Monday, April 12, 2010
5:45am
I last checked on Maggie sometime around Midnight. I iced her legs one more time, then poulticed and bandaged them for the night. I considered spending the night in the barn with her, but was worried she might be more stressed and less likely to relax with me there.
I'm anxious to get to the barn, but I'm also afraid. All kind of scenarios have invaded my head: Maggie always lays down at night, but what if she did, and couldn't get back up because of the pain in her legs, or abdomen? What if she has punctured a bowel and has been shivering and thrashing in extreme pain for the last few hours? What if, what if?
The blackness of the night is just beginning to ease as I shakily make my way to the barn. I step through the door, into the feedroom. There are no noises from the stalls beyond. Normally in the morning, the horses are banging on their doors, demanding to be fed. Not this morning-- then again, I'm about 2 hours ahead of schedule. I walk into the isle way and flick the light switch. The bulb takes a few seconds to reach its full intensity, but I can make out the outline of Maggie's hind end in her stall, so I know she's on her feet. Blinking, she swings her head toward me then slowly shuffles around until she's facing the door. She looks ok, groggy, but no signs of extreme distress.
Her hind legs have that swollen, stove-pipe look to them-- right from stifle to hoof. I palpate her belly. There's definite bruising, but nothing that leads me to believe there's internal damage (not that I'm 100 percent sure what to look for). I move onto her gums. They're back to their normal colour (they were quite pale last night), and there are no signs of the "muddy purple" that would mean she's heading for septic shock. She didn't drink much overnight, but then she rarely does.
I take off her bandages, re-wrap her legs with ice packs, and give her a light breakfast. She's still scarfing down her hay. That's a good sign. When she's finished, I take her outside to cold hose her legs. Leaving the stall is a slow process. She takes tiny, hesitant, painful steps, but the more she walks, the easier it seems to get. Murray whinnies to her from his stall. She doesn't answer. I let ice-cold water splash over her legs for 5-10 minutes. With her legs numbed by the cold, I lead her for a short walk down the gravel path behind the house. She balks a bit as we pass by the twisted metal gate, it's top wrung still smeared with her blood.
I give Maggie more bute, and turn her out alone in a small, sunlit paddock behind the barn. A worried Murray is close at hand on the other side of the fence. He reaches out to her and they nuzzle briefly before Maggie shuffles stiffly toward to a patch of grass. I call the vet and wait to hear back so we can arrange a tetanus shot and some antibiotics.
Showing posts with label city limits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label city limits. Show all posts
Monday, April 12, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Not a Good Day
I just experienced the most frightening, traumatic event of my life.
I always expect Murray to find a way to do something stupid. But never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be Maggie who would send me running with weak knees to phone the vet...or anyone, anyone who might be able to help.
It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd headed for the wooden fence rails, but I have no idea what compelled my sweet, sensible Maggie to try and jump the five foot high metal gate to her paddock. No idea at all.
Sunday, April 11, 6:30 pm
I don't normally bring the horses in until between 7 and 7:30pm, but despite the bright sunshine beaming down on our hilltop stable, there's a sharp cold wind that chills to the bone, so I decide to tuck the horses in a bit early.
On my way to the barn, I see the horses standing contentedly in the pasture, leisurely tugging at fresh stalks of green grass.
Before I bring them in, I head to Maggie's stall to sweep up her bedding, and toss in a flake of hay. A movement outside her stall window catches my eye. I look out. I see Maggie galloping across the paddock, and Murray dancing sideways in his nervous, spooky way. The rest still seems surreal. Maggie is flying flat-out, toward the gate. She has, in the past, galloped to the gate and come to a sliding stop, but this time, she's not slowing down, she's speeding up. She launches herself awkwardly over the gate.
Maggie's over-weight, un-athletic body can't keep up with her enthusiastic spirit. Her front legs mostly clear the gate, but she doesn't have enough power to lift her hind-end up and over. There's a heart-stopping crash, then the sound of splintering wood as the fence rails beside the gate shatter like glass. Unfortunately, the gate itself, while slightly askew, holds fast. I run. I swear at the top of my lungs and I run.
It seems like ages, but I know it's only seconds until I make it to her side at the paddock. I'm horrified by what I see. Maggie is like a teeter totter balancing on the metal gate. Her head is down, nostrils flared, gasping for air. Her front toes just, and only just, touch the ground. Her entire hind end is suspended in the air, held in place by the metal gate which has wedged itself firmly at the back of her belly, in front of her stifles. One hind leg is dangling loose, the other is caught in the fence boards that meet the gate at a 90 degree angle.
I try and unhook the chain on the gate, but Maggie is directly on top of it. All her weight is pressing down on the gate, making it difficult for her to breathe, and making it impossible for me to loosen the chain. To make things worse, she starts thrashing around whenever I try and reach for it. I put my hand on her side, try telling her to whoa, to stay still, but she turns her head and punches me violently in my side with her muzzle. She does this again and again, trying to prod me into action, but I'm helpless. I'm home alone. I have no close neighbours, and there's nothing, nothing I can do.
I always think of myself as someone who stays calm under pressure, the kind of person who can take over in an emergency. I've held tourniquets against horses' blood-spurting arteries while waiting for the vet. I've stroked horses necks as they were given their final lethal injections. But these were never my horses, and I was never in a situation like this.
I try to lift the gate off its hinges, but it's bent, and with Maggie's 1250 lbs on top of it, I know it's impossible anyway. I kick at the fence post, but it's firmly planted in the ground. Helpless, I leave her. I turn my back on her and I run away. I look in Dave's workshop for something heavy, something I can use to bash at the post until the whole thing tumbles down. All I can find is a metal shovel and a pick-axe. I know they're not going to work. Not in time.
I remember that our one neighbour, the dairy farming family living 400 metres down the road gave me their phone number the other day. I run inside my house, I desperately dial their number, hoping that the men will have some kind of equipment, or at least enough brute strength to knock down the gate. Their phone rings. There's no answer, and I remember that they were going to a church supper tonight. I glance out the window. Maggie's still hanging, struggling, gasping. I'm truly panicking now. My legs are weak, my arms are shaking. The tears are rolling down my cheeks. I'm convinced I'm going to watch my sweet girl slowly die a painful death.
Dave is an hour away, about to pilot a plane into the air with his instructor in toe. I call him anyway, even though I know there's nothing he can do. I get his voicemail. Desperate, I grab the pick-axe and the shovel and run, trembling and still swearing back to where Maggie is dangling. I try the gate again, it's no use. I try shaking and pushing the post. It won't budge. Maggie starts flailing frantically. Her right hind leg splinters what's left of the wooden rail running perpendicular to the fence. Somehow in her desperation (perhaps it's that last kick at the fence rail), she manages to get a bit of leverage. Her front feet are fully on the ground now, and using her own brute strength, she kicks, wiggles, flails and heaves her body until she's up, over and off the gate.
I'm overcome with relief; but I'm still incredibly worried. Maggie sways and wobbles her way into the open gate of the neighbouring pasture. The one that leads to her stall door (which is closed). Her eyes are glassy, her head is down, her breathing laboured. She's clearly in shock. I run and grab her halter. I put it over her head, but I can't take her inside.
Murray is still in the paddock. Poor Murray-- who turns 22 today-- has been dancing, spinning, nickering, and fretting this whole time. His eyes are wide, his tail is up, and he's clearly frightened. The further away Maggie wanders, the more stressed he becomes. He wants to be out of the paddock. He wants to be close to Maggie, but he's too spooked to let me near him. I can't leave him. The fence is broken, the gate is twisted and bent. In his adrenalin-hyped state, he's likely to do exactly what Maggie did. He's far more likely to succeed, but I'm not about to take that chance.
I plead with him, "please, please let me catch you. I need to help Maggie". But it does no good. I try to calm myself and talk with him casually, but he can sense my panic too, and he dodges me and tries to shove his way through the slightly open gate. I yell at him and he backs off. I need to get to Maggie, so I take a chance. I wrestle the mangled gate open wide enough to allow him to go through, and I run to grab Maggie. Murray blasts through the gate and heads to the front of the barn. He prances nervously until I bring Maggie through the door, then he follows us in, and runs to his stall. Thank you Murray. I'm not sure what I would have done if he'd decided to head for the road or the woods instead.
I give Maggie a quick look-over--there is no spurting blood, no severed arteries, many scrapes and cuts though, and they're already starting to swell. I cover her with a cooler to help control her shock, and I call the vet. The trouble with this is that I haven't yet found a vet. Several names have been suggested to me though, so I scroll through the phone book (still in a panic), and call the first name I come to that I actually recognize.
The vet on-call is in Truro. I tell him what happened, I tell him I'm most worried about possible internal damage. He kindly tells me that if she's ruptured her spleen or kidney or bowel, there's nothing that can be done for her, so there's not much point in him coming out to check on her. He suggests I give her bute (anti-inflammatory), hose and ice her legs, keep a very good eye on her, and get a tetanus shot and some antibiotics for her in the morning. I would have liked to have a vet look at her, just to make me feel better, but he's right, I can handle the external damage to her legs, and the internal, well, we just have to hope there isn't any.
11:57 pm
I've hosed Maggie's stifles twice. I've iced her lower legs twice. There's so much heat and swelling that the ice melts, and the packs turn warm within minutes. Happily though, Maggie hasn't lost her appetite. She's not too keen on the bran mash (which is laced with bute), but she's eating her hay with her usual gusto. Now I just wish she'd drink some water.
I always expect Murray to find a way to do something stupid. But never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be Maggie who would send me running with weak knees to phone the vet...or anyone, anyone who might be able to help.
It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd headed for the wooden fence rails, but I have no idea what compelled my sweet, sensible Maggie to try and jump the five foot high metal gate to her paddock. No idea at all.
Sunday, April 11, 6:30 pm
I don't normally bring the horses in until between 7 and 7:30pm, but despite the bright sunshine beaming down on our hilltop stable, there's a sharp cold wind that chills to the bone, so I decide to tuck the horses in a bit early.
On my way to the barn, I see the horses standing contentedly in the pasture, leisurely tugging at fresh stalks of green grass.
Before I bring them in, I head to Maggie's stall to sweep up her bedding, and toss in a flake of hay. A movement outside her stall window catches my eye. I look out. I see Maggie galloping across the paddock, and Murray dancing sideways in his nervous, spooky way. The rest still seems surreal. Maggie is flying flat-out, toward the gate. She has, in the past, galloped to the gate and come to a sliding stop, but this time, she's not slowing down, she's speeding up. She launches herself awkwardly over the gate.
Maggie's over-weight, un-athletic body can't keep up with her enthusiastic spirit. Her front legs mostly clear the gate, but she doesn't have enough power to lift her hind-end up and over. There's a heart-stopping crash, then the sound of splintering wood as the fence rails beside the gate shatter like glass. Unfortunately, the gate itself, while slightly askew, holds fast. I run. I swear at the top of my lungs and I run.
It seems like ages, but I know it's only seconds until I make it to her side at the paddock. I'm horrified by what I see. Maggie is like a teeter totter balancing on the metal gate. Her head is down, nostrils flared, gasping for air. Her front toes just, and only just, touch the ground. Her entire hind end is suspended in the air, held in place by the metal gate which has wedged itself firmly at the back of her belly, in front of her stifles. One hind leg is dangling loose, the other is caught in the fence boards that meet the gate at a 90 degree angle.
I try and unhook the chain on the gate, but Maggie is directly on top of it. All her weight is pressing down on the gate, making it difficult for her to breathe, and making it impossible for me to loosen the chain. To make things worse, she starts thrashing around whenever I try and reach for it. I put my hand on her side, try telling her to whoa, to stay still, but she turns her head and punches me violently in my side with her muzzle. She does this again and again, trying to prod me into action, but I'm helpless. I'm home alone. I have no close neighbours, and there's nothing, nothing I can do.
I always think of myself as someone who stays calm under pressure, the kind of person who can take over in an emergency. I've held tourniquets against horses' blood-spurting arteries while waiting for the vet. I've stroked horses necks as they were given their final lethal injections. But these were never my horses, and I was never in a situation like this.
I try to lift the gate off its hinges, but it's bent, and with Maggie's 1250 lbs on top of it, I know it's impossible anyway. I kick at the fence post, but it's firmly planted in the ground. Helpless, I leave her. I turn my back on her and I run away. I look in Dave's workshop for something heavy, something I can use to bash at the post until the whole thing tumbles down. All I can find is a metal shovel and a pick-axe. I know they're not going to work. Not in time.
I remember that our one neighbour, the dairy farming family living 400 metres down the road gave me their phone number the other day. I run inside my house, I desperately dial their number, hoping that the men will have some kind of equipment, or at least enough brute strength to knock down the gate. Their phone rings. There's no answer, and I remember that they were going to a church supper tonight. I glance out the window. Maggie's still hanging, struggling, gasping. I'm truly panicking now. My legs are weak, my arms are shaking. The tears are rolling down my cheeks. I'm convinced I'm going to watch my sweet girl slowly die a painful death.
Dave is an hour away, about to pilot a plane into the air with his instructor in toe. I call him anyway, even though I know there's nothing he can do. I get his voicemail. Desperate, I grab the pick-axe and the shovel and run, trembling and still swearing back to where Maggie is dangling. I try the gate again, it's no use. I try shaking and pushing the post. It won't budge. Maggie starts flailing frantically. Her right hind leg splinters what's left of the wooden rail running perpendicular to the fence. Somehow in her desperation (perhaps it's that last kick at the fence rail), she manages to get a bit of leverage. Her front feet are fully on the ground now, and using her own brute strength, she kicks, wiggles, flails and heaves her body until she's up, over and off the gate.
I'm overcome with relief; but I'm still incredibly worried. Maggie sways and wobbles her way into the open gate of the neighbouring pasture. The one that leads to her stall door (which is closed). Her eyes are glassy, her head is down, her breathing laboured. She's clearly in shock. I run and grab her halter. I put it over her head, but I can't take her inside.
Murray is still in the paddock. Poor Murray-- who turns 22 today-- has been dancing, spinning, nickering, and fretting this whole time. His eyes are wide, his tail is up, and he's clearly frightened. The further away Maggie wanders, the more stressed he becomes. He wants to be out of the paddock. He wants to be close to Maggie, but he's too spooked to let me near him. I can't leave him. The fence is broken, the gate is twisted and bent. In his adrenalin-hyped state, he's likely to do exactly what Maggie did. He's far more likely to succeed, but I'm not about to take that chance.
I plead with him, "please, please let me catch you. I need to help Maggie". But it does no good. I try to calm myself and talk with him casually, but he can sense my panic too, and he dodges me and tries to shove his way through the slightly open gate. I yell at him and he backs off. I need to get to Maggie, so I take a chance. I wrestle the mangled gate open wide enough to allow him to go through, and I run to grab Maggie. Murray blasts through the gate and heads to the front of the barn. He prances nervously until I bring Maggie through the door, then he follows us in, and runs to his stall. Thank you Murray. I'm not sure what I would have done if he'd decided to head for the road or the woods instead.
I give Maggie a quick look-over--there is no spurting blood, no severed arteries, many scrapes and cuts though, and they're already starting to swell. I cover her with a cooler to help control her shock, and I call the vet. The trouble with this is that I haven't yet found a vet. Several names have been suggested to me though, so I scroll through the phone book (still in a panic), and call the first name I come to that I actually recognize.
The vet on-call is in Truro. I tell him what happened, I tell him I'm most worried about possible internal damage. He kindly tells me that if she's ruptured her spleen or kidney or bowel, there's nothing that can be done for her, so there's not much point in him coming out to check on her. He suggests I give her bute (anti-inflammatory), hose and ice her legs, keep a very good eye on her, and get a tetanus shot and some antibiotics for her in the morning. I would have liked to have a vet look at her, just to make me feel better, but he's right, I can handle the external damage to her legs, and the internal, well, we just have to hope there isn't any.
11:57 pm
I've hosed Maggie's stifles twice. I've iced her lower legs twice. There's so much heat and swelling that the ice melts, and the packs turn warm within minutes. Happily though, Maggie hasn't lost her appetite. She's not too keen on the bran mash (which is laced with bute), but she's eating her hay with her usual gusto. Now I just wish she'd drink some water.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
A Fool's Choice
Thursday, April 1st, 2010
Thirteen years ago today, I got my first horse. Perhaps the fact that it was April Fool's should have given me some inkling as to what I was in for.
I'd been searching for a horse for months. Here and there, I found horses I was interested in, but none that I really liked. The one horse I adored and truly wanted to buy was not for sale. I had pretty much given up hope, when one Sunday evening, I received an unexpected phone call.
The voice on the other end of the line was that of Stuart Appt. A local farrier, he'd been hammering shoes onto the hooves of the horses at the Fredericton Pony Club for years. As kids we were frightened of his gruff, no-nonsense manner. But as teens, we learned that behind his rough exterior, there was a weathered horseman with a dry, witty sense of humour.
On top of being a farrier, Stuart was also a horse trader. He regularly hauled his six-horse trailer to Ontario, bought horses cheap at auction, then came back to New Brunswick to sell them. Stuart was a born salesman, and we often teased him that he'd sell his grandmother if she were still alive. He never put much effort into denying our claims.
My conversation with Stuart that night was pretty short:
Stuart: "I'm on my way back from Ontario. I've got a horse here I think you'll like. It's a 16.1 hand bay thoroughbred. Interested?"
Me: (too shocked to know what to say) "Yes. Definitely."
Stuart: "I'll drop it off at the club when I pull into town in the morning. You can try him out for a few days."
Me: "Um, Ok."
I don't think I slept at all that night. When I got the call the next morning that Stuart had arrived at the barn, I dashed over there as quickly as I could. When I got there, Stuart was leaning against the rails of the indoor ring, a ball cap pulled low over his bald head, a piece of timothy dangling from his mouth. A tall, thin, chestnut gelding was wandering the indoor ring, suspiciously sniffing the walls and dirt.
Me: "I thought you said he was bay?"
Stuart: "A bay? No, he's a chestnut. He's got a really nice long stride on him."
I tried to hide my disappointment. I'd always dreamed of showing a bay-- a horse with a reddish brown coat and striking black legs, mane and tail. In my fantasy, the horse also had flashy patches of white on its face and legs. Now, here I was, looking at a plain, copper coloured chestnut horse without a single white hair on his body. But buying a horse on the basis of colour is foolish, so I shrugged off my disappointment and tried to find out more about the skeletal pile-of-bones standing warily in front of me.
Me: "What's his name?"
Stuart: "Murray."
Me: (quizzical look on my face) "Murray? Really? Did you make that up on the way here or is that really his name?"
Stuart: (with a definite gleam in his eye) "Sure that's his name. Would I lie to you?"
Oh well, his name's even less important than his colour.
Me: "What's his story? Where did he come from?"
Stuart: "He's about eight years old. I bought him yesterday afternoon from a trader who bought him yesterday morning. Don't know where he's been or what he's been doing. He's got a nice big stride though."
At that, Stuart left, with me promising to call him once I made a decision-- and him claiming to have another buyer in the works if I wasn't interestd.
I walked into the arena to take a closer look at the gawking, gangly, skeletal creature in front of me. I could count his ribs. His hip and shoulder bones poked out like those of a jersey cow. His legs were crooked, his back long, his neck sunken. He could have been a poster boy for poor conformation. I clapped my hands and jumped toward him, chasing him into a tired trot around the ring. He was loathe to move too fast or too far, he looked exhausted, and he was coughing (no doubt a bit of shipping fever), but he did have a lovely, long, smooth stride.
I tried lunging him. He cowered against the arena wall the moment I picked up the whip. I also tried leading him over a few small jumps. He stopped and refused to jump at all. Hmm...and I was hoping to compete in jumper classes and on cross-country courses.
"Murray" was shy and nervous. Anytime anyone came in the ring, he kept one eye and one ear sharply focoused on them, always acutely aware of the tiniest movement. It was clear he wasn't a trusting horse. The "common-sense" side of me kept voicing concerns about what I was seeing, but something about his worried, pleading eyes had captured my attention, and I made excuses for his less-desirable qualities. Then, something happened that endeared him to me forever.
It's mid-afternoon. Our coach is getting ready to give a riding lesson to an enthusiastic four-year-old, pudgy little girl. The little girl, in her excitement, runs through the barn, arms flailing, out to the indoor arena...the arena where a tall, shy, under-the-weather thoroughbred is loose in a strange, new environment.
It takes me a moment to process what's happening, and then I start to sprint after the young girl. But it's too late, she's already crossed the arena, and flung herself at this towering animal. She expresses her joy at seeing this new horse by squealing jubilantly, wrapping her arms AND legs tightly around his front leg, and pressing her face into the lean muscle just above his knee. At any moment I expect to see Murray spin and bolt in fright-- many horses, even quiet old school horses would. I have visions of the child being trampled and crushed beneath his scrambling, panicky legs.
But that doesn't happen. Instead, Murray stands stock-still. He turns his worried, anxious eyes downwards. He lowers his head and presses his muzzle warmly into the girl's soft, curly hair. I approach slowly, cautiously. I pry the child's clinging body from Murray's wobbly leg. Murray tentatively looks at me, and I look back at him, truly grateful for his patience.
The next day, April Fool's, I call Stuart and give him my answer.
Thirteen years later, Murray has proven to be the most challenging horse I've ever ridden or worked around. He's frustrated me to the point of tears, and he's amused me to the point of belly-aching laughter. And I have never, not for one single moment, regretted the choice of my April Fool's horse-- not even when I watch other riders floating by on their calm, quiet, beautiful bay horses with their flashy white markings.
Thirteen years ago today, I got my first horse. Perhaps the fact that it was April Fool's should have given me some inkling as to what I was in for.
I'd been searching for a horse for months. Here and there, I found horses I was interested in, but none that I really liked. The one horse I adored and truly wanted to buy was not for sale. I had pretty much given up hope, when one Sunday evening, I received an unexpected phone call.
The voice on the other end of the line was that of Stuart Appt. A local farrier, he'd been hammering shoes onto the hooves of the horses at the Fredericton Pony Club for years. As kids we were frightened of his gruff, no-nonsense manner. But as teens, we learned that behind his rough exterior, there was a weathered horseman with a dry, witty sense of humour.
On top of being a farrier, Stuart was also a horse trader. He regularly hauled his six-horse trailer to Ontario, bought horses cheap at auction, then came back to New Brunswick to sell them. Stuart was a born salesman, and we often teased him that he'd sell his grandmother if she were still alive. He never put much effort into denying our claims.
My conversation with Stuart that night was pretty short:
Stuart: "I'm on my way back from Ontario. I've got a horse here I think you'll like. It's a 16.1 hand bay thoroughbred. Interested?"
Me: (too shocked to know what to say) "Yes. Definitely."
Stuart: "I'll drop it off at the club when I pull into town in the morning. You can try him out for a few days."
Me: "Um, Ok."
I don't think I slept at all that night. When I got the call the next morning that Stuart had arrived at the barn, I dashed over there as quickly as I could. When I got there, Stuart was leaning against the rails of the indoor ring, a ball cap pulled low over his bald head, a piece of timothy dangling from his mouth. A tall, thin, chestnut gelding was wandering the indoor ring, suspiciously sniffing the walls and dirt.
Me: "I thought you said he was bay?"
Stuart: "A bay? No, he's a chestnut. He's got a really nice long stride on him."
I tried to hide my disappointment. I'd always dreamed of showing a bay-- a horse with a reddish brown coat and striking black legs, mane and tail. In my fantasy, the horse also had flashy patches of white on its face and legs. Now, here I was, looking at a plain, copper coloured chestnut horse without a single white hair on his body. But buying a horse on the basis of colour is foolish, so I shrugged off my disappointment and tried to find out more about the skeletal pile-of-bones standing warily in front of me.
Me: "What's his name?"
Stuart: "Murray."
Me: (quizzical look on my face) "Murray? Really? Did you make that up on the way here or is that really his name?"
Stuart: (with a definite gleam in his eye) "Sure that's his name. Would I lie to you?"
Oh well, his name's even less important than his colour.
Me: "What's his story? Where did he come from?"
Stuart: "He's about eight years old. I bought him yesterday afternoon from a trader who bought him yesterday morning. Don't know where he's been or what he's been doing. He's got a nice big stride though."
At that, Stuart left, with me promising to call him once I made a decision-- and him claiming to have another buyer in the works if I wasn't interestd.
I walked into the arena to take a closer look at the gawking, gangly, skeletal creature in front of me. I could count his ribs. His hip and shoulder bones poked out like those of a jersey cow. His legs were crooked, his back long, his neck sunken. He could have been a poster boy for poor conformation. I clapped my hands and jumped toward him, chasing him into a tired trot around the ring. He was loathe to move too fast or too far, he looked exhausted, and he was coughing (no doubt a bit of shipping fever), but he did have a lovely, long, smooth stride.
I tried lunging him. He cowered against the arena wall the moment I picked up the whip. I also tried leading him over a few small jumps. He stopped and refused to jump at all. Hmm...and I was hoping to compete in jumper classes and on cross-country courses.
"Murray" was shy and nervous. Anytime anyone came in the ring, he kept one eye and one ear sharply focoused on them, always acutely aware of the tiniest movement. It was clear he wasn't a trusting horse. The "common-sense" side of me kept voicing concerns about what I was seeing, but something about his worried, pleading eyes had captured my attention, and I made excuses for his less-desirable qualities. Then, something happened that endeared him to me forever.
It's mid-afternoon. Our coach is getting ready to give a riding lesson to an enthusiastic four-year-old, pudgy little girl. The little girl, in her excitement, runs through the barn, arms flailing, out to the indoor arena...the arena where a tall, shy, under-the-weather thoroughbred is loose in a strange, new environment.
It takes me a moment to process what's happening, and then I start to sprint after the young girl. But it's too late, she's already crossed the arena, and flung herself at this towering animal. She expresses her joy at seeing this new horse by squealing jubilantly, wrapping her arms AND legs tightly around his front leg, and pressing her face into the lean muscle just above his knee. At any moment I expect to see Murray spin and bolt in fright-- many horses, even quiet old school horses would. I have visions of the child being trampled and crushed beneath his scrambling, panicky legs.
But that doesn't happen. Instead, Murray stands stock-still. He turns his worried, anxious eyes downwards. He lowers his head and presses his muzzle warmly into the girl's soft, curly hair. I approach slowly, cautiously. I pry the child's clinging body from Murray's wobbly leg. Murray tentatively looks at me, and I look back at him, truly grateful for his patience.
The next day, April Fool's, I call Stuart and give him my answer.
Thirteen years later, Murray has proven to be the most challenging horse I've ever ridden or worked around. He's frustrated me to the point of tears, and he's amused me to the point of belly-aching laughter. And I have never, not for one single moment, regretted the choice of my April Fool's horse-- not even when I watch other riders floating by on their calm, quiet, beautiful bay horses with their flashy white markings.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Handing over the Reins
Monday March 22, 2010
Over the past three weeks, it's been difficult to coax myself away from the horses and our idyllic setting long enough to get groceries, much less anything else.
But now, I've been forced out of my dream-state and back to the real world, at least temporarily. I have to be in Moncton for the week, and that means this is Dave's first real test as "stable manager".
Dave is great with the horses. Even before we bought this place, he would come out to the barn with me to help with Murray. Over the years, he learned how to brush him and tack him up. He even figured out how to put Murray's bridle on, despite Murray's best lock-jawed giraffe imitation.
Now, with the horses at home, Dave is in the barn more than I expected. If he's back from work in time, he throws on his barn jacket and lends a hand in the supper-time routine. While I handle Murray, Dave leads a ravenous Maggie from the pasture to her stall. He's quite comfortable with her, and even insists with frequent "whoa's" that she maintain her ladylike manners. Inside, he prepares, and feeds her her infinitesimal amount of grain (often grumbling that she deserves more). As Maggie plunges her massive head cheek-deep into her feed tub, Dave deftly manoeuvres his feet out of the way of her plate-like hooves. He's just like an old pro. It's the same thing in the evening. He again traipses to the barn with me (voluntarily), he fills their water buckets, and throws them hay, while I quickly muck the stalls. He pretty much has the routine down pat.
That said, he's never really worked with the horses by himself. So, I'm a little apprehensive about leaving them completely in his care for a full five days. After all, there have been days when Dave's been home with the dog all day and "forgotten" to put her out to "do her business". Even Dave joked that he's just waiting for the morning when he's halfway to work only to realize that he forgot to feed the horses-- not funny Dave!
But don't get me wrong. I'm pretty sure Dave will feed, water, clean-up-after, and turn-out the horses. I mean, I have left him detailed notes, and I intend to call frequently. I'm not even that worried that he'll spoil Maggie with extra grain-- he's heard all my horror stories about colicky horses. No, my larger worry is that the horses will sense that the "boss" is gone, and will take advantage of him-- kind of like school kids let loose on a substitute teacher.
I have visions of Murray, ostensibly distracted by some invisible monster, spooking, leaping sideways, and "inadvertently" knocking an unsuspecting Dave to the muddy ground. A chase would ensue, and hours later the local volunteer fire department would be called-in to round up a loose, moose-like animal roaming the nearby farmer's fields.
Then there's Maggie. Emboldened by Murray's distraction, she would orchestrate a feed-room break-in, using her large, flapping lips to lift the latch on the feed room door (as it is, we've had to put an extra clip on her stall door because she has mystified us by twice succeeding in opening it on her own). I can already picture her in a Winnie-the-Pooh-like pose, with her ample behind protruding from the narrow feed-room alley, her neck stretched to its fullest extent as she savours the forbidden contents of the various feed tubs.
In an effort to stem any such revolt, the horses will be separated and confined to the smaller pastures for the week. Since each pasture opens directly into each stall, Dave shouldn't have to lead them anywhere, and so long as he remembers to keep the barn doors closed, there "shouldn't" be anyway for them to escape. Horse people know though, that where there's a will, there's a way. I'm just hoping the horses are so confounded by the change in routine that they won't have a chance to muster the will to seek out the way-- at least not until the "principal" is back to keep them in line.
Part of me realizes that if the horses do conjur some sort of plot against Dave, it will provide me with fodder for the blog. But I think I'd prefer blank pages to a damaged horse or husband.
Over the past three weeks, it's been difficult to coax myself away from the horses and our idyllic setting long enough to get groceries, much less anything else.
But now, I've been forced out of my dream-state and back to the real world, at least temporarily. I have to be in Moncton for the week, and that means this is Dave's first real test as "stable manager".
Dave is great with the horses. Even before we bought this place, he would come out to the barn with me to help with Murray. Over the years, he learned how to brush him and tack him up. He even figured out how to put Murray's bridle on, despite Murray's best lock-jawed giraffe imitation.
Now, with the horses at home, Dave is in the barn more than I expected. If he's back from work in time, he throws on his barn jacket and lends a hand in the supper-time routine. While I handle Murray, Dave leads a ravenous Maggie from the pasture to her stall. He's quite comfortable with her, and even insists with frequent "whoa's" that she maintain her ladylike manners. Inside, he prepares, and feeds her her infinitesimal amount of grain (often grumbling that she deserves more). As Maggie plunges her massive head cheek-deep into her feed tub, Dave deftly manoeuvres his feet out of the way of her plate-like hooves. He's just like an old pro. It's the same thing in the evening. He again traipses to the barn with me (voluntarily), he fills their water buckets, and throws them hay, while I quickly muck the stalls. He pretty much has the routine down pat.
That said, he's never really worked with the horses by himself. So, I'm a little apprehensive about leaving them completely in his care for a full five days. After all, there have been days when Dave's been home with the dog all day and "forgotten" to put her out to "do her business". Even Dave joked that he's just waiting for the morning when he's halfway to work only to realize that he forgot to feed the horses-- not funny Dave!
But don't get me wrong. I'm pretty sure Dave will feed, water, clean-up-after, and turn-out the horses. I mean, I have left him detailed notes, and I intend to call frequently. I'm not even that worried that he'll spoil Maggie with extra grain-- he's heard all my horror stories about colicky horses. No, my larger worry is that the horses will sense that the "boss" is gone, and will take advantage of him-- kind of like school kids let loose on a substitute teacher.
I have visions of Murray, ostensibly distracted by some invisible monster, spooking, leaping sideways, and "inadvertently" knocking an unsuspecting Dave to the muddy ground. A chase would ensue, and hours later the local volunteer fire department would be called-in to round up a loose, moose-like animal roaming the nearby farmer's fields.
Then there's Maggie. Emboldened by Murray's distraction, she would orchestrate a feed-room break-in, using her large, flapping lips to lift the latch on the feed room door (as it is, we've had to put an extra clip on her stall door because she has mystified us by twice succeeding in opening it on her own). I can already picture her in a Winnie-the-Pooh-like pose, with her ample behind protruding from the narrow feed-room alley, her neck stretched to its fullest extent as she savours the forbidden contents of the various feed tubs.
In an effort to stem any such revolt, the horses will be separated and confined to the smaller pastures for the week. Since each pasture opens directly into each stall, Dave shouldn't have to lead them anywhere, and so long as he remembers to keep the barn doors closed, there "shouldn't" be anyway for them to escape. Horse people know though, that where there's a will, there's a way. I'm just hoping the horses are so confounded by the change in routine that they won't have a chance to muster the will to seek out the way-- at least not until the "principal" is back to keep them in line.
Part of me realizes that if the horses do conjur some sort of plot against Dave, it will provide me with fodder for the blog. But I think I'd prefer blank pages to a damaged horse or husband.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Magnanimous Maggie
Saturday, March 13, 2010
After last weekend's shenanigans, http://citylimitstories.blogspot.com/2010/03/mello-murray-and-mischievous-maggie.html , I admit, I had some doubts about Maggie, but this big black mare is definitely growing on me. I've been riding her everyday. Everyday I teach her something new, and always, she remembers it the next time I ride.
On Thursday, Maggie is so good that I venture down the road with her to cool out. It's our first experience outside of the confines (and relative safety) of a ring. Dave is off at work, so if something goes wrong, I'm on my own. But as it turns out, there's no need to worry.
As we leave the driveway, Murray, with his high-pitched whinny, calls to her from the pasture. She hesitates, but with a nudge from my leg, and a reassuring pat on the neck, she's on her way again. She plods along as leisurely as ever, looking curiously from side-to-side (probably in search of something edible in the ditch). When we turn to come home, her pace stays exactly the same. Unlike Murray, there's no anxious rush to get back. I start to wonder how she'll ever keep up with Murray on a trail ride. Oh well, better too slow than too fast right now.
On Friday, I ride Maggie again, and decide it's time to try a canter. She's unsure as to what I'm asking from her, but eventually she figures it out, and her short legs propel her into the three-beated gate. We do one long-side of the ring in each direction. She's on the wrong lead both times, but there's plenty of time to work on technique later.
After the burst of energy required for the canter, Maggie is huffing and puffing, and sweating. Once again I take her down the road to cool down. This time we meet a car. Maggie watches with interest as it moves toward her, bumping over pot-holes on its way. I wonder how she'll react when it passes by us, but I don't get the chance to find out. It turns into our neighbour's driveway. Maggie (who still hasn't taken her eyes off this burgundy coloured beast) tries to turn in the driveway to follow it. I see the driver lifting groceries from the backseat, and wonder if it's actually the food Maggie's after. The rest of the ride down the road is much the same, plodding and uneventful.
Saturday comes and Dave is asking to ride "his horse" for the first time. I'm hesitant. Despite her progress, Maggie's still very green. I've only been on her back eight or nine times, and Dave is a beginner rider, with only a few more rides under his belt than Maggie. But, I decide we can give it a try.
I ride her first, and this time, when I ask her to canter, she knows exactly what I mean. We canter the whole way around in each direction-- still on the wrong lead, but we'll fix that later. She also goes on the bit at the walk, and somewhat at the trot. I'm impressed, and I let her know it with continuous pats on the neck and cries of "good girl".
When I finish, I reluctantly hand her over to Dave. She's doing to so well, I realize I almost don't want to share her. Nevertheless, we bought her for Dave, so I might as well give them the chance to get used to each other. Dave rides around at the walk until he gets a feel for her steering and brakes, then he tries a little trot. He does a good job, but it's clear by the worried look on Maggie's face that she's a bit unnerved by his lack of balance and skill. She doesn't bolt off or buck, or do anything bad though. Her only bad habit is that she keeps trying to turn into the middle toward me.
All in all it's a very good day. We reward Maggie by releasing her back into the sunny pasture with Murray. We reward ourselves by sipping a bottle of wine underneath the arbour overlooking the ring.
After last weekend's shenanigans, http://citylimitstories.blogspot.com/2010/03/mello-murray-and-mischievous-maggie.html , I admit, I had some doubts about Maggie, but this big black mare is definitely growing on me. I've been riding her everyday. Everyday I teach her something new, and always, she remembers it the next time I ride.
On Thursday, Maggie is so good that I venture down the road with her to cool out. It's our first experience outside of the confines (and relative safety) of a ring. Dave is off at work, so if something goes wrong, I'm on my own. But as it turns out, there's no need to worry.
As we leave the driveway, Murray, with his high-pitched whinny, calls to her from the pasture. She hesitates, but with a nudge from my leg, and a reassuring pat on the neck, she's on her way again. She plods along as leisurely as ever, looking curiously from side-to-side (probably in search of something edible in the ditch). When we turn to come home, her pace stays exactly the same. Unlike Murray, there's no anxious rush to get back. I start to wonder how she'll ever keep up with Murray on a trail ride. Oh well, better too slow than too fast right now.
On Friday, I ride Maggie again, and decide it's time to try a canter. She's unsure as to what I'm asking from her, but eventually she figures it out, and her short legs propel her into the three-beated gate. We do one long-side of the ring in each direction. She's on the wrong lead both times, but there's plenty of time to work on technique later.
After the burst of energy required for the canter, Maggie is huffing and puffing, and sweating. Once again I take her down the road to cool down. This time we meet a car. Maggie watches with interest as it moves toward her, bumping over pot-holes on its way. I wonder how she'll react when it passes by us, but I don't get the chance to find out. It turns into our neighbour's driveway. Maggie (who still hasn't taken her eyes off this burgundy coloured beast) tries to turn in the driveway to follow it. I see the driver lifting groceries from the backseat, and wonder if it's actually the food Maggie's after. The rest of the ride down the road is much the same, plodding and uneventful.
Saturday comes and Dave is asking to ride "his horse" for the first time. I'm hesitant. Despite her progress, Maggie's still very green. I've only been on her back eight or nine times, and Dave is a beginner rider, with only a few more rides under his belt than Maggie. But, I decide we can give it a try.
I ride her first, and this time, when I ask her to canter, she knows exactly what I mean. We canter the whole way around in each direction-- still on the wrong lead, but we'll fix that later. She also goes on the bit at the walk, and somewhat at the trot. I'm impressed, and I let her know it with continuous pats on the neck and cries of "good girl".
When I finish, I reluctantly hand her over to Dave. She's doing to so well, I realize I almost don't want to share her. Nevertheless, we bought her for Dave, so I might as well give them the chance to get used to each other. Dave rides around at the walk until he gets a feel for her steering and brakes, then he tries a little trot. He does a good job, but it's clear by the worried look on Maggie's face that she's a bit unnerved by his lack of balance and skill. She doesn't bolt off or buck, or do anything bad though. Her only bad habit is that she keeps trying to turn into the middle toward me.
All in all it's a very good day. We reward Maggie by releasing her back into the sunny pasture with Murray. We reward ourselves by sipping a bottle of wine underneath the arbour overlooking the ring.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Ruffles, Meet Murray-- Take 2
Saturday, March 13
Ruffles' first encounter with his equine brother and sister didn't go so well http://citylimitstories.blogspot.com/2010/03/ruffles-meet-murray.html . But the hissing and spitting seemingly left Dave undaunted.
Ruffles has only been to the barn once, but he does have a chance to observe the horses on a daily basis. That's because the big pasture where they spend most of their day can be seen perfectly from our living room picture-window. And of course, since the living room window offers the best view in the house, that's where Dave put Ruffles' functional, but less-than-beautiful, cat tree *sigh*.
Ruffles loves his cat tree. He lays on it, rolls around on it, bats his paws at passers-by from it, but mostly, it's his platform from which to observe his royal kingdom, and its lowly serfs.
Ruffles had been surveying his lands for a full week before the horses arrived, so he was thoroughly shocked when one day, he jumped upon his precious tree, only to see two hoofed invaders merely metres (at least 20 metres) from his sacred perch.
There he was, crouched, with his fur on end, his back arched, and a bone-chilling growling sound coming from his throat. He didn't seem to realize that the intruders (completely oblivious to his presence in the window) were separated from him by a pane of glass. No, he seemed to think he was in mortal danger. Suddenly, he leaped from the tree, a streak of black fur, skidding and sliding across the ceramic tiles on the floor, no doubt en-route to his basement sanctuary.
Somewhere along the way, I managed to scoop him up in an effort to comfort him. I scratched his chin and spoke softly to him as I walked slowly back toward the window. The closer we got, the more he started flailing and growling. Deciding I didn't want my arms and face shredded, I opted to let him come to terms with the horses in his own way.
It took more than a week, but Ruffles' finally re-claimed his throne, in spite of the large creatures wandering within view. Dave interpreted this as a sign that Ruffles was ready to once again try and meet with his loyal subjects.
On Saturday, we called to the horses from the deck, and to our surprise, they came trotting right up to the fence. I went over to scratch their necks and reward them with a few apples. Unbenounced to me, Dave went inside to get the cat. I had my back to the house, but turned abruptly when I heard vehment hissing, spitting and growling sounds. Dave was standing just a few feet from the fence. In his arms was Ruffles, clearly terrified, but also defiant. His ears were flat back, his mouth wide-open, exposing his long, snake-like fangs, and his legs were flailing in all directions in an effort to get away.
Dave: I thought he might be more comfortable coming to see them in the open, instead of in the barn.
Me: You are the cruelest person I know. Take the cat back inside!
Dave did return Ruffles to his natural environment (indoors), probably because the cat had managed to get some traction on his arm, and was preparing to leap away over his shoulder. He had no harness or leash on, and I think even Dave knew that once freed, the cat might find an impossible-to-locate hiding spot.
Thankfully, Ruffles doesn't seem to traumatized. He still sits on his cat-tree watching the horses from a safe distance, though the closer they get, the more his tail starts to twitch.
Ruffles' first encounter with his equine brother and sister didn't go so well http://citylimitstories.blogspot.com/2010/03/ruffles-meet-murray.html . But the hissing and spitting seemingly left Dave undaunted.
Ruffles has only been to the barn once, but he does have a chance to observe the horses on a daily basis. That's because the big pasture where they spend most of their day can be seen perfectly from our living room picture-window. And of course, since the living room window offers the best view in the house, that's where Dave put Ruffles' functional, but less-than-beautiful, cat tree *sigh*.
Ruffles loves his cat tree. He lays on it, rolls around on it, bats his paws at passers-by from it, but mostly, it's his platform from which to observe his royal kingdom, and its lowly serfs.
Ruffles had been surveying his lands for a full week before the horses arrived, so he was thoroughly shocked when one day, he jumped upon his precious tree, only to see two hoofed invaders merely metres (at least 20 metres) from his sacred perch.
There he was, crouched, with his fur on end, his back arched, and a bone-chilling growling sound coming from his throat. He didn't seem to realize that the intruders (completely oblivious to his presence in the window) were separated from him by a pane of glass. No, he seemed to think he was in mortal danger. Suddenly, he leaped from the tree, a streak of black fur, skidding and sliding across the ceramic tiles on the floor, no doubt en-route to his basement sanctuary.
Somewhere along the way, I managed to scoop him up in an effort to comfort him. I scratched his chin and spoke softly to him as I walked slowly back toward the window. The closer we got, the more he started flailing and growling. Deciding I didn't want my arms and face shredded, I opted to let him come to terms with the horses in his own way.
It took more than a week, but Ruffles' finally re-claimed his throne, in spite of the large creatures wandering within view. Dave interpreted this as a sign that Ruffles was ready to once again try and meet with his loyal subjects.
On Saturday, we called to the horses from the deck, and to our surprise, they came trotting right up to the fence. I went over to scratch their necks and reward them with a few apples. Unbenounced to me, Dave went inside to get the cat. I had my back to the house, but turned abruptly when I heard vehment hissing, spitting and growling sounds. Dave was standing just a few feet from the fence. In his arms was Ruffles, clearly terrified, but also defiant. His ears were flat back, his mouth wide-open, exposing his long, snake-like fangs, and his legs were flailing in all directions in an effort to get away.
Dave: I thought he might be more comfortable coming to see them in the open, instead of in the barn.
Me: You are the cruelest person I know. Take the cat back inside!
Dave did return Ruffles to his natural environment (indoors), probably because the cat had managed to get some traction on his arm, and was preparing to leap away over his shoulder. He had no harness or leash on, and I think even Dave knew that once freed, the cat might find an impossible-to-locate hiding spot.
Thankfully, Ruffles doesn't seem to traumatized. He still sits on his cat-tree watching the horses from a safe distance, though the closer they get, the more his tail starts to twitch.
Friday, March 12, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Mellow Murray and Mischievous Maggie
Sunday, March 7th
Another beautiful, bright day. This time there's not even a whisper of wind to offset the surprising warmth of the bright March sunshine. I've decided to ride both horses today.
I start by taking Murray on another ride up the road (I make sure the gate to Maggie's paddock is well secured before saddling-up). This is the second ride in a row up this road, which means that Murray already has the lay of the land, that he's memorized the exact spot where we turned around last time, and that (if history runs true) he's bound to be slightly more neurotic this time.
After a few minutes, I urge Murray into an easy trot, might as well open his lungs and get the blood pumping. We reach the first house, a large (roughly 80 pounds) yellow dog runs towards us, barking steadily. His owner tries half-heartedly to call him back, but Murray doesn't spook, I call out that it's a beautiful day, and the dog stays in the yard. All-in-all, not so bad.
After that, we explore a side-road where the frozen ground has yet to soften up under the morning sun. We pass a house which I think may belong to a bootlegger. I see another large dog roaming the road up ahead. Murray and I decide to retreat.
We make it back to the main road, to the spot where we turned around yesterday. Murray makes one attempt to turn around and go home, but after a few seconds he gives up the protest and willingly trudges on. We ride the full length of the road, and he's an absolute gentleman.
The only time he throws a bit of a tantrum is when we run across another horse, in a pasture. Murray is frightened to death of the meek-looking quarter horse. For an instant, he's actually frozen in terror. Then, eyes-wide, and neck raised, he tries to run backwards down the road. The set-back is only temporary though. Warily, he lets me urge him past the small, non-threatening fellow-equine.
On the way home, Murray walks quietly on a long rein-- no dancing, jigging, or stupidity of any kind. It's possibly the best, most relaxing trail ride we've ever had. I'm positively beaming when I get back to the barn, and I'm even more pleased when I take him down to the ring to find that the footing is dry enough for us to trot a few circles.
Me, to Dave: Look, I'm riding my horse, in my ring, in March! I can't believe it! Actually, I can't believe I have a riding ring, at home, in my backyard.
I'm still on a high as I tack-up Maggie. I consider riding her down the road, but a little voice in the back of my head pipes up: "Is it really a good idea to ride a horse, who's only had someone on her back three times, on a road, in the open, by yourself?" Good point.
I take her down to the ring instead. I make Dave come with me. I consider getting on right away, I mean really, my biggest problem to date has been getting her to move. She's kind, lazy, unambitious, and halts abruptly the minute you yell Whoa! On top of that, she's probably not even fit enough to attempt a to buck or rear. Again, the voice chimes in: "She does seem to have much more energy in the paddocks these days. She's trotting and even cantering regularly, and I even saw her do something in her paddock that could have been called a buck. And don't forget yesterday's shenanigans". Ok, I'll lunge her first.
Well, it's a good thing I know enough to wear gloves when lunging. I ended up with mild rope burn as it was.
I turn Maggie lose on the lunge line, and instantly she's trotting, not waddling like usual, but actually trotting, only she's not turning as she should, she's continuing the length of the ring. I haul as hard as I can on the lunge line, but she dives her nose down and hauls harder. The only way I hold onto the line is by slipping my hand through the loop at the end (I know, not safe), and by running to keep up with her until I can force her to stop by making her run into the fence. We battle it out like this for about 20 minutes. She trots, canters, bolts, completely ignores all shouts of "Whoa!" and raises her heels in what can definitely be considered a serious buck (a hind-end that large can be pretty powerful).
Finally, I get her to stop, well, I get her to trot on a circle small enough that eventually she has to stop. We're both out-of-breath and sweaty. My arms feel like lead. I'm too tired to lunge her anymore, so I decide to get on. She jigs and fidgets while I mount. She trots off once I'm on. I try to stop her, and with some effort she halts. When I ask her to walk again, she squeals, shakes her head and gives a halfhearted (thank goodness) buck. This goes on for another 15 minutes. When I finally get her to walk around the ring once, in a cooperative way, I decide we're done.
Murray, you can be difficult, sometimes impossible to ride, but today you were an absolute dream.
Maggie, I'm not sure what to think of you. You're just too full of surprises-- and not all of them good.
Another beautiful, bright day. This time there's not even a whisper of wind to offset the surprising warmth of the bright March sunshine. I've decided to ride both horses today.
I start by taking Murray on another ride up the road (I make sure the gate to Maggie's paddock is well secured before saddling-up). This is the second ride in a row up this road, which means that Murray already has the lay of the land, that he's memorized the exact spot where we turned around last time, and that (if history runs true) he's bound to be slightly more neurotic this time.
After a few minutes, I urge Murray into an easy trot, might as well open his lungs and get the blood pumping. We reach the first house, a large (roughly 80 pounds) yellow dog runs towards us, barking steadily. His owner tries half-heartedly to call him back, but Murray doesn't spook, I call out that it's a beautiful day, and the dog stays in the yard. All-in-all, not so bad.
After that, we explore a side-road where the frozen ground has yet to soften up under the morning sun. We pass a house which I think may belong to a bootlegger. I see another large dog roaming the road up ahead. Murray and I decide to retreat.
We make it back to the main road, to the spot where we turned around yesterday. Murray makes one attempt to turn around and go home, but after a few seconds he gives up the protest and willingly trudges on. We ride the full length of the road, and he's an absolute gentleman.
The only time he throws a bit of a tantrum is when we run across another horse, in a pasture. Murray is frightened to death of the meek-looking quarter horse. For an instant, he's actually frozen in terror. Then, eyes-wide, and neck raised, he tries to run backwards down the road. The set-back is only temporary though. Warily, he lets me urge him past the small, non-threatening fellow-equine.
On the way home, Murray walks quietly on a long rein-- no dancing, jigging, or stupidity of any kind. It's possibly the best, most relaxing trail ride we've ever had. I'm positively beaming when I get back to the barn, and I'm even more pleased when I take him down to the ring to find that the footing is dry enough for us to trot a few circles.
Me, to Dave: Look, I'm riding my horse, in my ring, in March! I can't believe it! Actually, I can't believe I have a riding ring, at home, in my backyard.
I'm still on a high as I tack-up Maggie. I consider riding her down the road, but a little voice in the back of my head pipes up: "Is it really a good idea to ride a horse, who's only had someone on her back three times, on a road, in the open, by yourself?" Good point.
I take her down to the ring instead. I make Dave come with me. I consider getting on right away, I mean really, my biggest problem to date has been getting her to move. She's kind, lazy, unambitious, and halts abruptly the minute you yell Whoa! On top of that, she's probably not even fit enough to attempt a to buck or rear. Again, the voice chimes in: "She does seem to have much more energy in the paddocks these days. She's trotting and even cantering regularly, and I even saw her do something in her paddock that could have been called a buck. And don't forget yesterday's shenanigans". Ok, I'll lunge her first.
Well, it's a good thing I know enough to wear gloves when lunging. I ended up with mild rope burn as it was.
I turn Maggie lose on the lunge line, and instantly she's trotting, not waddling like usual, but actually trotting, only she's not turning as she should, she's continuing the length of the ring. I haul as hard as I can on the lunge line, but she dives her nose down and hauls harder. The only way I hold onto the line is by slipping my hand through the loop at the end (I know, not safe), and by running to keep up with her until I can force her to stop by making her run into the fence. We battle it out like this for about 20 minutes. She trots, canters, bolts, completely ignores all shouts of "Whoa!" and raises her heels in what can definitely be considered a serious buck (a hind-end that large can be pretty powerful).
Finally, I get her to stop, well, I get her to trot on a circle small enough that eventually she has to stop. We're both out-of-breath and sweaty. My arms feel like lead. I'm too tired to lunge her anymore, so I decide to get on. She jigs and fidgets while I mount. She trots off once I'm on. I try to stop her, and with some effort she halts. When I ask her to walk again, she squeals, shakes her head and gives a halfhearted (thank goodness) buck. This goes on for another 15 minutes. When I finally get her to walk around the ring once, in a cooperative way, I decide we're done.
Murray, you can be difficult, sometimes impossible to ride, but today you were an absolute dream.
Maggie, I'm not sure what to think of you. You're just too full of surprises-- and not all of them good.
A Roll Interupted
Friday March 5th
The trees bend and sway as the wind once again whips across the property from the north. I'm glad the horses have a well-built run-in shed they can use as shelter (though as of yet, they haven't bothered).
I put Maggie outside first, and amazingly, instead of waddling over to the piles of hay, and hoovering her way through as much as she can before Murray arrives to chase her away, she waits by the fence, her long black mane rippling in the wind.
Inside the barn, her "personal-trainer" whinnies in anticipation and loneliness. He prances as I lead him outside. But when his anxious eyes meet Maggie's flirtatious lashes, he relaxes and walks quietly. She follows alongside from the other side of the fence. It seems that love is in the air.
Maggie waits patiently for her prince to arrive. Of course, the moment I let Murray lose, he turns on her, flashing his teeth, pinning his ears, and forcing her ahead of him down the hill. He chases her once around the pasture at a trot, then he manoeuvres her into a corner so that he can have a relaxing roll in a pile of snow, while still keeping an eye on her.
Maggie, however, isn't completely complacent. Just as Murray's wobbly knees fold to lower his bony frame to the ground, Maggie squeals and bolts up the hill as fast as her short legs can carry her. Murray, frightened, and convinced that banshees are chasing them both, jumps to his feet and charges up the hill after her, sure that some kind of monster is close on his heels. I'm sure that Maggie is laughing at her own little prank.
The trees bend and sway as the wind once again whips across the property from the north. I'm glad the horses have a well-built run-in shed they can use as shelter (though as of yet, they haven't bothered).
I put Maggie outside first, and amazingly, instead of waddling over to the piles of hay, and hoovering her way through as much as she can before Murray arrives to chase her away, she waits by the fence, her long black mane rippling in the wind.
Inside the barn, her "personal-trainer" whinnies in anticipation and loneliness. He prances as I lead him outside. But when his anxious eyes meet Maggie's flirtatious lashes, he relaxes and walks quietly. She follows alongside from the other side of the fence. It seems that love is in the air.
Maggie waits patiently for her prince to arrive. Of course, the moment I let Murray lose, he turns on her, flashing his teeth, pinning his ears, and forcing her ahead of him down the hill. He chases her once around the pasture at a trot, then he manoeuvres her into a corner so that he can have a relaxing roll in a pile of snow, while still keeping an eye on her.
Maggie, however, isn't completely complacent. Just as Murray's wobbly knees fold to lower his bony frame to the ground, Maggie squeals and bolts up the hill as fast as her short legs can carry her. Murray, frightened, and convinced that banshees are chasing them both, jumps to his feet and charges up the hill after her, sure that some kind of monster is close on his heels. I'm sure that Maggie is laughing at her own little prank.
Independence Lost
Thursday, March 4th
Maggie had a taste of independence, but alas, Murray has summoned-up the courage to take his place as head of the horsey household. He now choreographs her every move, tossing his head and pinning his ears to direct her wherever he sees fit.
I take hay to the two of them. Murray's feeling generous, and allows me to pat him and scratch his neck. But his benevolence does not spread to Maggie. She settles in front of the closest pile of hay, but Murray (despite having his own pile) promptly gnashes his teeth and chases her away. She stands back and stretches her neck to its fullest extent, trying to grasp a piece of hay from beneath Murray's head. He scrunches his nose and flashes her an evil look. She moves on to another pile, but is immediately evicted from there as well.
And so it goes, round and round in their own version of "musical hay piles". Perhaps Murray has decided to take on the role of personal trainer, and diet coach.
Maggie had a taste of independence, but alas, Murray has summoned-up the courage to take his place as head of the horsey household. He now choreographs her every move, tossing his head and pinning his ears to direct her wherever he sees fit.
I take hay to the two of them. Murray's feeling generous, and allows me to pat him and scratch his neck. But his benevolence does not spread to Maggie. She settles in front of the closest pile of hay, but Murray (despite having his own pile) promptly gnashes his teeth and chases her away. She stands back and stretches her neck to its fullest extent, trying to grasp a piece of hay from beneath Murray's head. He scrunches his nose and flashes her an evil look. She moves on to another pile, but is immediately evicted from there as well.
And so it goes, round and round in their own version of "musical hay piles". Perhaps Murray has decided to take on the role of personal trainer, and diet coach.
Together at Last
Wednesday, March 3rd
I'm looking out my living room window at a chestnut horse, standing in a vast pasture, sprinkled with sugary snow and fenced in by immaculate black boards. The horse is Murray and while the scene is real, it still feels like a dream. I pinch myself and wonder how long it will be before our new reality sinks in.
********************************************
The howling winds have finally died away to a faint whisper, but there's still no sun, and it's the coldest morning yet. There's no snow or rain falling from the sky though, so I decide that today is the day to put the horses out in the big pastures on the south side of the property. It will be their first time in these pastures, and their first time out together.
The moment Maggie appears in the pasture, Murray tries to herd her. He pins his ears, stretches his neck, and urges her to move down the field ahead of him. This is how it always is with Murray and mares, and this is why most of his female companions have had to move onto greener pastures after a few weeks or months with him as a "friend". Maggie's strategy is to simply trot away to the far corners of the pasture. This works because Murray is still too frightened to explore the area too keenly just yet. So, after a few minutes, he moves off on his own, and Maggie maintains her status as an independent woman-- for now.
I toss a few flakes of hay on the gravelly ground in front of the run-in shed. Maggie's food radar unerringly steers her to the lush, green piles. Murray ignores the hay, and continues moving his lips over dead grass, in a futile search for new pre-spring shoots.
The horses seem utterly content in these larger pastures. No pacing the fence, no "screaming", no fretting whatsoever. I don't know whether it's because they're settling in, or simply because they're together now. The downside is that Murray seems to have regained his typical confidence and arrogance, meaning that I can't get anywhere near him in the pasture. I wonder what will happen when I try to catch him tonight. *sigh*
I'm looking out my living room window at a chestnut horse, standing in a vast pasture, sprinkled with sugary snow and fenced in by immaculate black boards. The horse is Murray and while the scene is real, it still feels like a dream. I pinch myself and wonder how long it will be before our new reality sinks in.
********************************************
The howling winds have finally died away to a faint whisper, but there's still no sun, and it's the coldest morning yet. There's no snow or rain falling from the sky though, so I decide that today is the day to put the horses out in the big pastures on the south side of the property. It will be their first time in these pastures, and their first time out together.
The moment Maggie appears in the pasture, Murray tries to herd her. He pins his ears, stretches his neck, and urges her to move down the field ahead of him. This is how it always is with Murray and mares, and this is why most of his female companions have had to move onto greener pastures after a few weeks or months with him as a "friend". Maggie's strategy is to simply trot away to the far corners of the pasture. This works because Murray is still too frightened to explore the area too keenly just yet. So, after a few minutes, he moves off on his own, and Maggie maintains her status as an independent woman-- for now.
I toss a few flakes of hay on the gravelly ground in front of the run-in shed. Maggie's food radar unerringly steers her to the lush, green piles. Murray ignores the hay, and continues moving his lips over dead grass, in a futile search for new pre-spring shoots.
The horses seem utterly content in these larger pastures. No pacing the fence, no "screaming", no fretting whatsoever. I don't know whether it's because they're settling in, or simply because they're together now. The downside is that Murray seems to have regained his typical confidence and arrogance, meaning that I can't get anywhere near him in the pasture. I wonder what will happen when I try to catch him tonight. *sigh*
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Let me in!
Tuesday, March 2nd--
The winds roar through the barn, bringing intermittent ice and sleet with them. I turn the horses out in the small, individual paddocks accessible from each stall. In turn, those paddocks open onto medium sized ones. I like these "run-ins" because they offer the horses plenty of room for exercise, but also give them the option of periodically coming in out of the wind, snow, or (in the summer) sun.
I toss some hay into each paddock and send the horses out so I can clean their stalls. Maggie is intent on eating, while Murray is cautiously exploring. After five or six minutes in the blustery weather, Murray's had enough, and he trots purposely back into his stall-- the stall in which I'm standing with a wheel barrow and pitchfork. Murray doesn't seem to concerned by my presence. He finds a spot out of the wind, and delves into his left-over breakfast hay. I try and shoo him back outside, but he backs-up, raises his head out of my reach, and plants his feet in the thick straw. But he needs exercise, and the weather's not that bad.
I temporarily abandon my pitchfork and grab Murray's halter instead. He obligingly allows me to lead him back outside, to the "medium" sized paddock, just across the fence from Maggie. This time though, I close the gate so he can't come back inside. And that's when it starts: screaming.
Murray stands at the gate, screaming. His eyes are bulging with fear, his nostrils flared, his tail raised, and he's screaming as though he's on his way to the slaughter house. When I don't come running to open the gate, he starts pacing frantically back and forth along the fence-line-- still screaming. The hay htat I'd thrown to him is promptly trampled into the sticky, muddy muck. From the neighbouring paddock, Maggie glances briefly his way, then returns to eating-- probably lamenting the destruction of a perfectly good meal.
Murray continues screaming and pacing intermittently, seemingly for my benefit. As when he can't see or hear me, he seems quite content to wander his paddock and explore its sights and smells. When I'm done my chores, I sneak back to the house, but by noon, with the wind still whipping through the trees, and the icy snow still falling, I relent and decide to bring the horses back into their well-bedded stalls.
I could simply open the gate, and allow Murray to go back in on his own, but I decide to lead him in myself. For once, I have no trouble at all in catching him. He practically shoves his nose into the halter--eager to get his insecure self back indoors.
The winds roar through the barn, bringing intermittent ice and sleet with them. I turn the horses out in the small, individual paddocks accessible from each stall. In turn, those paddocks open onto medium sized ones. I like these "run-ins" because they offer the horses plenty of room for exercise, but also give them the option of periodically coming in out of the wind, snow, or (in the summer) sun.
I toss some hay into each paddock and send the horses out so I can clean their stalls. Maggie is intent on eating, while Murray is cautiously exploring. After five or six minutes in the blustery weather, Murray's had enough, and he trots purposely back into his stall-- the stall in which I'm standing with a wheel barrow and pitchfork. Murray doesn't seem to concerned by my presence. He finds a spot out of the wind, and delves into his left-over breakfast hay. I try and shoo him back outside, but he backs-up, raises his head out of my reach, and plants his feet in the thick straw. But he needs exercise, and the weather's not that bad.
I temporarily abandon my pitchfork and grab Murray's halter instead. He obligingly allows me to lead him back outside, to the "medium" sized paddock, just across the fence from Maggie. This time though, I close the gate so he can't come back inside. And that's when it starts: screaming.
Murray stands at the gate, screaming. His eyes are bulging with fear, his nostrils flared, his tail raised, and he's screaming as though he's on his way to the slaughter house. When I don't come running to open the gate, he starts pacing frantically back and forth along the fence-line-- still screaming. The hay htat I'd thrown to him is promptly trampled into the sticky, muddy muck. From the neighbouring paddock, Maggie glances briefly his way, then returns to eating-- probably lamenting the destruction of a perfectly good meal.
Murray continues screaming and pacing intermittently, seemingly for my benefit. As when he can't see or hear me, he seems quite content to wander his paddock and explore its sights and smells. When I'm done my chores, I sneak back to the house, but by noon, with the wind still whipping through the trees, and the icy snow still falling, I relent and decide to bring the horses back into their well-bedded stalls.
I could simply open the gate, and allow Murray to go back in on his own, but I decide to lead him in myself. For once, I have no trouble at all in catching him. He practically shoves his nose into the halter--eager to get his insecure self back indoors.
Can't talk, eating.
Tuesday March 2nd--I've always thought that horses should have hay in front of them pretty much all the time. After all, they are grazers by nature. Besides, I've mostly been exposed to skinny, picky thoroughbreds who burn off much needed calories simply by breathing. But owning the plump miss Maggie may make me rethink my position.
It's as though she's a magician using slight-of-hand. One minute Maggie has a full flake of hay, then, in the blink of an eye, every last trace of it has disappeared. She inhales her grain with equal enthusiasm, and the moment her food is gone, she's rattling her door, shaking her head up and down, and begging for more. I have to admit, I find it difficult not to fall prey to her dark, pleading eyes, especially at night, when her hay is long gone, and Murray's still munching unenthusiastically on his ample supply. I have to remind myself that it's up to me to help her lose the excess pounds weighting down her slender legs (I wish I had someone controlling my food portions for me).
Thankfully Maggie's not aggressive about food, just obsessive. When we walk by the hay stalls, she wistfully stretches out her rubber-like lips in hopes of pulling a mouthful from between the bars. Outside, she tears-out half-frozen, still dead, brown blades of grass as quickly as she can. We've got big pastures, but I imagine it won't take long for her to mow them down this summer.
It's ironic, for years, I've tempted Murray with as much high-fat food as he'll eat, in hopes of keeping even just a meagre covering over his bony ribs. Now, while I'm still waging that battle, along comes Maggie, and suddenly I'm withholding food in hopes that she'll eventually slim down to a healthy weight. I guess between the two of them, they average out to normal.
Ruffles, meet Murray
Sunday, Feb. 28, 2010-- after Canada's hockey victory
Dave has been wanting to "introduce" our evil, black cat "Ruffles" to Murray for years. I have always maintained that this would not be a particularly good idea.
For those of you who disagree, there are a few things you need to know about Ruffles. First, despite the joy he takes in digging his claws and teeth deep into our flesh, he's actually a scaredy cat. He hides under the bed when new people are in the house, and when new animals arrive, he disappears for days. Secondly, he HATES car rides. He howls and yowls, and cowers the entire time. That's why it never seemed like a good idea to bring him to a barn full of thousand-pound animals, and ruthless barn cats.
Unfortunately for Ruffles, I was so elated at having my horses at home, that I gave up trying to argue the point with Dave, and told him sure, Ruffles could finally meet the rest of the family; after all, he didn't have to ride in the car to get there. I did have enough wits about me to insist that we put a harness and leash on him first though. I didn't want to spend the rest of my evening reaching into unknown crevices in search of a frightened cat.
I was still putting on my boots and coat when Dave headed toward the barn, so I don't know exactly what happened in those first moments. I do know that when I walked into the barn, Dave was standing about 10 feet away from Murray's stall with a spitting, hissing, growling, writhing black demon in his arms. It didn't take much convincing to get Dave to bring Ruffles back to the house. I don't think we'll be posing for any full-family photos anytime soon.
Dave has been wanting to "introduce" our evil, black cat "Ruffles" to Murray for years. I have always maintained that this would not be a particularly good idea.
For those of you who disagree, there are a few things you need to know about Ruffles. First, despite the joy he takes in digging his claws and teeth deep into our flesh, he's actually a scaredy cat. He hides under the bed when new people are in the house, and when new animals arrive, he disappears for days. Secondly, he HATES car rides. He howls and yowls, and cowers the entire time. That's why it never seemed like a good idea to bring him to a barn full of thousand-pound animals, and ruthless barn cats.
Unfortunately for Ruffles, I was so elated at having my horses at home, that I gave up trying to argue the point with Dave, and told him sure, Ruffles could finally meet the rest of the family; after all, he didn't have to ride in the car to get there. I did have enough wits about me to insist that we put a harness and leash on him first though. I didn't want to spend the rest of my evening reaching into unknown crevices in search of a frightened cat.
I was still putting on my boots and coat when Dave headed toward the barn, so I don't know exactly what happened in those first moments. I do know that when I walked into the barn, Dave was standing about 10 feet away from Murray's stall with a spitting, hissing, growling, writhing black demon in his arms. It didn't take much convincing to get Dave to bring Ruffles back to the house. I don't think we'll be posing for any full-family photos anytime soon.
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