A Winter's Walk

It’s been a long, cold, icy winter, and there have been many days when I’ve dreamt of tunnelling into a cave to hibernate. 

Instead, on “nicer” days, I force myself to get out for a walk.  I’d like to take Muscade with me, but at 15, she can’t handle walking for more than a few minutes at a time.  So, for company, I decided that this winter, I’d bring the horses with me on my walks.  That way, we’d all get some exercise, and I could work on the horses’ ground manners at the same time.

The first time I took Maggie out for a walk was a beautiful sunny afternoon sometime in December.  There was lots of fresh, fluffy snow on the ground, so I free-lunged her for awhile in Murray’s paddock first (which, as it turns out, is a great stand-in for a round-pen).  She trotted and cantered happily through the snow, and managed to work up a bit of a sweat.  I planned on a nice walk together to cool her down.

Across the road from our place, a path had been plowed through our neighbour’s hayfield.  It leads to the woods, to an area where logs are cut and trees harvested.  The packed snow made for perfect footing, and I was curious to see how far into the woods the path went.  So, I secured a wool cooler to Maggie’s back, tied the rope halter around her head, shoved a handful of treats into my pocket, and off we went.  While we walked, I worked with Maggie, practicing getting her to halt or walk on command, with very little pressure from me.  I praised her for her efforts with treat after treat.  We were relaxed, and enjoying ourselves. 

Once we crossed the field to the tree-line, the path narrowed a bit.  De-limbed trees were stacked in neat piles on either side of what was left of the path.  I wondered for a minute whether it was a familiar scene for Maggie—who I was told had been used to haul logs out of the woods before we got her.  We walked on for another 30 feet or so, and came to the end of the plowed path.  The road itself continued through the trees and around a turn, but it hadn’t been cleared recently.  I could see sunlight streaming in through the trees where the path started to curve, and I wondered whether there was a clearing ahead.  It was such a beautiful day that I didn’t feel ready to turn back.  So, I urged Maggie forward into the un-packed snow.    

I didn’t realize just how deep that snow would be.  After a few steps, I tripped on what I assume was a log, invisible to me under the snow.  Maggie and I both stumbled blindly over it and onto the other side.   Suddenly, we had dropped down into snow that was up to my waist, and Maggie’s belly.  We staggered on for another 20 or 30 feet, trying to find more stable footing, but the ground was uneven, and the snow too deep.  We wiggled and waded on the narrow path, and managed to turn around to face back toward the field.  That’s when Maggie’s homing instinct kicked in and she showed me what 1300 pounds of pulling power can do.  She dropped her head, threw her shoulders forward, and with a squeal, she lurched ahead in a leaping motion.  She built up momentum and started hauling herself out through the snow like that in a very efficient fashion.  The only problem was that I couldn’t keep up.  I felt her lean into the rope halter as I grabbed the nylon lead with both hands, but I lost my grip as I stumbled clumsily through the snow. The lead slipped through my hands and I had visions of Maggie running free through the field, careening across the road, and then falling on our icy driveway. 

Luckily, there was a knot in the end of the lead, and I grabbed for it as I turned my head to avoid the snowballs flying through the air in Maggie’s wake.  My arm was yanked forward as Maggie bounded ahead of me. I yelled “whoa,” and hung on with all my strength.  She kept going, towing me through the deep snow as she went.  Finally she reached the buried log.  She gave one last leap, and landed on solid footing, dragging me with her.  But my feet got tangled in the log and I fell onto my knees.  I expected Maggie to pull the rope from my hand at any moment.  But she didn’t.  She just stood there with swirls of steam rising from her sweaty body, her sides heaving from her efforts. She waited while I got to my feet and caught my breath.  Then she turned her head toward me with a look that clearly said “don’t I get a reward for hauling your useless two-legged body out of the snow?”  So, I reached into my pocket and fished out several tiny treats for her.  Then, with jelly-like legs (at least on my part), we walked calmly back to the barn. 

A Close Encounter

Maggie HATES small animals. She loathes the dog, but she particularly despises the cats.

Saturday April 7th, 2012 (Easter Weekend)

As I throw the horses their mid-day hay, stray pieces of the dried grass are lifted into the air by a strong north wind. Because Maggie's recovering from a recently pulled check-ligament, the horses are segregated in their individual paddocks. They can see each other, but can't interact (or chase each other around). Murray's turn-out is in the middle so, to save time and energy, I toss hay over the fence to each of the "girls" from there.

The fence between Murray and Maggie is higher than most, with just small gaps between the boards. It was designed to separate the previous owners' stallion from the mares. With effort, I toss a flake of hay high over the fence and into Maggie's paddock. But Maggie doesn't notice. She's around the corner, in her stall, gulping up the fresh water I just poured into her bucket.

I call her name, but my voice is carried away on the wind. I call again, and bang on the fence to get her attention. Finally, I hear movement from her stall. It seems, however, that my voice has also reached Zorro's ears. My sly, dog-like, tuxedo- wearing cat suddenly appears at my feet. He pauses briefly to rub his sleek coat against my filth-covered boots. Then, with a flick of his tail, he stalks-off under the fence toward Maggie's lunch.

Hay piles are to Zorro are like empty boxes are to little children-- they're great places from which to build forts and plan attacks. Murray's mounds of hay (larger, and longer-lasting than those of the mares) are Zorro's favourite playgrounds. Thankfully, Murray is ambivalent toward Zorro's antics. For the most part he ignores him, though occasionally he gently rubs his velvety muzzle deep into the cat's fur. Unfortunately, such close contact with cat hair almost always causes Murray to sneeze, and that almost always frightens the cat away.

Maggie, however, has no tolerance for feline companionship. She gnashes her teeth at Zorro when he uses her door as a spring-board to launch himself into the hay loft. She shakes her head and squeals at him when he trots along the path outside her paddock fence. When he carelessly wanders into her paddock, she angrily chases after him. That generally leads me to duck frantically through the fence rails to scoop up my wayward cat.

Zorro's pursuit of Maggie's hay pile begins just as Maggie lumbers lazily around the corner, her hooves thudding dully on the dusty ground. My heart speeds up. I try calling Zorro back to me. He turns his head momentarily, but continues decidedly toward the hay. I look back at Maggie. Her kind, elephant-like eyes scan the paddock for her mid-day meal. Her ears prick up as she glimpses the new pile of hay.

In the next instant, the ears flick backwards, and are suddenly pinned against flat against her head. Her nostrils crinkle, her lips curl. She thrusts her jaw forward and lowers her head like a bull about to charge. Tension fills her body as she zeroes-in on Zorro. Unfortunately, Zorro, such a prolific hunter himself, seems to have no idea that he's being stalked.

Zorro ignores my frantic calling. His singular focus is a piece of hay waving in the wind. I want to duck between the fence boards and pull my feline friend to safety. But I don't fit. Only the tiniest of children could slip between the boards in this section of fence. And it's too high to climb. And anyway, each board is protected by an innocent-looking strand of electrical rope. All I can do is watch.

Maggie, within a stride or two of Zorro, menacingly shakes her head toward the cat, and grinds her teeth in anger. Then, with surprising speed, she lunges forward. I scream. I don't mean to scream. I intend to yell "whoa" in the deepest, most authoritative voice that I can muster. But what comes out is a high-pitched, half scream, half cry. With that, Zorro turns his head and his eyes widen in alarm as he finally notices Maggie. In that moment, she strikes violently at him with her dinner-plate-sized front hooves. She throws her entire 13 hundred pound frame into the effort. Dirt and sand spew into the air as her hooves hit the ground with a deafening thud.

Somehow, Zorro manages to shrink his lanky frame into a tiny ball, and her hooves merely graze his back, missing their mark by inches. Maggie, frustrated, squeals and lashes out again with her front feet, but as she raises them into the air, Zorro dashes-off with cheetah like speed. She turns to pursue him, but I regain my voice, and this time my deep, angry yell gets her attention. Besides, he's on the other side of her paddock now, and there's a fresh pile of hay at her feet. Maggie's features soften, her ears come forward, and she begins to make quick work of her lunch. Now safely outside of the fence, Zorro (unscathed except perhaps for his pride) takes a brief backward glance before heading into the field to find (hopefully) a less dangerous place to play. One of these days, his nine lives are going to run out.

How Zorro has spent his nine lives thus far:

1. Stuck his neck in the door of the truck as it was being slammed shut

2. Got knocked down out of the hayloft by a bale of hay

3. Jumped out of the hayloft for fun

4. Stayed out late when the coyotes were on the prowl

5. Got chased by Maggie

6. Got beaten up by the Tom cat

7. Tried to take a nap on Maggie's door and nearly got eaten

8. Rubbed up between Jaava's hind feet while she was being tacked-up

9. Got chased and nearly stomped on by Maggie

Hmm... so maybe he has 10 lives?

Maggie's Trick is no Treat for Murray

There's no question that Murray outranks Maggie in our three-horse-herd. He's less bossy than he used to be, but he still spends much of his days herding her from hay pile to hay pile, or forcing her to keep him company in the run-in shed while he naps. Overall Maggie doesn't seem to mind, but lately she has found a way to exert a bit of revenge.

Early one October Morning:

It's a morning like any other. As I walk into the feed room to prepare the grain, the horses begin their "feed me" rituals. Jaava pins her ears, shakes her head, trots around her stall, and rears several times. Maggie pins her ears and starts biting and licking the metal bars on Murray's stall wall. Murray stands patiently, but his nostrils quiver as he emits his "I'm hungry" noise. It's a whisper-like, high-pitched, not-at-all-masculine whinny.

Murray gets the most grain, and he's a slow eater, so he always gets fed first. I walk into his stall with a bucket of crumbly, soaked beet pulp in one hand, and a bucket of dry, hard, green pellets in the other. Murray spins around and follows excitedly as I walk toward the feed tub in the back corner of his stall. When he's halfway there, and at the point closest to Maggie's door, she stretches her head and neck close to him, then exhales abruptly through her nose to let out a sharp, loud snort. It's the noise horses make when they sense danger.

Murray, who's paranoid on the best of days, wastes no time in reacting to this call-to-arms. He abandons his breakfast, leaps sideways, sprints out the backdoor of his stall, and takes up an alert position in the centre of his paddock. His head is raised high. His ears are pricked, and his eyes scan the horizon for the invading army of enemies.

I turn back to Maggie to see if I can figure out what's caused this state of high anxiety. But she doesn't have the wide-eyed gaze of an anxious, spooked horse. The only thing she's staring at is me, and my buckets of grain. She shakes her head at me imploringly, rattling the long braids of her mane, so I give a shrug and go about dishing out the rest of the morning meal.

Murray, however, is determined not to be caught off guard. He stands outside for a few minutes, then eventually trots back into his stall. He picks at his breakfast distractedly, turning to look out his door between mouthfuls.

I forget about the incident until the same thing happens again a few days later. Just as Murray turns to follow me to his feed tub, Maggie again lets out a loud, urgent snort, and the whole scenario repeats itself. I start to wonder whether perhaps Maggie is frightening Murray on purpose.

Then, a few days after that, on a warm, sunny morning, it happens again, though in a different context. This time, the horses are out together in the larger paddock. I'm in the riding ring below, driving our truck around, and around, and around, in an effort to drag the ring and smooth the footing. I look up at the paddock and smile when I see Murray laying down for a snooze in a pile of hay. With his legs tucked under his body, he rests his chin on the ground, and closes his eyes. Maggie stands nearby to "guard" him. It's a peaceful scene.

The peace doesn't last long. After a few minutes, Maggie steps in even closer to the unsuspecting, dozing Murray. She then stretches out her head, closes her mouth, and snorts loudly through her nose. Murray's head snaps up instantly. Then, for dramatic effect, Maggie widens her eyes and trots two steps forward toward the fence-- purportedly staring at some immediate threat lurking beyond the treeline. Without any care for his arthritic joints, poor, old Murray leaps to his feet. The moment he does, Maggie relaxes. She turns back toward the hay pile and starts eating, as though nothing has happened. Murray simply stares perplexedly at the woods in search of a non-existent enemy. I swear there's a smirk on Maggie's face.

That was a few weeks ago. I don't know how often Maggie employs her decoy snort outside. But inside, she now gives a hearty "breakfast snort" every few days. And poor Murray falls for it every single time.

Three's Company

Well, Jaava's been munching hay and trotting around our paddocks for more than two months now, so I suppose it's time to explain why we added a third equine to the herd.

Friday February 4th-- mid-morning

With the horses fed and mucked out, I dig into a bowl of oatmeal and turn on my laptop. A new message pops up in my inbox. It's from one of the girls from Five Elms Stables-- the barn where I used to board Murray near Moncton.

The message asks whether I've heard the news-- the news that the roof of the 30+ stall barn collapsed overnight on Wednesday. My jaw drops and my heart starts pounding. Thankfully, the next line of the note answers the first question that comes to mind-- and yes, miraculously, all the horses are ok. In fact, the boarders have already been moved to other barns in the area, but the owners' horses and a couple of school horses (including Jaava and her "brother" Poet) are still homeless, and are currently living outside. I quickly write back asking her to let me know whether there's anything I can do.

As the news sinks in, I start thinking...we have two empty stalls. We could easily keep the ponies here for a few weeks or even months while the barn owners figure out what to do. I call Guy and Cheryl to offer what help I can.

They tell me how they walked through their two-acre apple-orchard in the morning, believing all was normal. They didn't see the devastation until they opened the door to the barn. That's because the roof collapsed over the back half of the barn-- the section furthest from view. It was a pile of rubble. Had there been horses there, they wouldn't have survived. However, for the first time in a dozen or so years, there were no horses there. That's because the stable had recently closed down its lesson program, and sold off most of the school horses. With fewer animals in the barn, they moved them all together to fill the stalls in the front isle.

After they tell me their harrowing story, I offer up the two empty stalls.

Cheryl responds by asking if I want a pony-- to keep for good.

Me: "Uh, what do you mean?

Cheryl: "Make me an offer, any offer."

Me: "For Jaava?"

Cheryl: "Sure, we could have her there by breakfast tomorrow."

Me: "uh, really?"

Cheryl: "yes, we need to find her a home. We might keep the others anyway, we're not sure, but not her. She needs a home."

This is not what I expected when I made this phone call. I expected to maybe temporarily house a couple of ponies, and have them off my hands by summer. I'm a bit flustered by this idea of buying one of them. But I'm also immediately tempted.

********

I worked with Jaava a fair amount when I was at Five Elms. I rode her her a couple times a week for the last six months or so that I was there. And I coached one of the more experienced girls on her as we started her over fences. Jaava is, and always was, a firecracker. She's naturally athletic, which means that when she spooks, she can spin on a dime, and can bolt from one end of the ring to another in a heartbeat. But when she goes well, she's a joy to watch. She's fidgety and insecure, but doesn't have a mean bone in her body.

I'd heard a few weeks earlier that Jaava was for sale. And for the first few days after I heard that news, I'd flirted with the idea of buying her. But, what the heck would I do with a pony? I already have two horses to ride. And while she's got oodles of talent, she needs an experienced rider, so even if I ever decide to start a small lesson program here, she's not an ideal school horse.

Buying her would mean higher shoeing and vet bills. It would also mean more work. I decided Jaava could find another home. I made peace with my decision, and started dreaming instead, of saving money for a horse trailer.

Then, the barn roof collapsed, and Jaava became homeless.

********

I tell Cheryl I'll think about it, and I hang up the phone.

I lift the receiver back to my ear and call Dave.

Me: "Um, so can I get a pony?"

Part of me genuinely hopes he'll say no. Part of me knows we can't afford another mouth to feed. Part of me knows this is going to disturb the well-established hierarchy that Murray and Maggie have settled on.

Dave says yes. I explain the situation to him, and he replies that we certainly should buy her.

I hang up with Dave and phone one of my best friends. "Am I crazy?" I ask. She tells me that no, I'm not crazy, and that yes, I should get the pony.

I call Cheryl back. I make an offer. She accepts, and says she'll have the pony, and 100 bales of hay here by 11 o'clock the next morning. I'll be at work. Dave will have to unload the hay and get Jaava settled on his own (thankfully though, our horse-sitter agrees to come help out).

I spend the rest of the day cleaning the empty stall next to Murray's. I wonder whether he'll remember his new neighbour from his old barn.

Getting Naked

Sunday April 10
It's a warm, sunny day. I take off the horses' blankets so they can frolic naked in their paddocks. Of course, with their blankets removed, one of the first things they do is roll in the mud.

Murray's blanket's going to have to go back on as the temperature drops at the end of the day, so once the mud dries, I figure I'd better spend a few minutes cleaning him up. So, as Murray suns himself in the centre of the paddock, I start flicking a shedding blade across his fuzzy coat, sending dusty clumps of chestnut coloured hair swirling through the air. By the time I'm done, much of that hair is clinging to my own clothing, hands, and face.

In the past, there were times when I refused to use the shedding blade on Murray's thin, bony body, afraid I'd actually hurt him. But this year, I have to press into his flesh to find his ribs, and his hip and shoulder bones have lost their angular qualitites. He's also developed a low-hanging hay belly.

I kiss Murray's velvet muzzle, then step back to take a better look at his condition after the long, cold, storm-ridden winter. Last year, when spring arrived and I lifted off his mud-caked winter blanket, Murray looked old. This year, at 23, he still looks old. Grey hairs continue to spread across his face, and his lack of muscle means his back is starting to sink. But, at the same time, he looks, well, he looks good. In fact, for the first time in the fourteen years that I've had him, he's come through a winter without losing weight. Actually, I think I can legitimately say that he's fat.

There are probably a few reasons for his weight gain. First of all, all winter long, we offered him as much high-protein second-cut hay as he could eat. And, for the first time ever, he had the winter off (with the exception of a few rollicking romps together in the snow).

But it's not just his weight that I'm happy with. I worried that with the winter off, he'd be stiff, sore and arthritic by spring. But that's not the case at all. He's certainly unfit, but he's feeling great. I've given up on trail rides since I can't seem to contain his overabundance of energy when we're out on the road, but the few rides I've had with Murray in the ring have been fabulous. His trot is a springy and fluid as ever, his canter stride is big and bold, and he's as sound as he's felt in years.

There was a time before we moved here that I thought I'd have to retire him for good. His stride was uneven, he kept stumbling, and his right knee would completely give-out during almost every ride. But since moving to Nova Scotia, our new farrier has made some changes to his shoeing, and I can't believe the difference those changes have made to the way he moves.

I'm knocking on wood as I write this because it's early spring, and who's to say whether his soundess will last into summer. But I'm hoping it will because it's going to take quite a few rides to work off that hay belly of his. And, I haven't told Murray this yet, but Dave's been busy building jumps in his workshop, and if Murray's a good, sound boy, maybe he'll get the chance to try them out before the end of the summer. He won't be jumping any four foot oxers, but with any luck he can step over a few smaller fences just for fun.

Disappearing Horses

Sunday April 3rd We spend most of the day mending fences and cleaning up the "storage" stalls in the barn. By 4pm, we're finished most of our work and we decide to duck out to the corner store (on the corner 11kms way).

Before we leave, I toss the bored-looking horses a couple of flakes of hay. They're barred off from the large pastures to give the ground time to firm-up and the grass time to take root. They'll thank me for this when they're munching on an abundance of lush green grass in July; but right now, they're annoyed at being cooped up in the mud-hole which is currently their paddock.

A half hour later, we're on our way back from the store. Usually, as we crest the hill, I can see the horses meandering in their paddock. Not today. I press my nose to the window to catch a glimpse of the run-in shed. Murray spends many-a-day there, with just his head sticking out, his velvety muzzle breathing in the fresh spring air. He's usually easy to see since his red coat stands out against the painted-black shed, but today I don't see him.

The paddock disappears from view for a moment as we pull into the driveway. I wonder if maybe the three of them are hiding out behind the shed, perhaps gulping down some water from the large blue bucket in the corner. But no, they're not there either. This is odd. It is possible that they're in the shed, and I simply haven't seen them, but since we got Jaava, I've never seen all three of them in the shed. If she tries to enter, Murray usually chases her out, and leaves her to stand by whichever outer wall best blocks the wind. I mean really, the shed is only 10' x 20'. It's a bit cramped for three horses-- even if one of those horses is a pony.

Dave puts the car in park and I jump out, heading toward the paddock. Still no sign of the horses-- and Jaava always whinnies in greeting when we get home. The gate's closed, so it's unlikely that they're loose. Maybe someone stole them? But we've only been gone for half an hour-- and lets be honest, as much as I love my horses, they certainly aren't the sort horse-thieves would be after....if there even are horse-thieves anymore.

I walk toward the paddock. There are no heads peering out at me....no gluttonous mares running to the fence in search of food. Finally, my boots squelching in the half-frozen grass, I reach the side of the fence and lean around so I can see inside the shed. I'm only about 10 feet away. "Hey guys", I yell, even though I still can't see any of them. Suddenly, there's the sound of a startled horse jumping in fright, and three fuzzy equines pop their heads out of the shed simultaneously. I can't believe it. All three of them have been standing there inside-- completely inside, without so much as a tail hair or a whisker poking out through the openings.

Now that they know I'm here, Murray and Maggie wade through the mud and jockey for position at the fence line, hoping that I might be there to dole out some kind of treat. Jaava hangs back warily. She knows by now that the other two will gang up on her and viciously chase her off if she tries to snatch her rightful share of anything I might have to offer. On the bright-side, it seems that as of today, even if "the big guys" aren't willing to share their food with her, they are willing to at least share their shelter. Score one for the pony.

Finding Maggie

About a year ago....

February 4, 2010
I usually enjoy my work at Greenhawk in Moncton, but today, I'm anxious to get out of the store. At 3pm, I'm drumming my fingers on the desk behind the cash, anxiously waiting for my co-worker to arrive to relieve me. When she does, I dash out the door-- giddy with excitement.

The twenty minute drive to the barn is unbearable. When I finally arrive, I shout a brief hello to Murray in his paddock, then continue straight down the path into the barn. Murray's stall and my locker are directly ahead inside the main door, but I turn left down the isle. I walk to the last stall on the left. Inside, a fat, black mare glances up at me from what's left of a pile of hay. Maggie was dropped off just a few hours earlier. She seems reasonably content in her new, albeit temporary, surroundings.
**********************************************************

I started seriously looking for a second horse in early January 2010, when it looked like we really might be buying the farm. After all, I couldn't let Murray move here without a friend.

I knew exactly what I wanted:
-A horse big and strong enough to comfortably carry Dave
-A horse kind and quiet enough for Dave to work around
-A horse that is fairly young, not an old ready-to-drop-dead retiree
-A horse that's an easy keeper (no thoroughbreds this time around)
-And above all, most importantly, the horse has to be cheap

I spent hours and hours scrolling through classified ads on Atlanic Rider and scanning the "livestock for sale" column on Kijiji. Most of the horses within my price range (about $1500) were retired or unsuccessful standardbred racehorses, oddly bred draft horses, or quarter horse crosses of questionable backgrounds and training. But there were a few which stood out:


Mid-January 2010

The horses in most of the ads are easy to cross of the list, but there are two big draft crosses whose ads I click on several times a day. They're nice looking horses, who seem to meet all of our criteria-- except for the price. They're both priced above $3000. At first, I tell myself there's no way I'm willing to spend that kind of money on a "companion horse" for Murray (and Dave). But both of these horses are well-schooled, and would probably make good mounts for me (as well as Dave)-- I could compete at jumper shows and in events with either one of them. Looking at their ads in that light, I convince myself that either horse would be a worthwhile investment.

I hemm and haw for a few more days though before finally contacting the owners. Both horses have just been sold. Strike one. I'm disappointed, but part of me knows that neither horse was really what I was looking for, and that paying that kind of price would have put a serious strain on my ever-shrinking savings.

A few days later, another "horse for sale" ad catches my eye. It's for a Canadian mare. She's smaller than I would ideally like, and priced a bit above my limit at about $2000. In my experience, Canadian horses are generally strong, kind and friendly, so I don't rule her out, but I don't make any effort to contact the owners either. I troll the ads for a few more days, and I don't see any other horses which meet my criteria.

I casually mention the ad for the Canadian at the barn where Murray is stabled. Roxanne, a very talented young rider, immediately speaks up. "That's Nelly", she says. Nelly is owned by a friend of the family, and Roxanne had spent quite a few hours on her back. Both she and her mother are very fond of the horse. They say she's energetic, but safe, and think she'd make a great companion for both Murray and Dave.

That night, January 14th, Roxanne e-mails me pictures of Nelly. Dave instantly likes her. I decide to call the owners the next day.

The next morning, I fire up the computer and scroll through the ads. I can't find the ad for Nelly. I e-mail Roxanne for the family's contact info. She gets back to me with the bad news. Nelly was sold yesterday. Strike two.
It's back to the drawing board, so Dave and I decide to take a field trip.

It's a cold, but sunny morning and Dave and I are on our way to Amherst to see "Roger". Everyone in the horse world knows Roger. He makes a living buying and selling horses of all sizes, colours, and quality. Many end up in good homes. Many are eventually loaded onto a trailer and "shipped to Quebec" (which is a Maritime euphemism for being sent to slaughter).

We pull into a long driveway tucked down a lane behind the Walmart in Amherst. It's our first time here. In the minutes before Roger arrives to greet us, we glance around at a series of barns-- some very old, others quite new. Soon, a stocky, heavy-set man with a round, weather-worn face appears and we introduce ourselves to Roger. He tells us he has about 100 horses on the property. A few of the nicer looking ones belong to his daughter. The rest are for sale.

Roger is friendly enough, but he wastes little energy on words. He walks with us past a manure-covered paddock housing 15 or so particularly thin and unhealthy-looking animals. These unfortunate individuals, many of whom are unwanted retired standardbred racehorses, are due to travel to Quebec the next day.

We march morosely past them through the snow to a large field filled with several dozen much healthier-looking horses, many of whom are gathered around a large round-bale. A few are big draft horses, or draft crosses. One Clydesdale in particular catches Dave's eye. He's a massive animal, well over 17 hands high. We're told he has very little, if any training. Dave likes him, but there's something about this horse's expression that makes me wary, and he's just too big and too green for my liking. We're there for an hour or more. All of the horses we see are in need of good homes, but they're either too big, too small, or too green for our needs. We finally leave, telling Roger that if we don't find anything within the next few weeks, we'll be back to check out any new stock that trots in.

It's now mid to late January. I'm getting desperate. We haven't settled on a closing date for the house yet, but we know it will be sometime in mid-February. I will stay in Moncton for another few weeks to clear out and clean up our old house. But by the first of March, I'll have to leave. The problem is, I don't want to move Murray to our new home without a companion. I also don't want to move there without him. I need to find a horse...soon.


January 19, 2010
A few days after our trip to Roger's, I come across an ad for the perfect horse-- probably even better suited to us than Nelly would have been. "Trigger" is a plain-looking chestnut quarter horse crossed with something or rather-- likely a "Heinz 57". Attached to the ad is a link to a video of a seemingly inexperienced, adult, male rider trotting and loping around on him. The horse responds well and seems unfazed by the rider's slightly bouncy hands and unbalanced seat.

"Trigger" is for sale on Prince Edward Island, so I ask my good friend KK whether she knows anything about him. She does indeed know the horse. She says he's had experience as both a trail horse and a lesson horse. He's big enough for Dave, yet small enough that children won't be intimidated. She tells me he's perfect. And the price is right too.

It's Wednesday January 20th. I e-mail Trigger's owners. I'm working all week, but I set up an appointment to see him on Saturday. I spend Friday night dreaming about our perfect new horse. Saturday morning dawns bright and cold. I bundle up and drive off toward the Island. About a half hour outside of Moncton, my cell phone rings. It's Trigger's owners-- well, former owners. They sold him last night. Strike three.

Monday January 25
For what seems like (and probably is) the millionth time, I scroll absentmindedly through the latest "horse for sale" ads on Kijiji. One ad, just posted, shows a cute-looking Percheron x Quarter horse mare. I click for more information. There's not much more info at all, just a phone number, but I've got a good feeling...a really good feeling. I call right away. A woman answers. I tell her I'm calling about the horse for sale.

"Which one?" she asks.
"Um, the Percheron cross--a mare?"
"Oh," she says kindly "you must mean Maggie."

My heart skips a beat. My brother-in-law's dog had been named Maggie. She was one of the most kind, and beloved animals I'd ever known. We fell in love with our dog because she could have been Maggie's twin. The fact that this horse shares a name with what had been such a wonderful animal has to be a sign. This is our horse. Unfortunately, "our horse" is in Oxford, Nova Scotia. I'm working at Greenhawk all week, and teaching riding lessons most evenings.

"If she hasn't sold by the weekend, I'd like to come see her".
"Ok," says the kind voice on the phone. "I'll tell my husband, Ron, he's the one who deals with all this."

I'm on pins and needles all week. I check the ad on Kijiji everyday to make sure it's still there, and that the word "SOLD" hasn't appeared. On Friday I call Ron to confirm our appointment. "She's still there?" I say, with every finger and toe crossed. He tells me she is, and gives me directions to their modest farm.

Dave is home for the weekend, so we drive together to Oxford to meet Maggie on Saturday. When we arrive, we're greeted by an excitable, though friendly, young german shepard type dog. Soon, the dog is joined by Ron, a smiling, grey-bearded man in coveralls. He leads us to the barn where Maggie is tied in a straight stall. She has company in the form of a miniature horse, two massive Belgians, and two even more massive percherons. Maggie's a Percheron quarter horse cross herself, but she looks like a pony beside these gentle giants.

I walk into the narrow straight stall beside her. Her ears are forward, and despite the close quarters, there's no sign of aggression or anxiety. We bring her into the isle for a better look. She stands quietly while I run my hands through her thick, but shiny black coat, and down her legs. There's some swelling down the inside of her right hind. Her hooves clearly haven't been well cared for. Two of them are cracked from toe to coronary band, and large chunks are missing from all four.

Ron tells us Maggie was a PMU baby shipped from Alberta as a filly. At the time, she was sold to an older gentleman. Just two weeks ago, that man traded the now 7 year old mare back to Ron-- who has considerable experience with draft horses, but not saddle horses.

He tells us Maggie is broke to harness, but has never been ridden. He says she is gentle, though can be a bit "sharp" sometimes (meaning she occasionally has a stubborn streak). He's got too many horses right now, so she's been spending nights on his horse trailer, alongside his mini-horse (who looks like a dog beside all these drafts).

He leads Maggie outside into the bright sun. Despite her crumbling hooves, she walks just fine. He tries to trot her down the icy driveway for us, but she only manages to waddle a few steps before it becomes too slippery for both of them. It's almost impossible to tell for sure, but I convince myself that she seems sound.

I like Ron, he doesn't give us a sales pitch. He just answers our questions, seemingly honestly, and he sits back and waits for us to come to our own decision.

I look at Dave. He likes black horses, and he's been insistent that he wants a horse with big bone, something with substance so he can feel secure in the saddle. Maggie, with her elephant-eyes and docile temperament has won him over...and me too.

I'm a horrible negotiator. I don't even know where to start. I tell Ron we're interested, but that I'm a bit worried about her hooves. He drops the price from 12 hundred to 11 hundred dollars. I think some more. I tell him we don't have a trailer, and I wonder whether he could bring her to Moncton for us (it will cost at least $100 for me to hire someone else). He agrees, and says he can bring her sometime during the next week. I write a cheque for about half the cost.

Dave and I drive away both pleased and relieved with our decision. We've never, ever regretted our choice, and Maggie has become a much beloved part of our family.

Dave's Joy-Ride

A few days ago, Dave and I were talking about the horses. I mentioned that it had been quite awhile since he'd been for a ride. This wasn't meant as an accusation, or a challenge, or a call to action. It was merely a statement of fact. I think though, that my loving husband may have misinterpreted my statement. His response was "It's supposed to be nice on Sunday, why don't we go for a ride then?". I wonder now whether he regrets his suggestion.

Sunday January 29th
It's a beautiful winter's day-- warm, sunny, and not a breath of wind. By 11:30am we're ready for a ride.

I'll be honest. I'm a little nervous about this mid-winter escapade. The horses haven't been ridden much. They're pretty fresh, and Maggie has managed to muster a considerable amount of energy during the few recent rides I have had on her. I don't mention my concerns to Dave, and I manage to convince myself that we'll just go for a short, leisurely, and safe walk in the snow.

Before we ride, I scope out the state of the road. It's been sanded, but is very icy underneath. I worry that the hill is too slippery for Maggie's unshod hooves. I'm also worried about the riding ring. There's a fresh layer of snow, but it's not thick, and lurking underneath is perfect skating-rink-smooth ice. I decide our best option is to ride the horses in the large, snow-filled, fenced-in field. The footing is safe, and we'll be in an enclosed area-- a large enclosed area, but enclosed nonetheless.

Dave is ready before me. As usual, he uses the round, two-foot-high concrete crock above our well on the front-lawn, as a step-stool to hoist himself onto Maggie's western saddle.

Me: "Forgetting something?"

Dave: "What? No."

Me: "Are you sure?"

Dave: "Oh, my helmet...I guess I forgot to tack myself up".

We giggle, and I lead Murray back to the barn to retrieve Dave's helmet. I'm a stickler about helmets. I've had two concussions from falls WITH helmets, so I can't imagine what would have happened if I hadn't been wearing the mushroom-like caps.

With his helmet securely strapped to his head, Dave urges Maggie down the path toward the pastures while I go back to the barn once again to smear Vaseline in Murray's hooves. It helps keep the snow from balling up beneath his soles.

From inside the barn, I suddenly hear a squeaky clip-clip in the packed snow, along with a series of ever intensifying shouts of "whoa" intermingled with: "whoa Maggie whoa". I grab Murray's reins and lead him abruptly from the barn as Maggie rounds the corner toward us-- eyes wide and nostrils flared. Dave yells at her and tugs on the reins, but she doesn't stop until she's right in front of us.

Me: "What happened?"

Dave (somewhat breathless): "I tried to ride her through the gate and she wouldn't go through. She spun around, took off, then reared, then took off again."

Me (dismissively): "Well, I think she's stressed about leaving Murray behind. Just wait for me and we'll go in together."

In the back of my mind, my apprehension over this ride is growing. I still don't mention it to Dave though. If I make him nervous, he'll make Maggie nervous, and things will go quickly downhill from there.

Dave has limited riding experience, but the experience he has had has so far has been positive. He's never fallen off, and until Maggie's uncontrolled rear/trot-back-toward-the-barn, he's never had a horse do anything more threatening than a mild spook (though he's watched enough of Murray's antics that he's well aware of how powerful and unpredictable these 12 hundred pound animals can be when they so choose). To this point, Dave's confidence on horseback is fully intact, and I'd like it to stay that way.

I brush my worries aside, and lead Murray to the well, so I can get on. Dave and Maggie are behind me, wandering in the snow on the front lawn. Murray and I make it about 20 feet down the path before I hear Maggie's gait quicken, first to a trot, then a canter. Again, I hear the chorus of "WHOA's", each one becoming more desperate. I stop and turn in time to see Maggie cantering through the knee deep snow in the lawn, with Dave tugging unsuccessfully at her reins (Dave has only ever cantered a handful of times). She leaps a small snowbank and hits the icy driveway at a fast clip. She slips, yanking the reins through Dave's gloved-hands. She manages to stay on her feet, but Dave's reins are now too long to offer any control.

"Sit up and shorten your reins!" I yell. Then I ad my own "whoa's" to Dave's efforts. Maggie slows slightly, to a half-trot-half-canter gait, but she's heading straight for the tractor. At the last possible second, she ducks to the left, nearly unseating Dave, who's still trying to shorten his reins to a reasonable length. Then, Maggie veers sharply to the left again and heads straight for our truck. Instead of crashing into it, she climbs the four-foot high pile of snow behind it, then runs up along the passenger side.

By now, I've jumped off Murray, thankfully Dave has readjusted his reins, and Maggie has exhausted the supply of vehicles with which she can play chicken. With a final "WHOA", and a sharp tug on the reins, Maggie comes to a halt a few feet in front of Murray and me. I reach forward and grab the reins, giving them a few unproductive tugs. I force myself to check my anger, and I look up to Dave to ask whether he's ok.

He's flushed, out of breath, and a little shaken.

Dave: "What a little B*^#&."

I concur.

Me: "Why don't you hop off, and I'll lunge Maggie in the field for a bit before you get back on?"

Dave: "Ok, I'll get the lunge line".

I hand Murray's reins to Dave, and I lead Maggie into the field, all the while whispering to her about manners, and taking care of Dave and how it's ok to behave stupidly with me, but not with him.

I let her out on the lunge line and she bursts into a bigger extended trot than I would have thought possible for her short legs. Then she canters, then she bucks. I dig my heels into the snow and hold tightly to the end of the lunge line until she tires. I figure that should happen soon; after all, she's careening around in knee-deep snow.

Maggie's more worked up than I'd hoped and I'm reluctant to let Dave climb back into the saddle. In the meantime, Murray stands calmly beside Dave, half dozing. I know Dave still wants to ride (he's never ridden outside in the snow before), so I consider the options for a few minutes, then suggest to him that he get on Murray.

Dave: "Really?"

Me: "Yeah, just stay fairly close, and just WALK".

Dave's ridden Murray around on several occasions. He even went over a very small jump on him on the lunge line before. It's certainly unusual for Murray to be the "safer" choice, but today, he seems just that. So Dave scales the fence and gently lowers himself onto Murray's English saddle. The two of them walk calmly back and forth through the snow-drifts while I try to keep Maggie from ripping my arms out of their sockets on the lunge line.

After a few minutes, I bring Maggie to a walk, and I decide to get on to test her obedience level.

I bring her alongside Dave and Murray and for a few minutes, we all walk contentedly through the snow to the bottom of the field. The snow is deeper here, and I notice Murray has added a bit more bounce to his walk.

Me, calmly: "Make sure you sit up, and keep your heels down".

Dave: "Whoa Murray".

Me: "Whoa Murray".

We round the corner so the horses' muzzles are now pointing up the hill toward home.
Murray simply can't hold back his enthusiasm. He bounds into a springy trot, which then becomes a rocking-horse-like canter up the hill. It's really just a lope, but with his 14 foot stride, Murray's lope can out-pace the canter of many-a-horse. He's bouncy at the best of times, but now he's also wading through a foot and a half of snow. Each stride must feel to Dave as though he's just been launched from the heart of a tightly wound jack-in-the-box.

In stereo, Dave and I yell "whoa". But Murray's enjoying himself. He doesn't stop until he reaches the fence at the top of the hill. Seemingly proud of himself for offering Dave such an amusing ride, he slows down. Then, Murray senses that Dave has lost a stirrup and is off balance. Unused to inexperienced riders, and very sensitive to any shift in his rider's weight, Murray becomes worried and confused. He glances down the Hill toward Maggie and I with a worried look on his face, then continues toward the paddock gait in a moose-like trot-- anxious to be rid of the bouncing burden on his back. I'm sure Dave's about to take a dive into the snow.

Miraculously though, Dave hangs on as Murray abruptly changes course and decides to come to "mom" for help. He finally stops when he's back alongside Maggie and me. The look of anxiety on his face matches the look on Dave's. Their eyes are wide, they're both breathing hard, and they both look confused. I hop off of Maggie and gently grab hold of Murray's bridle. With Dave still in the saddle, he relaxes, an within a minute or so, the old boy's eyes are closed and he's dozing in the sun.

Dave (still out of breath): "I thought for sure I was going to fall off".

Me: "Me too. Shall we call it a day?"

Dave: "Yeah, I think that's probably enough of a ride for today."

What Happens When It's Cold

Monday, January 24, 2010
The temperature outside is -18. The view from my picture window consists of tornado-like swirls of snow being ushered across the fields by gusty North West winds-- biting winds which make the temperature feel closer to a bone-chilling -30.

In the barn, frost rims the edges of the horses' heated water buckets, while steam rises from the liquid centre. Uneaten beet pulp sits as a frozen lump in the bottom of Murray's feedtub. Usually soft manure is transformed into frozen, ankle-turning turds. Lilly-cat burrows deep into her hayloft den. Zorro curls up in a blanket-lined rubber feed tub perched precariously on the top shelf of the barely-heated feedroom. For once, Muscade stays inside the barn, curled up on a thin formerly-white dog bed, while I finish the chores.

Outside, Murray and Maggie's usual paddock, the one with the run-in shed, is unusable due to the treacherous ice that formed after Friday's snow-then-rain storm. Turning them out in the big open-field is out-of-the-question because of the chilling wind. I leave them in until it warms up a degree or two, then at 11:00am, I open their stall doors and let them out into their individual, somewhat sheltered paddocks. Maggie seems oblivious to the cold. Murray's disdain for the current conditions is clear when he turns around and stares back in through the door to his stall. I tell him to hang-in there for just a couple of hours. By one o'clock, they're back inside the slightly warmer barn. The thermometer in the isle reads -14.

Jack Frost extends his icy fingers into our home as well. For the first time since moving here, I heard the oil furnace roar to life in the night-- meaning the temperature had dropped below 15.5 degrees. In the morning, the bottom of the window sills are decorated with a thin layer of frozen condensation.

When I open the microwave to warm my hearty bowl of oatmeal, I'm chilled by an icy blast of cold air. The microwave somehow vents outside. We've noticed the cold air inside this appliance-of-convenience before, but it was nothing like this. I press the buttons on its fingerprint-covered facade. The microwave flashes to life with a roaring whine. After a few seconds, I hit STOP. Then, I start it again. I'm greeted with the same, unusual noise. I let it run for a few seconds longer. The whine lessens, but the roaring continues. I realize that something, somewhere in the microwave is likely frozen. I hit STOP again. I wait a few seconds, then tentatively start it again. It comes to life with a shuddering roar, but after about 15 seconds, the roar dies down to the usual hum. Ninety seconds later, I remove my sufficiently hot bowl of gruel.

Then there's my car. I've been home sick all weekend, so it hasn't moved for three days. I need to head to the city to teach riding lessons mid-afternoon, so in the interest of prudence, I decide it's a good idea to test the car for a few minutes late-morning. I'm not really concerned. We've had the car for more than 2 years and it's always started like a charm. It's no different today. I turn the key and it groans to life-- a cold, but willing engine. I let it run for about 10 minutes, then turn it off.

At 3pm, wearing four layers of clothing in anticipation of a cold night teaching lessons, I jump back in the car and optimistically turn the key. This time, the engine rumbles, but it won't come fully to life. I try a few more times. I'm getting something, so I don't think the battery's dead. I call Dave. He thinks the gas line is frozen. I think he's likely right, even though the gas tank is nearly full. Of course, he's not due home for several hours, and of course, I don't have any gas line anti-freeze here. I call CAA and I wait. I cancel my lessons. An hour later, I try the car a few more times again with the same results. Thirty minutes after that, the CAA guy arrives. He turns the key. The car reluctantly shudders to life. I use some very un-lady like words to describe the humiliating situation.

How embarrassing. He must think I'm an idiot. He pours a couple of bottles of anti-freeze into the gas tank and tells me to let the car run for a half hour or so. Cheeks red from more than just the cold, I thank him, sign the required papers, and send him on his way.

Tuesday, January 25th
It's a balmy -16 when I force myself from between our warm flannel sheets. With the windchill, the air once again feels like something closer to -25. In the barn, things are much the same as yesterday-- frozen. In the house, I get the same icy greeting from the microwave. This time though, I notice beads of condensation dripping from the bottom. On closer inspection, I see a layer of frost along the metal on the bottom rear of the machine. It rages to life though, much the same as yesterday.

With breakfast finished, I'm thinking ahead to supper. I roast some squash in the oven. An hour later, I see steam rising from the oven vent. This melts the microwave frost and causes more sweating from underneath (the microwave is installed above the stove). I turn on the always-noisy fan. I lift the perfectly caramelized squash from the oven, then I turn the oven off. Or at least I try. It's one of those appliances with perfectly flat, touch-pad-like buttons. But the buttons aren't working, or at least none of the ones on the right hand side are working. The ones on the left, which control the temperature, are working. I turn the stove as low as it allows-- 170. I try the other buttons again-- nothing.

My best guess is that the extreme condensation has fried the wiring-- hopefully temporarily. I turn the fan on "high". Twenty minutes later, the "sweat" has dried. I cross my fingers as I push the button for the timer. It works. Next to it is the "off" button. Unfortunately, there's no reassuring beep when I press it. I wait a few more minutes, then finally, I'm able to turn off the stove. Here's to another day in our arctic paradise.

Houdini's Spirit Lives On

Monday January 17
It's the coldest morning of the winter so far. It's -10 with gusty north-west winds. Fortunately, Dave, who has the day off, agreed to get up and feed the horses before he found out how cold it would be. So, as he dons his long underwear at 8:00am, I wrap myself more tightly in our flannel sheets, luxuriating in the bright sunshine streaming in through our bedroom window.

Dave's outside for about half an hour when I emerge from my cocoon. I look out the window to see the horses munching hay, their warm breaths sending up swirling trails of dragon-like vapour. I think to myself that I should probably put fleece coolers on under their winter rugs overnight-- to give them an extra layer of warmth in our arctic-like barn. As I watch, Dave emerges from the barn pushing an overflowing wheelbarrow. I knock on the window and wave hello, then I shuffle off toward the kitchen to start on breakfast.

With the barn work finished, we dine on french toast slathered in maple syrup tapped from trees somewhere nearby. With my belly full, I glance out at the horses again. I expect to see Murray huddled in the run-in shed, with just his head poking out into the sun. Instead, he's uncharacteristically standing at the fence, facing the house, staring at us as if to get our attention.

Me: "Um, Dave, when you put Murray out, did he have his blanket on?"

Dave: "Did he have a blanket on last night?"

Me: "Yes"

Dave (tinged with sarcasm): "Then he had one on when I put him out this morning."

Dave's right, and I know it. I saw Murray earlier, and he was definitely wearing his heavy, navy winter rug. Now though, he's not. Now, he's naked, and his down-like hair is standing on end, in an effort to keep his Florida-born body warm. Perplexed, Dave and I stare out the window at him for a few more minutes. I reluctantly slip my arms into my winter coat and march in the squeaky, crunchy snow to the paddock to get to the bottom of the mystery.

It takes me a minute or so to spot the upside-down blanket discarded against the side of the fence. It's frozen solid and covered in snow. But it's not torn. The belly straps are still crossed and hooked, as are the hind-leg straps. The buckles at the front are still done up, but the stitching that normally attaches them to the blanket itself has been ripped out. It's exactly the same scenario as when Murray wriggled out of his rainsheet last fall. How does he manage to do it?

I bring Murray inside to be re-dressed. He's shivering slightly, but seems otherwise unscathed from his Houdini-like incident. I don't have another heavy rug for him (Maggie wears his old one), so I put his fleece cooler on under his mid-weight fall blanket. The temperature is supposed to dip to -17 tonight, but he'll just have to make due.

As for the blanket, I don't have sewing needles strong enough to push through the thick, nylon fabric, so I'll have to send it to a local shop for repairs. I know they won't take it if it's dirty, so with difficulty, I shove the heavy, hair-covered rug into our washing-maching. After a good soak, it comes out looking (and smelling) much the same, but I can at least tell them I tried.

A Rollicking Ride in the Snow

Tuesday, January 11
Finally, the sticky, brown mud of the last few months is truly gone, hidden beneath of bed of soft, fluffy snow-- the product of a mild weekend storm. I'm as giddy as a small child as I pull a pair of winter-riding snow-pants over my long underwear. I can't wait to jump aboard Maggie's broad back and go for a brisk ride in the snow.

Maggie seems happy for the attention. She even stands still while I mount, though her elephant-trunk-like lips rip several small branches off our apple tree while I lean over to adjust my bulky pants. After tugging the twigs from Maggie's reluctant jaws, we set off down the hill at a lumbering march.

About halfway down, we meet our neighbour Greg on his four-wheeler, wearing a helmet and insulated green coveralls. He's on his way back from their dairy barn. I ask about his 90 head of cattle, and we chat about the weather. As the minutes tick by, Maggie stands politely, moving only occasionally to shift her weight. What a difference from Murray, whose anxious attitude doesn't lend itself well to mid-ride conversation. I promise Greg that Dave and I will eventually get down for a tour of the farm, then we wave and go our separate ways.

Maggie continues at her meandering pace, until we reach the cattle's marshmallow-like rolls of round hay bales at the bottom of the hill. Then we turn and jog unenthusiastically back toward home. It's a slow, but enjoyable pace. The only sound, other than the crunch of Maggie's bare feet on packed snow, is that of a lonely Murray, beckoning with high-pitched cries from his paddock.

Urged on by Murray's whinnies, Maggie manages a moderate burst of energy and we crest the hill at a full trot. We turn down the driveway and head for the riding ring. I'm not sure what the footing will be like. When I last checked (before our most recent snowfall), the riding ring had a smooth, rink-like quality. I had even considered hauling out my skates, but never got around to it.

Now, it seems that ice is covered by several inches of snow. We're able to trot serpentines and circles without a single slip, but I don't trust the footing enough to chance a canter. Time to explore the fields.

We set off at a trot through foot-high snow. Every so often, we come across drifts that rise as high as Maggie's belly. There's a particularly high and wide drift nearing the crest of a small hill. Maggie has to leap like a dear to get through it, but I think she's finally having fun since I no longer have to thump my legs on her sides to keep her going. Enjoying the moment, I can't wipe the grin off my face.

We turn and do a lap on the level, snow-covered grass outside of the ring. As we canter briskly by, I notice Muscade and Zorro playing in the snow. I laugh out loud as I watch their winter game unfold. Zorro hides behind the mounds of snow piled up by Dave's tractor, then as Muscade approaches (head down, sniffing some unknown scent), he leaps out from his hiding spot and scuttles toward her, back raised and tail up. When Muscade takes notice, he changes course and darts back behind another snow bank. It looks like we're all enjoying the winter wonderland.

I decide to take Maggie for a last loop down through the snowdrifts. Her long, thick, black coat is shiny from sweat, and steam is beginning to rise her from back. She's just getting going though. I actually have to hold her back. But as we round the corner and start back up the hill toward the massive snow-drift, I lean forward and give her her head. Her hind end lowers and chunks of snow fly into the air as she picks up speed. We're through the drift and cresting the hill when she squeals. Uh-oh.

Suddenly, with a toss of her head, Maggie gets carried away in the moment. She whips her body into the air with a violent buck-- this is not the kind of frustrated buck she occasionally tests me with in riding ring. No, this is the joy-filled, lurching, twisting buck I've seen her attempt when running side-by-side with Murray out in the field. It's the kind of buck that has often prompted Dave and I to look at each other and say "man, she has power."

Before her leap into the air, I'm perched, jockey-like on her neck, urging her forward. Now, I try to lean back, but I don't have time to drive my seat completely back into the saddle. I'm tossed around like a rag doll as her ample hind-end launches her 1300 pound body well into the air. My feet slip from the stirrups, and I think to myself that at least the snow will make for a soft landing. Her second buck is thankfully less-enthusiastic, and I do manage to hold on as her hooves sink into the snow and she bolts off at a full-out gallop.

Now, I'm someone who believes in treating horses' mouths with great respect. I generally ride in fat, loose ring snaffles, and I don't believe in using a bit as punishment. That said, I had borrowed a harsher-than-usual corkscrew bit from a friend since Maggie has been a little fresh lately. I wanted to fine-tune her responses before letting Dave on her back again. I used the bit once, and decided it might be too much for her. I had considered taking it off before today's ride. I didn't though, mostly because I was too anxious to get out in the snow, and didn't want to take the time to fiddle with the difficult leather.

I forget about the bit as I struggle to stay in the saddle on the steam-breathing black horse now careening through our snow-covered field. In grave danger of injuring my pride by landing on my butt in the snow, I give a pretty sharp tug on the reins. Maggie, who actually has quite a soft mouth, and who was in the middle of a full gallop stride, comes to an abrupt halt. Insulted by my assault on her tender mouth, she shakes her head savagely from side to side and shifts into temper tantrum mode just as I manage to slip my feet back into my stirrups.

When Maggie has tantrums, she reminds me of the stereotypical terrible two-year-old child-- the one who throws her body on the ground, shakes her head and flails her arms and legs from side to side while screaming at full volume. Only, instead of flailing limbs, Maggie pounds her front and hind feet alternately into the ground in a rocking-horse style rear/ buck, rear/ buck motion. Today she even snorts and squeals in anger as she hops up and down on the spot until I manage an apologetic pat on the neck. Eventually though, all is forgiven, and she settles as we walk through the shimmering, sunlit snow, back to the barn. What a great ride.

And it Begins-- Again

It's been several months since Murray broke out in any odd rashes, or gauged himself on normally harmless items, or found a way to make himself lame. His luck was bound to run out sometime.

Tuesday, January 11
9:30 pm
Dave and I pour up mugs of decaffinated tea and trudge out to the barn for night stables. He re-fills water buckets while I pick manure from the stalls. As I shove the wheelbarrow into Murray's penthouse suite, I notice that something doesn't seem right. His left front leg looks odd. His cannon bone (the large bone which connects his knee to his fetlock/ankle) looks larger than usual.

I bend down to feel it, but Murray backs away. We do an odd dance around his stall until I finally convince him to let me touch his leg (I'm too stubborn to go grab his halter). There's no heat, I can clearly see his tendons, and at first there doesn't seem to be any swelling. Then, I feel the inside of his cannon bone and notice that the area over an old splint (a bony lump on the inside of his cannon bone) is a bit soft. That explains it.

The splint itself doesn't generally bother Murray, but because it's on the inside of his cannon bone, and because Murray has a tendency to whack himself with his opposite front leg, it does sometimes tend to become irritated, causing new bone growth to form, which in turn makes the splint larger, and which in turn makes it more likely that Murray will hit it again. I'm not to worried though. This cycle has been repeating itself for about five years now, and it generally doesn't cause any lameness.

Wednesday, January 12
7:45am
It's a beautiful, but eery morning. A blizzard is set to blow in later this afternoon; but for now, the air is still, and a curtain of thick grey fog makes the landscape look like something out of a black and white movie. Sepia grasses poking up through a blanket of snow are tipped with silver frost, as are the black fence rails. It's a great day for a ride, and as I dump Murray's grain into his bucket, I remind him that we're going for a romp in the snow before the bad weather hits. I've completely forgotten the bit of swelling I noticed in his leg last night.


I go about my morning chores as the horses crunch their pelletted feed. I'm partly done mucking Murray's stall when I notice his leg-- again. Uh-oh. Eleven hours later, and it's clear the splint is not the problem. No, while there is some tenderness on that splint, it's clear the real problem is on the outside of his leg, in his tendons. The swelling starts just below the knee and goes all the way to his fetlock. It's at its thickest about halfway down the lower portion of his leg. I'm hoping it's just a strain and not a bowed tendon, but with Murray's luck it's hard to say. I guess it's time to dust off the old ice packs and dig out the bottle of bute. And I guess Maggie will get a workout in the snow for the second day in a row.

The Tale of the Disappearing Horse

January 10, 2011
8:20 pm
I'm on my way home from teaching riding lessons outside of Halifax. I call Dave to let him know, and to check and see how the horses and other "kids" are doing.

Me: "How are the horses?"

Dave: "They're fine."

Me: "They didn't give you any trouble coming in?"

Dave: "No. They behaved themselves." pause. "I hope I closed their stall doors".

Me: laughing, "Yeah, me too." My turn to pause. "You did close their doors, right?"

Dave: "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I did. Oh, hey, when I finished in the barn I went out on the tractor to widen the path and move some more snow around."

I notice that Dave has deftly changed the topic of conversation. I wonder about the stall doors, but I don't dwell on it. I'm sure he must have closed the stall doors, and if he thinks there's any chance he didn't, surely he'll go check. Right?

We hang up the phone and I settle-in behind the steering wheel for the rest of the hour-long drive to our rural piece of heaven.

As I finally pull onto our snow-covered road, my mind replays my earlier conversation with Dave. Just in case, I drive slowly and cautiously. I scan the ditches and alder patches for any sign of blanketed, four-legged animals, accidentally liberated by a tired, distracted husband. No such figures are illuminated by my high-beam headlights.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I roll into the driveway. The big barn door is closed, so even if anyone escaped (which I'm sure they didn't because I'm sure Dave would have double checked), they'd at least be corralled by the cinder-block walls.

It's about 20 after 9 now-- time to do night stables. I'm already in barn clothes, so I opt to check on the horses before going into the house. As usual, Zorro hears my boots crunching in the snow and leaps through his cat door to escort me into the feed room. I see Dave's left the light on. I remind myself to lecture him about the cost of electricity later. In the feed room, I take a moment to scratch Zorro's chin and pat his back, before making my way into the barn itself. Then, I flick on the lights and turn toward the horses' stalls.

Maggie, as usual, stretches her head out over her door and nods it in my direction in a plea for more food. Her door is closed and solidly latched. Murray, however, hasn't offered a greeting. I look to his stall to see the door pulled wide-open. His pile of hay is mostly untouched, and at first glance, there's no sign of him at all.

Now, Murray can be difficult, if not impossible to catch; but, he's not a wanderer at heart. He's simply not brave enough to go exploring on his own. As far as I know, the only time he ever "escaped" from his stall in the night was at Equidae stables in Halifax. The caretaker, Karen, lived in an apartment above the barn. At 1am, she woke to hear the clink of metal horse shoes on the cement floor. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, and navigated the dark steps down to the barn. When she got there, she found Murray standing outside his stall, a look of worry and concern on his face. The door to his stall was closed. As Karen opened it, he dashed back inside, clearly relieved to be "home". As far as we can tell, his sly, 22 year old, appaloosa neighbour had reached over and unlatched Murray's door. Murray seized the opportunity and headed toward freedom, but then, as the door slammed closed behind him, had second thoughts. There were no signs that he'd strayed more than a foot or two from his stall.


With that story in mind, I'm surprised that I don't see Murray behind his open door. So, I look down the isle to my left, toward the extra stalls. Still no sign of him, and no signs that anything has been disturbed. Then, I hear movement so I turn and take a few steps toward his open door. That's when I see him. I should have known.

He's standing at the back of his stall, his hindquarters pressed against the exterior wall, with his shoulders and ribs practically leaning on the dividing wall between his stall and Maggie's. He's hiding. It's a trick he mastered years ago, and has managed to replicate at every barn he's been at. He instinctively seems to know which area of his stall is least visible from the outside. He flattens himself against the wall in that area, and takes a nap. This habit of hiding in the shadows has caused many a stable manager to do a panicked double take when confronted with what, on first glance, appears to be an empty stall. It's amazing that a 12 hundred pound animal can manage to hide himself so completely.

I call Murray's name and he steps forward sleepily, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his door has been wide open for the past two hours. He drowsily meanders toward the uneaten mound of hay, and shoves his muzzle amongst the grassy forage.

I shake my head at Dave. I can't believe he left Murray's door open-- wide open. At least there was no harm done--this time. If it had been Maggie, it would be a whole different story. Hay would be spread across the isles, crossties would be pulled from the walls, and the barn in general would like a disaster zone.

November Rain Brings Hay Pain

When it comes to the horses, hay is our biggest expense and I spent hours and hours searching the countryside for the best quality bales I could find. It wasn't fun, and I accidentally offended a local Mennonite farmer in the process. Finally though, I found exactly the kind of nutritious, fine, soft hay that Murray needs to keep his weight up and his lungs clear. Only now, I'm watching hundreds of dollars worth of hay morph into moldy, dusty, useless lumps...and there's nothing I can do about it.

Late July
It's a warm Saturday afternoon day when our first load of hay arrives. It's first-cut. It's very good quality, but it's coarse, and it has a fairly low protein content. It's exactly the kind of hay that would cause Murray to turn up his nose. However, it's perfect for Maggie, an overweight mare who eat absolutely anything. Unfortunately, I'm at work, so it's up to Dave to hoist the bales from our bright yellow hay conveyor. When I get home, I assess his work, and I'm impressed. Two hundred and fifty bales are stacked neatly in the back portion of the loft.

Late August
The call comes that the second load of hay is ready for delivery. This is the expensive hay-- Murray's hay. It's second-cut, high in protein, bright-green, sweet-smelling, and very fine and soft. Unfortunately, Dave and I are in Newfoundland. We can't be there to accept the load. So, our horse/house-sitter kindly offers to offload the hay for us... with the help of her friend who's visiting from Germany (some vacation).

I feel for them. Loading hay is hard work in any weather, but this is the hottest week of the summer in Nova Scotia. Daytime temperatures are in the low to mid 30's. Nights are just as warm. Humidity is through the roof.

The hay arrives on a sunny, sticky weekday afternoon. We thought the loft would be able to hold all the hay. At most, we figured the last few bales could be stored in a spare stall next to Murray. But the girls filled the loft and there were still many bales left on the truck. The girls filled the spare stall to the rafters. Still there were more bales to offload. They had no other choice but to put some of the hay in one of the newer stalls-- a stall with cinder block walls. A stall which oozes with mold-inducing moisture anytime it's rainy or humid. The girls did everything right. They stacked the hay neatly and they kept the doors and windows open for ventilation.

By the time I got home though, and by the time hurricane Earl whipped up the winds and brought still more humidity to the air, several of the cinder block-stall bales were starting to turn black and moldy. Dave and I moved a few things around and hoisted as many bales as we could from the stall up to the loft. We lost about two dozen bales, but we weren't overly concerned-- especially when we found out that our hay suppliers had sold us 120 more bales than we'd planned to buy (no wonder they wouldn't all fit in the loft). The rest of the hay looked great. And it continued to look great until about two days ago.

Early November
With the exception of two days last week, It's been raining steadily for the past two weeks. During that time, we've had close to 300mm of rain. On top of that, the temperatures have been unseasonably warm, and even when drops of water aren't falling pounding down from the sky in the form of rain, they're sitting heavily in the air causing everything to become sticky and wet. The high humidity is exaggerated in the barn where moisture oozes through the relatively new cinder block walls, and drips from the corrugated plastic roof over Murray and Maggie's heads. Nothing in the barn seems to stay dry in this weather.

Despite the moisture in the barn, the hayloft above (with its wooden floors and walls) stays much dryer. It also has very good ventilation in the form of spinning roof vents. Even so, I check the hay regularly, for signs of mold. All was fine until two days ago.

Two days ago I went into the loft to throw down some more bales of Maggie's hay. I picked up a bale and noticed tiny white spores on several of the stalks-- mold. I reached for another bale and yanked it to the floor. It fell with a thud and a cloud of white dust rose around it-- mold. I started checking more and more bales and I started finding more and more mold. My stomach sank. I tossed several bad bales down the chute-- destined for the manure pile. But how many more are up there? There's no way to know.

I hoped at first that the problem was confined to Maggie's hay, but as I delved further into the neatly stacked pile, I found a few of the once rich, soft, sweet-smelling, expensive Murray bales also covered in tiny, sour-smelling white spores. My hay is going bad and I don't know what to do. Because we accidentally bought extra hay, we have a cushion. But it's only November, and I don't know whether that cushion will fill Murray and Maggie's bellies until next July.

Food Fight

Murray eats a lot of grain. Well, I give him a lot of grain, how much he actually eats is debatable. Anyone who's watched him dig-in to his dinner knows that much of feed ends up on the ground. It gets there in one of two ways:

First, Murray is fussy. He gets a variety of grains-- high fat/high fibre pellets to keep his weight up, beet pulp to keep his weight up, sweet feed to make it all more appetizing, plus a vitamin supplement, a hoof supplement, corn oil and a dollop of molasses. Murray likes some aspects of his meal better than others. So, he sifts through his feed and eats his favourite parts first. This process of selection generally entails him tossing half his grain on the ground.

Secondly, Murray's mom must never have told him not to chew with his mouth open. Unlike most horses, when Murray's eating, food is not the only thing on his mind. He tends to want to look out the window, to check on Maggie, to see what we're doing. This means he snatches a few bites of grain, then lifts his head from his tub to look around. Sometimes he'll even walk around his stall with his mouth full. Inevitably, as he chews, much of what's in his mouth falls on the ground and ends up scattered amongst his bedding. And yes, he does have his teeth checked regularly-- there's nothing wrong with them, he's just sloppy.

Sunday July 10th
7pm
Tonight, Dave offers to feed the horses while I muck the stalls. I happen to be in Murray's stall when Dave brings in his prepared buckets of grain. He empties the buckets into the narrow tub in the corner of Murray's stall-- the less-appealing beet pulp first, then grain on top.
As I empty a pitchfork full of manure into the wheelbarrow, I hear Dave exclaim: "Wow, that's a huge mouthful of grain". I turn to see what he's talking about. I miss Murray's "big bite", but what I see next makes me double over with laughter.

Dave is standing to the left of Murray, about a foot from his neck. He's still holding the empty buckets out in front of him. He leans forward and peers into Murray's feed tub. Murray, clearly unhappy with what's at the top of his pile of grain, shoves his head in his bucket up to his eyeballs. He tilts his nose to the right, then violently shoves it back to the left. Grain, and wet beet pulp, fly through the air. Some of it lands directly on Dave, but most miraculously manages to fall into the buckets in his outstretched arms.

Two stalls over, Maggie is startled by my screech of laughter. She lets out a high-pitched shriek of her own. That, in turn, distracts Murray and his head, complete with a mouth stuffed with grain, shoots up out of his tub. He turns to the left to see what's happening. Forgetting his food, his jaws go slack, and without missing a beat, Dave reaches out with his bucket to catch the grain falling from Murray's overflowing muzzle. I am now laughing so hard that I have to lean on my pitchfork for support.

During the rest of Murray's meal, Dave stands in his stall. Every time Murray lifts his head, Dave follows his movement with his bucket, and manages to catch most of the falling feed. When Murray's just about finished, Dave empties his buckets back into his feed tub. It's probably the closest Murray has ever come to actually eating an entire meal.

When the Cows Come Home

The horses got their first glimpse of the neighbour's cows earlier this spring. It was about mid-May when the black and white "ladies" of milk were turned loose into the pastures at the bottom of the hill.

Maggie was the first to make their acquaintance. We were riding down the hill one day when she spotted them grazing in a lush pasture on the right hand side of the road. She stopped in her tracks and stared. Then, unprompted, she started trotting toward them. I like that Maggie is generally more curious than frightened, so I let her have her way and she barrelled on.

Unfortunately, the cows were less curious and more frightened. When they saw this lumbering black beast heading toward their pasture, the whole herd turned tail and ran, udders swaying awkwardly between hobbling hind legs. Maggie, utterly dejected, stared after them until they all disappeared behind the barn's sloping green walls.

The roles were reversed during Murray's first encounter. His ever-searching, high-alert eyes spotted the mottled coats of the cows through the trees when we were still several hundred metres away. He tried to turn around. I gently guided him forward. He warily continued, and skittered sideways when a cow rounded a corner and seemingly materialized out of nowhere. Again, Murray swung his gumbi-like neck around in an attempt to go home.

The cows, however, were divided in their response to him. Several leaped up from their mid-morning slumbers and cantered awkwardly toward the barn. Others merely turned their heads, flicked their tails, and kept right on chewing their cud. Two or three of the animals even ambled bravely toward us.

Murray wanted none of their friendly advances. His nostrils flared, his knees trembled and I decided this was enough bovine exposure for one day. I made him walk a few more steps forward then purposefully turned him toward home, leaving the cows to feel the sting of rejection this time.

After a few similar encounters, the horses and cows stopped paying as much attention to one another. But today the animals took each other by surprise once again.

9:00am
I'm currying the loose hair and dirt from Maggie's coat when I notice Murray outside, staring across the road. I suspect a deer might be passing through, but when I pop my head out, I don't see anything. Moments later, Murray barges into his stall, turns around and cranes his neck cautiously out the open door. He reminds me of a nervous child, peeking from behind his mother's skirts. As I scrape the dirt from Maggie's hooves, Murray darts back out through his door, and stares, statue-like again across the road. I take another look myself, but again see nothing. This routine, with Murray flitting in and out anxiously continues the entire time I have Maggie on the cross-ties. His pacing drives me nuts, but I leave him to it as I lead Maggie out of the barn for our morning ride.

The instant Maggie crosses the threshold, she freezes and her head snaps up. Now that we're outside, I can see what was out of my view before. It's the cows. They've been let loose in the field directly across the street from the house. Maggie lets out a loud snort, forgets that I'm holding her, and makes a beeline for the herd.

I give her a tug on the reins, and a shove on the chest to remind her that she's not to use her 1250 pound self as a battering ram against her owner. I turn her away from the cows, and march her toward the ring for our workout. Every few feet, she swings her head around to try and catch another glimpse of the grazing cattle.

After an unproductive 20 minutes, I decide to let Maggie have her way and we head back up to the road. As we stroll by the barn, I see that Murray is still doing his in-out routine, though his intervals outside seem to be lasting longer and longer.

Maggie's eyes are glued to the herd of 35 cows grazing oh-so-close to our house. She's anxious to get closer, but this time I make sure she takes it slow. The "ladies" seem to interpret her more leisurely advances positively this time. No one takes off in the opposite direction and three boldly make their way toward us. As they reach the fence, they lift their heads and sniff the air with their wet noses.

All that separates the species now is a water-filled, grassy ditch and a few strands of barbed-wire fencing. Maggie pulls on the reins in an attempt to get even closer, but I'd rather not negotiate the ditch today. Instead, I let her stand there watching in awe. Several minutes pass. The calm gawking continues, but I've got work to do, so I turn a reluctant Maggie back toward the barn.

I briefly consider taking Murray out for a closer look too, in hopes that it might ease his anxiety. But I know Murray too well. He's not one to mingle. So I leave him to his peek-a-boo routine, which will likely continue until he's satisfied they're not a threat.

Besieged by Buttercups

The rich hues of green in our pastures are accented by yellow dots of colour. Buttercups. Their bright, upturned faces bring back memories of childhood-- times when we'd hold the flowers beneath our chins to find out whether we liked butter. Unfortunately, buttercups are toxic to horses.


Monday, June 7
It's about 8:30 in the morning. News of the latest shootings, stabbings and car accidents is blaring from the decades-old ghetto blaster in the barn. Maggie is already outside. Murray's about to join her, but when I look at the caked mud on his neck and legs, I feel guilty. I decide to give him a quick grooming before sending him out to "his girl".

Even Murray's face is masked by a layer of thick, brown, dried mud. I attack his broad cheek with my brush and as copper-coloured hairs slowly emerge from beneath the grime, I notice something odd. A four inch long section of his cheek is puffed out. It's an uneven, jagged-edged welt. I poke at it. He doesn't flinch, there's no pain. I wonder about it, but continue my grooming job.

I move to his right side and lift the edge of his fly sheet to get at the mud he managed to grind into his belly. There's another welt, only this one is about a foot long and it stretches back across his ribs. I take off his sheet for a closer look. Most of his body is fine, but the length of his belly is covered in these large, swollen patches of skin which look like maps to some unkown land.

Murray has sensitive skin and is prone to skin allergies. I think back to the past few days. He hasn't eaten anything unusual. He hasn't had a bath, or been exposed to any strange chemicals. It's not his fly-sheet because the area covered by that is fine. The only difference in his routine is that we rotated him and Maggie to the larger of the grass pastures. They spent three hours a day there for the past two days. That's when it dawns on me. The buttercups. Out in the pasture, Murray positioned himself the midst of belly-high patches of rain-soaked buttercups. He didn't eat them (they're quite bitter and will burn and blister their mouths), but he greedily shoved his face in and ate around them.


Since Murray seems to be suffering no other ill-effects, I put him out (NOT in the grass pasture) and come inside to google some answers. It turns out that buttercups are toxic not only when eaten, but their stems also excrete an oily toxin which can irritate the skin of horses and humans.

I check Maggie for any similar ill-effects. She is unscathed, not surprising since she has coarse hair and tough skin. Murray has fine, baby-like hair and extremely sensitive, thin skin. I keep the horses off the pasture. Within 24 hours, Murray's welts have faded to barely visible lumps. I will put them back on the pasture again, but I'll check Murray daily for any kind of reaction. Now, if anyone has any suggestions as to how to rid acres of pasture of thousands of buttercups, I'll be more than willing to listen.

Murray's Misstep

Dear Municipality of East Hants,
Last week, I looked out my window and was delighted to see your yellow and brown trucks moving slowly along our pot-hole-filled road. You were finally grading it. However, in future, could you please use something other than seemingly unscreened fill consisting primarily of 2-3 inch long, sharp rocks?
Sincerely yours,
East Gore Resident,
Melissa Friedman

Saturday, June 5th, 2010
This morning was one of those mornings that makes a person want to get out of bed early. Outside, a mist-like fog lingered over the paddocks, clinging to green blades of horse-mowed grass. But even as I watched, the sun began to burn its way through, pulling the fog up off the ground and lifting it into the trees. It was the perfect morning to take in the view from the back of a horse.

Dave and I had both ridden Maggie the day before, but Murray had had the day off, so I chose him as my beast of burden. We've had days of deluge, so the footing in the ring was too soft for Murray's sensitive suspensories. It seemed like the perfect morning for a ride down the road anyway, so we left the driveway and pointed our noses down the hill toward the dairy farm.

The road was graded about a week ago. Since then, I've avoided taking Maggie on hacks. The new surface is riddled with large, sharp rocks, which leave her barefoot-hooves tender and bruised. Murray, however, has shoes and he has been able to walk, trot, and canter on the road without any problem whatsoever.

As we get closer to the dairy farm, the mist finally loses its battle with the sun and disperses into the hot, humid air. At the foot of the hill, two black and white dairy cows eye us warily as we walk past their lush pasture. Murray returns their stares with equal suspicion. But both the cows and Murray are too preoccupied with soaking up teh warmth of the sun to act on their mutual unease. We continue our leisurely stroll until we reach the intersection with the main road. Then, Murray and I lazily turn around. It's a picture-perfect morning, and Murray obligingly allows me to drop the reins long enough to snap a few quick shots.



We reach the base of the hill and as we begin to climb, Murray moves into a trot. He takes two enthusiastic steps, then in typical Murray form, trips over his right toe. As he recovers, his head bobs up and down, and I can tell by his awkward, uneven gait that he's limping. I immediately bring him back to walk and continue on for a few more steps. At first I figure he's just stung himself, much like stubbing one's toe, and that he'll soon be fine. But the lurch in his step continues.

I hop off and look down. Murray is bending his left knee and holding his left hoof pathetically off the ground-- the one that caught all his weight as he tripped. My first thought is that he's torn a tendon or ligament. But then I take a closer look at the hoof itself. There are a few dots of blood on the hard sole, and amidst the blood there's a thin gash about a 1/2 centimetre long. It looks much like a typical paper cut, only no paper could penetrate the tough substance which makes up his sole. A deep purple bruise is already forming around the cut. It seems that in trying to stay on his feet, Murray put his hoof down on a sharp rock. Well, so much for a perfect morning.

I pull the reins over Murray's head and lead my limping horse up the hill. Either this hill really is steeper than it looks, or I'm out of shape. I'm huffing and puffing by the time I reach the top.

Inside the barn, I dig through my well-stocked first aid kit for the necessary supplies. Same-old, same-old for Murray, only this time, I'm trading-in the ice packs for Epsom salts and hot water.