I made it to the ranch yesterday.
I admittedly don’t get much exercise otherwise. Ranch work is a thing that agrees with me. Mucking stalls. Scrubbing troughs. Replacing water. Feeding. Grooming. Doing all of this in the desert heat makes up for my years of inactivity. I’ve only been at it for about two months but so far it’s been quite effective in my overall physical and mental well-being. So that’s something.
My shifts are three days a week but I’m usually out there at least five. There are all sorts of characters there: other volunteers…the management…the horses, burros, cats, etc. Each shift is a different mix of personalities and egos and there are times that it is on the cusp of an absolute shit show but everyone just smiles and bites their tongue and I’m into it.
The majority of volunteers are boomers. In a world where their seniority tends to work in their favor – it means jack shit on the ranch. We have a group chat and some of them use it as a platform when they get all huffy and puffy about their flavor of the week issue but ultimately no one really fucking cares.
A recent point of discussion was the renaming of a horse. He was surrendered by his owner with the name Francisco and the ranch owner changed it. “Why the name change? He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t seem like he fits his new name. Let’s start a petition to officially change his name back!”. Just picture it – actual grown up adults rallying on a group chat about this. It was pure art. A handful of them were teamed up and ready to fight the good fight. Until they weren’t. Because once someone replied “Okay take it up with the boss,” they all shut the fuck up. A personal favorite reply was when someone told them that if they adopted the horse, they could call him whatever they wanted. Touché, motherfuckers.
A group of boomers who don’t get their way should be called a fluster.