck under the ‘Do not Cross’ tape and walk up the drive to be greeted by three barking sheepdogs and an elderly Cro-magnon sharpening a long pointed stick, who I identify from the website as the farm’s owner, Larry Smith.
“Probably fashioning a crude spear to go with the barrier tape,” I surmise.

“Hi, I was wondering if we could see Einstein,” I enquire politely.
“Einstein’s not here,” answers the laconic Mr. Smith. “He’s away in a heated barn until Saturday.”
My disappointment shows. Larry eyes me head to toe. After a short silence, he relents.
“Come on in, you two, and see the others.”
“Bingo,” I chortle to myself.

I return to Kat waiting in the car, surrounded by the troika of suspicious sheep dogs.
“Well the bad news is that Einstein’s not here,” I explain. “But the good news is that we can go in and see the other ponies.”
“What about these dogs?” Kat asks dubiously.
“ We can see them too!” I enthuse. The good news is they’re Sheepdogs not Dobermans. Their bark is worse than their bite.”

Kat is not entirely convinced. But she gamely exits the vehicle as the dogs nudge and sniff.
“You do know how to dog-whisper, don’t you?” I tease.
“ No but I know CBT and it doesn’t seem to be working,” quavers fraidy Kat.

Larry calls off the dogs and we go inside the barn. Everything is just like a regular barn only smaller. Tiny stalls and mini-bridles. It’s a fairy barn! Kat is fascinated by the blue eyes of the mini-stallion in the first stall and takes lots of photos.
The rest of the horses are in a paddock at the back. We stand at the gate to watch.

“Go on in,” exhorts Judy Smith (Larry’s wife). “Just close the gate after.”

No sooner does Kat close the gate and start photographing the mini-horses, than a quartet of pint-sized pintos starts nudging her into a corner between the gate and the barn.

“I don’t like this,” says Kat testily. “I’m being corralled by horses!”
“I’m on it,” I encourage, as I insinuate myself to Kat’s left.
A tiny tan pony is nipping at her camera strap. Other horses are sampling the cuffs of her jeans. Kat is trying her darnedest to stay calm. She mutters “CBT, CBT” softly to her herd of equine admirers.

Looks like I’m going to have to cut out Kat from the rest of the herd.

“Just slide between me and the barn,” I instruct.
Kat sneaks behind me and then tries to go in back of one of the ponies to head directly to the gate..
“Watch it!” I exclaim. “Even small horses can kick. Horses can only see sideways, just keep yourself in their field of vision and you’ll be OK.”

Safely behind the gate, once again, Kat regains her composure.
“Way to go,” I encourage her. “We’ll make a cowgirl out of you yet!”
“Or a casserole for horses,” sez Kat.
“Don’t worry, they’re strict vegetarians.”
“Well, you coulda fooled me!”

DAKTARI

Eurasian Aliens Invade Lake Gardner - July 26, 2008

...................


...Research team Assembles........................................Kat's Weed Gear

KAT WATCHING CAT DO YOGA

Lake Gardner Reflections

.

.............White Water Lily..........................................Eurasian Milfoil

It’s six o’clock AM on Saturday and quiet as a mouse. I brew a pot of tea while I watch the sun pull clear of Powow Hill on the eastern horizon. I’m up early to advance the cause of environmental science. Science is my favorite subject, so why not? But I’m a little worried that today’s expedition won’t get off the ground. Gabriel, my 16-year-old science helper, had a fight with his Mom last night and is grounded. Bummer!

I immediately offered Rena the chance to go muck around the lake at the crack of dawn. That didn’t fly. Rena is definitely not a morning person. Finally, in desperation I called Kat. I know she’s not a morning person either, but I think I talked her into it. Still I’m not sure if she’s actually going to show or not. How many amazing scientific discoveries have been lost due to failure to show up? Woody Allen says 95% of life is showing up and I tend to agree.

At 6:32 AM Kat’s Jetta pulls into the driveway. Amazing – she’s early!! I hand her a mug of my special Kenya tea – a mix of super-strong Kericho Black cut with Borden’s sweetened condensed milk and flavored with a special spice blended by Rasik Sangrajka’s wife and sent to me from Kisumu on Lake Victoria. It’s heaven in the morning and packs quite a caffeine jolt!

The tea combined with perfect butterfly weather (no wind, warm sun and blue skies) dispels any lingering cobwebs. We sit on the deck sipping tea and rubbing the sleep from our eyes as we gaze at the perfect mirror surface of Lake Gardner.

“What exactly are we doing again?” asks Kat.
“Saving the planet from invading aliens,” I respond.
“No way!” exclaims Kat, She throws me a skeptical squint through a cloud of chai vapors
“You’re right, “ I admit, “but pretty close. Bruce thinks that Lake Gardner is besieged by exotic alien plant species which have invaded our backyard ecosystem and are strangling the waterway. Today we’re mounting an expedition to find out.” (My neighbor Bruce is a member of the town Lakes and Waterways Commission.)
“Wow,” says Kat. “Why so early in the morning?”
“Tradition,” I explain. “Vampires and alien invaders are best tackled by teams of scientists and always at the crack of dawn.”
“Vampires?” Kat expostulates. “Who said anything about vampires?”
“Don’t worry, I’m packing garlic just in case.”

I load up Kat with a ton of scientific gear – weed rake, life jacket, paddle, fresh croissants, zip lock baggies, yellow plastic rope, hot-pink measuring tape and a clove or two of garlic – and we head down to the dock. We dump the water out of the old Alligash canoe and clamber aboard. Kat is an experienced kayaker so we have no trouble paddling a mile or so to the Amesbury town beach. We are the first team there. Bruce’s wife Bernadette has baked a fresh blueberry coffee cake to nourish the troops.

At 7:20 we have eight teams of two, each with a canoe. Bruce hands out the maps. Kat and I have sector 1 and sector 2. We re-embark in the canoe and backtrack another 1 ½ miles to the opposite end of the lake. The warmth of the sun on our backs and the calm reflection of the dark green forest ahead, mirrored on the still surface of the water, is delightful. Dragonflies are everywhere and the white water lilies are in bloom. My favorites.

When we reach the first sector line we set up gondola-style, facing each other. I get the boat in position and measure the depth to the bottom. Then Kat dredges the bottom with the weed rake. The resultant smelly collection of bottom weeds is decanted into a ziplock bag. Then I re-position the boat 10 feet further out on the sector line and we repeat the process. When the water is about 8 feet deep, the amount of sunlight reaching the bottom is too little to sustain plant growth. We tie our specimen zip-locs in a trash bag and paddle off to sector 2. What a team!

At sector 2, Kat receives morning greetings from a black cat doing the ‘downward facing dog’ pose on an upturned rowboat. It is a beautiful shot and I snap a pic with the digital before we set to work sampling the bottom feeders at our new locale.

Kat and I are feeling it in the biceps, as we paddle to Bruce’s backyard to examine our finds. All the other teams join in and we discover that only one species is truly threatening our beautiful Lake. It’s the Eurasian milfoil, Myriophyllum matogrosense, and it’s ubiquitous to a depth of about 6 feet. The milfoil is a popular home aquarium plant which has escaped into the wild and now threatens lakes in every state except Wyoming and Montana. Now we know what we’re up against! Bruce says milfoil is a pain to control. One idea is to lower the level of the lake in the winter, exposing the milfoil, so it will freeze to death!

Kat spies a piece of goo sticking to the underside of a lily pad. Oh-mi-god! It’s a Plasmodial slime mold. I get so excited over this little critter. A Plasmodial slime mold involves numerous amoeba-like cells attached to each other. There are no divisions between the amoeboid cells. Instead, a common cell membrane encompasses the whole colony. This "supercell" is essentially a single bag of cytoplasm containing thousands of individual nuclei. Most slime molds are smaller than a few centimeters, but the very largest reach areas of up to thirty square meters, making them the largest single cell organisms on the planet! Our little guy is only about a square centimeter in size, but even so, it’s a rare treat to see a one-cell organism with the naked eye.

By 10 AM the party’s over and we paddle back to my backyard, where Rena is sipping coffee and reading a book on the back deck. “You missed a good one,” I enthuse to Rena. Rena casts a glance at our slimy and smelly exteriors and shakes her head.
“Too early and too dirty, if you ask me!” she says.

Still, Kat and I feel satisfied with our morning’s accomplishments. Kat has a two-year-old’s birthday party at noon, so I wave goodby as she puts the top down on the Jetta and speeds away.

“Vampires, slime molds, crack of dawn, ubiquitous Eurasian invaders – all in a day’s work for Daktari,” I muse as I head for the showers.
“De gustibus non disputandum.”

Daktari

Look Ma I'm Flying - Sky Venture, NH - July 21, 2008

CRASH TEST MARY AND FRIEND

FLYING KAT AS 'WENDY ' ********************FLYING SOPHIE ********************DAKTARI AS 'ROCKY'

The e-mail from my friend Greg is intriguing:
“Fly without wings – no experience necessary. Meet at my house at 6:30. If we get 12 people it’s only 35 bucks each.”
“Count me in,” I type back.
“Good! – That makes five. Get more volunteers.” Greg responds.

‘Fly without wings.’ Mmmm. I’m thinking maybe balloons or blimps. I click on the link in Greg’s email. Sky Venture, New Hampshire – no balloons, blimps or dirigibles -just straightforward extreme physics. Unlike butterflies, people aren’t actually designed to fly. But given arms, legs, torsos and a 160 MPH vertical wind it can be done. Aha! This is great – it’s ‘second to the right and straight on till morning’. Neverland, here I come!

Who else would be crazy enough to take up the challenge of wingless flight? Certainly not my wife who prefers to keep both feet firmly planted on terra firma. Hmmm.

My young friend Kat is always up for an adventure.
“Hey, Kat. Wanna fly like Peter Pan?” Kat’s definitely in.

After work, I swing by Newburyport to pick up Kat on the way to Greg’s mansion on the banks of the Merrimack River. We’re joined by Kathleen, Stephanie and her 13 year old son Christopher. The six of us pile into Kathleen’s Acura. It’s a tight squeeze but just 40 minutes later we decant ourselves out of the vehicle and into Sky Venture. We’re met at HQ by our instructor Matt and his fashionably outfitted crash-test dummy, Mary.

The last class of junior birdmen is just finishing their second flight in the Sky Venture and we scramble upstairs to watch. Matt explains, “There are four fans in the ceiling of this vertical wind tunnel that generate winds up to 200 miles an hour going straight up.” We gaze into a Plexiglas octagonal space about 12 feet in diameter where perfectly average people are body surfing with their instructor in a man-made Class 5 hurricane! Kowabunga, dude –surf’s definitely UP!

Adrenaline floods our nervous systems as Matt gives out the flight suits. First, we have to remove anything that can fly off our bodies and ding the Sky Venture or its occupants. We put our rings, bracelets, necklaces, wallets, keys and loose change in the lockers. Then we don helmets, goggles, ripstop nylon flightsuits, and special tie-on sneakers. (Velcro doesn’t stick very well in a hurricane.) Now we all look like crash-test dummies.

Matt takes us to ‘ground school’ where we learn to arch our backs, lift our chins, extend our legs and flex our knees in the classic sky diver position. We also learn how to maneuver – up, down, forward and back. Did you know that Superman flies faster when his legs are out straight? If his knees were bent, he would fly in reverse!

The moment of truth approaches. We stuff wads of foam into our ear canals. (Hurricanes make a lot of noise – even the controlled ones.) We line up on benches in a circle around the outside of Sky Venture, putting 13 year old Christopher in first position next to the entry. He arches his back, crosses his arms, clicks both heels together and falls through the open doorway into the chamber. Matt guides Chris to the center, adjusts his position and Voila! He’s flying – suspended by the winds in the middle of the maelstrom. At the end of one minute Matt gently shoves Christopher to the exit door where he grabs the sides and jumps through for a landing.

Kat’s turn comes. She’s a natural, as she flies through the air with the greatest of ease. Very gracefully – definitely more of a Wendy than a Peter Pan.

I’m next. I fall through the doors, the wind takes me and I’m airborne. How cool is that?!
What’s it like? Indescribable – but here’s my best shot:

I remember when I was 12 years old or so, and my grandfather Bowles would drive Uncle Richard and me into Fort Morgan, Colorado on Saturday afternoons to take Mom shopping in town. Rick and I would be in the back seat and the windows of the big ol’ Buick Century would be wide open, inviting us to stick our arms out. While the Buick sped along at 50 or even 60 MPH trailing an enormous plume of prairie dust, I would put my hand out the open window, curving and straightening my cupped fingers. My arm glided and pirouetted -- rising and falling like a leaf in the stream of moving air. Now, just imagine your whole body feeling exactly like that floaty arm out the window of a speeding car. That’s the feeling of Sky Venture!
Matt, like all of the Sky Venture instructors, is an accomplished sky-diver and assures us that we are experiencing exactly what a diver feels after she reaches terminal velocity and before her chute opens. We do miss the beautiful view, of course, but on the plus side we don’t lose our lunches as the fall out of the airplane sends the pits of our stomachs freefalling from zero to 160 in only a few seconds.

After another one minute flight we go downstairs to view and purchase $15 photos of our experience. I’m kinda hoping I look like an aging, slightly debonair Peter Pan but, alas, it is not to be. The green flight suit definitely works but the goggles don’t go with the Pan image. Plus the wide grin on my face allows the wind to puff out my cheeks with air.
‘Look up in the air. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No – It’s ROCKY THE FLYING SQUIRREL!’

A.K.A,
Daktari

Butterflies are Free - All Others Pay $9.50

Kat's Butterfly Tattoo
MADAM BUTTERFLY- RENA


NOT IN KANSAS ANY LONGER!


BUTTERFLY RESTING

MY FAVORITE!

My massage therapist, Kat, tipped me off to “The Butterfly Place” in Westford, Massachusetts.

I was lamenting the lack of butterflies in my garden this year.
“You won’t see them when it’s cloudy,” says Kat. “They only fly around in bright sunshine.”
“How do you know about butterflies?” I ask.
“I have one tattooed on my shoulder,” replies Kat.
(Sure enough she does. But that as they say is another story.)

That’s a good enough recommendation for me. Taking Kat at her word, I also take a quick snap of her tattoo for blog purposes. Then, I bicycle back to my house, fire up the family Suzuki, load Rena in the front and a couple of beach chairs in the way-back and we’re off – heading West to Westford.

“Nice day,” I exclaim. “Good butterfly weather.”
My wife, who is used to strange utterances about weather conditions as well as spur-of-the-moment travel adventures, doesn’t even ask where we’re going. We plug in Marvin, our GPS. Marvin is a bit temperamental and often refuses to talk if he’s not in the mood. But today is such a bright, sunny wonder of a day that even Marvin cooperates by giving directions. It’s a good thing, because ‘The Butterfly Place’ is not easy to find.

“Here we are,” I exclaim as we pull up to an un-prepossessing suburban ranch house with what looks like a largish detached sunroom on the side. I stop at the stick-your-head-in-the-hole plywood outside the entrance. ”Guess what – it’s a butterfly farm!”
“So the sign says,” agrees Rena, as she sticks her head in the hole and I take a quick blog snap.

We enter and Rena checks out the butterfly gift shop while I buy two adult tickets for $9.50 each. I’m tempted to ask for senior tickets but the old battle-axe behind the counter looks like she could be wise to that canard. I can just see me down at the local constabulary:
“What was his offense officer?” asks the magistrate.
“Impersonating a senior citizen,” replies Officer Krupke. “This cheapskate wanted to ding ‘The Butterfly Place’ $5 off the regular admission by using a fake senior ID.”
“How do you plead, Mr. Cheapskate?”
“Guilty as hell,” I reply.
I pay the $19 and we head for the entrance to the sunroom.

To enter you have to pass through a ‘butterfly trap’. Basically it’s a dark hall with tight doors at both ends to prevent the little guys from escaping – like an airlock into inner space. Emerging from the dark, you reach the inner sanctum. Suddenly it’s a Technicolor world – just like Dorothy after her house fell on the wicked witch. Sunshine and butterflies. Fountains and flowers. Several sculptures and a bench or two. There are feeding stations where butterflies eat mashed bananas and other delicacies.
At first we are like kids in a candy store, fluttering from place to place and exclaiming “Look at that one!” and “Ohmigod look over here”.

Then Butterfly Bob, the sunroom’s naturalist, explains that butterflies spend 90% of their time sitting still and only 10% of their time flitting about. I try sitting still on the bench. Sure enough as my breathing slows and my gaze sharpens, I see nine times as many butterflies in the bushes, up the trees and on the ground. How cool is that? Gradually, I relax into a butterfly trance beside the stream of consciousness. Butter-fly questions flutter-by:

“Don’t we all spend too much time flitting about and not enough time resting?”
“Are all butterflies born free and if so are they born again?”
“If a caterpillar can become a butterfly, then isn’t anything possible?”
“If a caterpillar can become a butterfly, can a doctor become a trapeze artist?”
“What the heck is a moth, anyway?”

Rena breaks into my reverie, “Come on. Time to go. We’re done.”
I rouse myself enough to hear Butterfly Bob explain that a moth has feathery antennae and a butterfly has straight ones. Also butterflies transform via chrysalis while moths prefer cocoons.

“Ready, willing and able,” I exclaim.
“Roger, over and out we go,” asserts my spouse.

We brush off any butterfly hitchhikers and push through the airlock. Surely we can’t be back in Kansas already! It’s a tough transition. I shake my head to clear the lepidoptera from my pre-frontal cortex. I’ve still got butterflies on the brain!

I ask the gift-shop clerk where I might find a beach. We follow her directions but no beach is in sight. Marvin isn’t much help. He seems dazed by the butterfly experience. We stop at a donut shop for more directions. Eventually we stumble on a small deserted strand of sand behind the water treatment plant in Westford. We haul out the beach chairs but only stay for a short time. It seems that swimming in the water supply is frowned upon by town ordinance. Or so a large, red sign says. Officer Krupke might well throw the book at me, if the same wannabee senior scofflaw attracts his attention for the second time in one day! We load our beach chairs back in the car and head for home.

As we tool down the highway, I still have my butterfly buzz.
“Maybe I have been a caterpillar too long. Maybe I should seek personal transformation. Me and all the other baby boom caterpillars.” I feel like Winnie-the-Pooh daydreaming about honey.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman in a white Toyota making a rude gesture.
My head swivels and I realize that she is not flipping me the bird – which is something your average Boston driver is wont to do more frequently then your average Kansas driver. Instead she is pointing and gesticulating toward the rear of my car.
“Your trunk is open!” she yells.

“Holy Hatchback,” she’s right!

“Ohmigod,” yells Rena. “My purse is in the back.”

I pull off the highway at the next exit. Sure enough, on closer inspection the hatch is wide open and the beach chairs are dangling precariously in the breeze. But the pocketbook is heavy enough that it's still inside and the contents are intact. Nothing seems to be missing.

“Now why in the heck ….”, Rena starts to admonish. There’s a slight menacing tone in her voice and I suspect that the blame will fall on me if I don’t think of something quickly.

“The butterflies made me do it!” I spontaneously blurt out.

Now, that’s a conversation stopper. Rena raises one eyebrow quizzically and gives me the stink eye. I quickly batten all hatches and clear for take-off.

“Butterflies made me do it.”
What kind of a psychotic lame excuse is that? Pretty soon I won’t need a fake senior ID. They’ll know I’m old enough for reduced admission by just checking out the way I drive and the weird excuses coming out of my mouth. As the Dunlops direct me into my driveway, the car radio is playing Paul Simon’s ‘Still Crazy after all Those Years.’
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=46bkXgxb66E on YouTube)

"I'm ready, I guess," I muse to myself. "Just send for the men in white coats. Only be sure they’re the traditional ones carrying the big butterfly nets on long poles.”


Daktari