Discover Top Posts Tagged with #figure-8

So, the little cutie from before has a name now! Everyone, this is Pippin! Yes, I named him after the hobbit. It seemed like the perfect match for his happy, easygoing personality. Looking forward to enjoying hopefully many years with my new fish friend.

#Pippin puff #figure-8 #puffer fish #fishblr

Due to popular demand, I'm introducing my newest little friend. He/she/it is a sweet little figure-8 puffer that I got from Aquariums and Ponds by Namado in Murrysville. It's only been about 24 hours and I'm completely smitten. No name yet. I'm still trying to get a feel for it, decide on a fitting moniker.

The top picture is of him exploring the tank last night. The second is a shot of him sleeping I caught last night after turning the lights back on.

#Baby Puff #figure-8 #puffer fish #fishblr

So I'm doing what I do best which is obsess and I have a theory I'm going to swing by trainer tonight re: cross country but I'm going to explain my thought process here first because I can. Domino goes in a loose-ring French link snaffle with a plan cavesson. He likes this setup a lot - he prefers some play and goes really soft in it. I've tried some more stable bits that use more cheek pressure (full cheek, D-ring) and while he's not bad, he tends to stiffen up a little more in them. We went through a brief stint where I used a figure-8 and I didn't notice any huge difference, so I went back to the plain cavesson in honor of keeping my tack as simple as I can. When we went cross country, Domino was clearly… uh, exuberant. He was mostly exuberantly trying to figure out how he's supposed to jump funny solid things he can't see through, but in his exuberance he was pretty determinedly crossing his jaw, curling his neck under to evade it, and tanking off to the fences. I don't want to bit him up - I don't want to punish what I believe is an honest, if perhaps somewhat intimidating, effort to learn how to do this. I know a lot of this problem should dissipate with more experience, especially for myself as a rider learning to not get worried by this, put my leg on, get him in front of my aids, and relax my hands. But experience takes time and in the meantime I don't want either of us to get into a dangerous situation in the open. So my thought is maybe I should go back to the figure-8 for cross country? He doesn't do the jaw crossing stuff as severely on the flat or in an enclosed space anymore, but looking at the pictures from XC schooling it's pretty clear that's what he was doing. The figure-8 should help discourage that evasion, which should help me keep his head up - or at least give me the confidence that he won't be able to try and evade and take off as easily, so I'll be more willing to relax on his face, which should make it easier to get him in front of my leg. Worth a try? I'm not sure I'll be able to get out and school again in this set-up before our first event, but I could ride him in the open at home at least and see how he feels, get him used to it again… He had no major objections to it when I was using it before so I'm inclined to think, well, it's not going to hurt so give it a try… We'll see what trainer says, but I wanted to get my thoughts out here first.

#Domino #eventing #figure-8 #nosebands #cross country #tack questions

Dendron, Virginia

“Oh, foot!”

My mother’s favorite curse, which I hadn’t said or heard in years, shot out instinctively when that large dark object swooped in and smacked into my windshield, not a minute after I’d crossed into Dendron.

I screeched to a stop along the side of the road, cracked tendrils now jutted across the glass in front of me. It was the still-dark of the morning – you know, that hazy glow? – and pittering rain. There were woods on all sides.

I got out of the car with a pit in my stomach. On the roadside gravel, the poor feathered thing twitched, its head cocked in a way that would have been unnatural, almost cartoonish, were it anything other than a barn owl. He was a beautiful and eerie creature, with a complex of tans and grays in his feathers, and a heart-shaped white face.

I scooped the owl up. He was still alive, and I hurried back into the side of the U-Haul van. I removed my hooded Mets sweatshirt and made a nest for him in the passenger seat. I strapped him in with the safety belt and drove off.

This place is a ghost town now, ever since the coal factory had been shut down.

I drove by fast-food joints and businesses, all boarded up and empty. I kept going past a nearby shopping plaza with an abandoned skating rink and a Halloween depot which lay dormant, presumably, until the upcoming Fall season.

There were hardly any cars on the roads. Most of the parking lots were covered in a complex of burned-rubber graffiti from drag-races and “figure-8’s,” a popular pass-time I remember from my teens where we’d drive large figure-8 shapes in the unused parking lots around town. It became almost a zen practice for us back then, and, more importantly, a way to cure the tedium. At least that was the idea.

I glanced down for a moment. The little owl – head still awkwardly twisted – looked up at me, accusatorial and pissed.

“I’m sorry buddy! I have to get to the house first, before I can help you. Hang in there.”

I pulled off the main road, and onto a dirt thing that might barely count as a path, I rumbled past a misty pond, and onto another road, which was even less of a road, simply two parallel, worn-out, lines of grass, which led straight into the woods and back, through a clearing in the trees, there was a large condemned two-story farmhouse. Behind that was the house.

“I’m here because my parents apparently owned this place. Some secret getaway that I never knew about. The house is being foreclosed, but I was contacted up in New York and flew here to check it out. I have until tomorrow morning to claim any items remaining in the house that I want to keep before the rest is put up for auction. Nobody knew about this place. Not even the lawyers, or tax people, or anybody.”

The owl looked up at me, deadpan and scornful. “I promise I’ll get you to a vet! It’s too early right now!” He blinked and looked away.

I got out of the van and looked over the house. It was a piece of shit. The aluminum sides were peeling, and the chipped red shutters hung loose, if at all. It was the kind of place I could see being used as stock-footage for a ghost hunting show.

Why hadn’t my parents ever mentioned this place? Why the hell had they even bought it? It's a weird and uncomfortable feeling to slowly unravel your parents' secrets.

I walked up to the porch, which groaned like an old ship under my weight and up to the door. I jammed the key into the knob and opened it to the infinity symbol shape of a shotgun in my face. I froze. A stab of adrenaline churned harshly in my stomach, like a fork dropped in a blender.

“Who the hell are you?” said an alarmed, but composed, voice from inside the dark of the house.

I couldn’t reply. My mouth tasted like vinegar. My eyes twitched. If I blinked I knew I’d be shot right through the nose.

“I said, who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m not here to hurt you. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I spoke cautiously, like the steps of a tight-rope walker. “I’m just here to gather some of their things and leave.”

I tried to explain the mix-up.

“Everything here is mine. This is my place,” she said.

“Please. Lower the gun. Please.”

Finally, she lowered the barrel was lowered and she stepped out from the dark of the house. She was fit and muscular with silvery hair and a black vest that clung against a loosely fitted white t-shirt. She was an attractive woman, beyond the feral intensity of her eyes. We looked each other over and then she finally she nodded.

“Okay.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake, I’ve lived here for years.” She stared at me, as if she hadn’t been in front of another person in a long while. I could see that her hands were shaking. “Squatter’s rights,” she said, shaking her head over and over. “I’ve got squatter’s rights.”

“Can I come in and we can talk this over?” I got that same blank stare until she finally nodded, waved me in.

As opposed to the outside, the place was surprisingly tidy. There was a bear-skin throw-rug across the wooden floor. She led me into the living room, and sat on a couch. It was all dark and shadows, save for a small fire going in a brick fireplace at the far corner. I felt nervous sitting there, still feeling as if a gun was pointed at me from somewhere. The woman walked over and sat in an easy-chair across from me. She looked at me and said nothing.

“I don’t know what kind of a mix-up is going on here. I just wanted to look around and take a few things that belonged to my parents. The lawyers and whatever can sort out your situation.”

Then her eyes squinted slightly, as if she began to recognize me.

“What’s your name?” I asked calmly, like I would approach a rabid dog.

“Rose.”

“How long have you lived here Rose?”

“About five years.”

“Did you know that this place belonged to my parents?”

She ignored me, looked away.

“Jeff and Kathy Ridley. Did you know them? They were my parents.” I said. I tried to remain calm. I tried not to chastise her.

She didn’t respond and then stood up with a look like she’d left something in the oven too long. She walked over to a small bookshelf, which contained no books and grabbed a match-box.

“Do you understand that you don't own this place?”

I rubbed my forehead, releasing any tension I could. Between the jet-lag and adrenaline of staring down a shotgun barrel, I was drained.

Rose began slowly zig-zagging across the room, candle to candle.

“I didn’t recognize you at first,” she said.

“What?”

“Peter. You must be Peter.”

And at first I didn’t notice it, but soon I saw them. The photos were everywhere. Framed pictures of my family covered the walls, the wooden tables. Hundreds of old postcards were tacked up in orderly rows. Everywhere I looked, there were more photos. And all the while this sociopath lit candles, casually, as if nothing were wrong.

I tried to stand.

“Don't stand. Sit,” she said.

I noticed a curtain above the mantle of the fireplace. She blew out the match and walked over to it, pulling a drawstring aside. A hand-painted portrait of my parents, their gazes emotionless looking out, each with a hand on my shoulder, seated a throne-like chair.

“I think you’re family is very special.”

I stood up, backing up slowly from Rose who stood proudly, posing, under the portrait.

“Don't stand. Sit.”

“I need to go, I need to –”

“– Stay. I’ll make breakfast.”

I didn’t know what to do, so I ran. I spilled out into the hallway, toward the front screen door, slipping along the floor – barreling right through the screen-door. I tore through the ankle high grass of the yard as Rose ran out onto the porch with her shotgun. She pumped it back.

I fumbled with my keys and keyed into the van door. I jumped inside and slammed the door behind me.

“I said, I’ll make breakfast!”

A thundering shot echoed through the woods then. A flock of birds scattered from nearby tree branches, briefly obscuring the sun. The windshield had shattered onto the dashboard, a chunk of glass stuck in my thigh. I grunted in agony. Blood trickled out of the wound. I looked over, the owl was okay, but squirming, panicked, and pinned down behind the safety-belt.

Rose walked toward the van, her strides robotic.

I cranked the ignition and jammed on the accelerator. I heard the desperate flap of wheels spinning in mud below. Rose moved in closer, she lowered the gun and I saw her reach into her pocket. I flinched, and closed my eyes.

Moments later, I opened them to see Rose waltzing through the muddy grass, applying lip-stick across her lips.

I slammed on the accelerator once more and then shot out into the yard, swerved around and took off away from the house, out along the dirt path and back onto the main road into the woods. I tried to call 9-11, but my cell-phone had no reception out here.

The nearest hospital was a half hour away and the bleeding from my leg was worsening. I didn’t know what to do. I remembered a pharmacy nearby, but when I arrived in the plaza everything was boarded up. Weeds and grass poked through the cracks in the blacktop.

Was there anyone living around here anymore?

I still couldn’t get reception, but noticed a busted wooden pay-phone box, at the far side of the parking lot, and called for help.

I didn’t know what to do, so I drove out across the parking lot, then looped back, in a figure-8. I looped around, weaving inward and back, symmetrical and safe. There was a calm about the shape, the motion, the rhythm.

I curved back and forth for what seemed like hours, keeping an eye on the owl in my front seat, until the ambulance arrived.

Postcard: Found at the Melrose Trading Post in Los Angeles, CA in October 2011.

#Dendron #Virginia #Shotgun #Owl #Figure-8 #UHaul #Parking Lot #Portrait