Turn-out Rituals

Scenario 1: I turn Murray out first in the morning: He skittishly prances alongside of me as we head to the pastures. Once there, I stand on my tip-toes trying to lift the crown-piece of his halter over his head which is raised, giraffe-like, to its highest height, scanning the horizon for early-morning bogeymen. With the halter half-off, he jumps in fright at some invisible monster, slipping out of the halter, and smacking me in the head with his chin.

I leave to go get Maggie. Murray, tail raised, neck still held high, runs back and forth along the fence-line. His nostrils flare and vibrate as an anguished high-pitched, trumpet-like cry is released from his trembling frame. Maggie may or may not return the call.

I reach Maggie's stall. The trumpet-like cries continue from outside, accompanied by the drum-like beat of hooves pounding their way across the frozen ground. Maggie leisurely walks beside me toward the gate.

Murray's loud calls become whisper-like, eager nickers. His ears are pricked and his legs tremble as he waits for his companion to be released into the field. The moment I slide the halter from Maggie's obliging head, Murray pins his ears, bares his teeth, chases Maggie to her appointed position in the pasture, and swaggers away to eat hay from his chosen pile.

Scenario 2: I turn Maggie out first. Maggie lumbers along beside me as we make our way to the pasture gate. She occasionally stretches her lips, and by extension her neck, to grasp at stray pieces of grass. I slip off her halter. She meanders from hay pile to hay pile, then returns to the fence to wait for Murray to select one for her.

In the meantime, Murray whinnies anxiously from the barn. The swish of sawdust between his never-still hooves can be heard even from outside as he spins frantically in his stall. I crack open his stall door and he absently shoves his head through the opening, allowing me one brief chance to throw the halter over his head before he attempts to blast through the door. I push him back, yell at him, demand that he behave, and he sulkily relents, walking calmly (relatively speaking) beside me. I cannot, however, manage to silence his tortured whinny.

We round the corner toward the pasture. He and Maggie lock eyes. She stands at the fence defeated, accepting of her role as the bully's subservient best friend/accomplice. I lead Murray through the gate, I stand on my tiptoes trying to lift the halter off his fully extended giraffe-like neck. He loses patience and yanks himself toward Maggie, ducking his head out of the halter, which flies through the air and smacks me in the head.

Murray ushers Maggie to her allotted hay pile (or sometimes to a desolate corner away from all hay piles), turns his back on her and begins to munch contentedly-- periodically shaking his head toward his black mare should she dare step from her designated location.

Jealousy

Friday, March 12, 2010

Murray's on vacation because of his leg, but Maggie still has to punch the clock.

I decide again to groom Maggie out in the pasture so we can both bask in the sunshine. I grab her halter, and her grooming kit (sans leather gloves), and make my way across the pasture to where she and Murray are picking at grass. I try and give Murray a quick pat, but he eyes me suspiciously, and when he sees the grooming kit with it's potentially horse-eating utensils inside, he moves off in the other direction. I put the kit down, and make one more attempt to get close. Nope, he's in a don't-catch-me mood. Well, that's just fine with me, I have another horse to work with.

Maggie turns her head to sniff me as I approach. She wriggles her monstrous muzzle accross my vest in search of treats. Realizing that I've come empty-handed, she returns to her patch of grass, while I brush her coat. I glance behind me and notice that Murray is scruitinizing us. I move to the other side of Maggie, and as I do, Murray's look becomes an intense glare, and he pins his ears and bares his teeth in an effort to scare Maggie away. I yell his name and move around to the side closest to him, and suddenly his glare turns to a look of complete innocence. This happens several more times--when I'm between him and Maggie, he's fine, as soon as her lumbering body is between Murray and me, he lunges toward her.

I suddenly recognize this game. It's the same one he plays with the dog. Murray tolerates Muscade so long as he thinks I'm watching. He'll stretch his nose out to her with his ears up, and he'll even let her lie in his hay. The moment my back's turned, however, he threatens to bite or kick, or stomp on her. When I turn back around, his expression instantly morphs into one of sublime innocence. He's the equine equivalent of Jeckel and Hyde.

Murray is jealous, it's as simple as that. The only thing I'm unsure of this time is whether he's jealous of Maggie for hogging my attention, or whether he's jealous of me for turning her attention away from him. I try to appease him by making another attempt to reach out and scratch him, but he's having none-of-that. He moves deftly out of my reach, and turns his back on both of us. What a sulky old curmudgeon.

I'm somewhat offended by this slight, but at the same time I can't help but laugh. The image that sticks in my mind is one of Murray as a schoolyard bully. He tries so hard to act like a tough guy who doesn't want friendship or love, but then he's jealous when he's left out of the activities around him.