Not in Kansas anymore, and I don't think Auntie Em would approve!

This week I'm in Italy again for work. If I needed any reminder that I'm working in a different country, today's meeting featured a lunch with a selection of beer and chianti. And when I walked into one of the tech's offices, his wall calendar featured a topless swimsuit model. Even one year on in my European stint, I've still got to manually shut off the Pavlovian response hammered into me by every American HR group I've ever worked for, which made me back out of the building with my eyes screwed shut, yelling at the top of my lungs "I don't know this man! I am completely blameless for any action associate with him or his family or anybody that he may have come into contact with! Please do not sue me!"
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Wild Kingdom's got nothing on us

Horse and ducks, oh my. Never mind the issues with our giant equine shaped money-pit. We've been invaded by fowl. The courtyard off of our kitchen is surrounded by 7 foot brick walls, and while it's not that big, is a lovely little area with flowers and a flagstone patio that plays host to our grill and giant patio heater, one corner of which has some deep greenery. And in the past few weeks, apparently a mother duck has been sitting on a nest back there. We had no idea. Until today, that is, when we see the mama duck and little ducklings taking a walk around the patio. Our critter about had a crap-fest of happiness. (Literally. See my note yesterday about the almost-but-not-quite-housebroken two year old we live with). We've put out some water for them, but I'm a little worried about these ducklings chances of actually flying over that aforementioned 7 foot wall in the next few days. I have a suspicion that we'll be herding these things through our kitchen and into the wide open spaces in the next couple of days. My bride, meanwhile, was kicking herself for the missed opportunity for balut right there in our back yard. Don't know balut? Trust me. You don't want to...
   
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How to diaper a horse

I've been kind of out of pocket for the past few days, either traveling or recovering from travel. In that time, however, our horse - hereafter also known as the 'money pit' - managed to pull off both of his front shoes again. That makes a total of four shoes he's lost in the past four weeks. It's worth pointing out that these special shoes were put on by the vet to correct a mild problem with his stance (kinda like those big black orthopedic shoes they used to prescribe in the 60's). These shoes with their special rubber heel wedges are apparently all the latest fashion in horse owners (unlike those big black orthopedic shoes from the 60's) - at least, in the first 20 years of my riding experience, I'd never heard of these things. Apparently, no one's told the horse he's the wearing the equine equivalent of Jimmy Choo's. Of course, when Buzz attempts his imitation of Shoeless Joe, he can't be ridden until we nail more bits of glowing hot metal back onto his hooves. And this time around, he managed to step on a nail as he wrenched one of the shoes off, creating a seeping abscess right up in his hoof - which means that the 'mildly off' condition these shoes were meant to correct have turned into a sucking void of money, time, and exercise prevention for our 'free' horse. Awesome. So yesterday we get the farrier back out to the stables to examine our limping livestock. He tried a couple of things and then, accidentally (but fortunately) we located the abscess by, let's say, cracking the seal. Disgusting, but you could almost see the relief in Buzz's eyes. In a moment to make my mother proud, the farrier recommended we treat the hoof by soaking it in hot, salty water for twenty minutes. This has long been my mother's (the nurse) favorite treatment for any ailment. Cut on your hand? Hot salty water. Sore throat? Broken bone? Hot salty water. Bubonic Plague? Nothing a little soak in hot salty water won't fix right up. And by 'hot', she means a 'peel the flesh from the bones' kind of warm. The farrier gave me a funny look when I started laughing as he was recommending treatment. No doubt my mother picked up this remedy on the farm in North Georgia long before ever heading to nursing school. The problem with the horse is that you can't just tell him to keep the hoof clean after dosing it with boiling brine. After all, horses have a tendency to crap where they sleep, and though my mother never gave explicit instructions to cover this scenario, I'm thinking rubbing manure into the wound negates the medicinal effect of the salty soak. So we had to wrap it up and keep it clean - we surveyed one hundred horse owners and the favorite wrap for a horse's hoof? A diaper. Hey! I've got a almost-but-not-quite potty trained two year old at home. Diapers, I've got. (or 'nappies' as they're known here. "Want to take a nap" has led to some misunderstandings in our house since our move.) Twelve hours later, Buzz has ripped the bandaged diaper off his hoof (this is a horse who rips off metal horseshoes which have been nailed into his foot - why would a Huggies Pull-Up fare any better?). But he's feeling much more spry. Tomorrow he goes into the vet, where we will have a real heart-to-heart about my (and our horse's) patience with these ridiculous shoes.
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