Wednesday, March 10th
Happily, the only thing causing the horses anxiety this morning is that I'm about ten minutes late in bringing them their feed.
It's a beautiful, sunny day with no wind, so I figure it's time for another ride. Murray needs to rebuild some muscle, and Maggie needs to learn the ropes so that Dave can hopefully start to ride her later this spring. That is what we bought her for after all.
I take Murray straight down to the ring, where the footing is now solid enough for a bit of canter-- even with Murray's delicate suspensory ligaments. We do some light work for about twenty minutes, but something just doesn't seem right. He's not lame, not even "off", just not right. He stumbles a bit, but that's not out of the ordinary for him either. I decide we'd better call it a day, and we head off down the road to cool down.
I'm once again amazed by his manners on the road. He leaves the property easily (despite Maggie's ear-splitting protests-- I'm sorry neighbours) and marches purposefully toward the dairy farm a kilometre away. When we get to the "marshmallow-like" bales of haylage, we turn back. Instead of speeding up and prancing, his walk slows to a crawl, and I have to actually urge him forward to get him home. Perhaps he had a brain transplant on the trailer on the way here?
I still think something seems not-quite-right with Murray, but I his legs look and feel fine, so I turn him out and bring Maggie in instead. She's a filthy ball of black fluff, and by the time I finish grooming her, my arms are sore, and I'm pretty sure that there's more hair on me then on her. Down in the ring, she's her old self, plodding and lazy, with only occasional bouts of sassyness. This is the Maggie I know.
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5:50 pm
Just like yesterday, the golden hues of the sinking sun bathe the horses in a warm glow as I head to the pasture to bring them in. I MUST remember to bring out my camera one of these evenings. As they see me, the horses meander over to the gate. Thankfully, there's no sign of the anxiety that had them pacing the fence-line with fear last night. Maggie's first in line, and as I shoo Murray back from the gate, he turns his back to us-- clearly offended.
Just as I start down the gravel lane, I catch sight of something moving near the tree-line behind the manure pile. Maggie notices too, and she swings her enormous head around with such insistence that I'm nearly hauled off my feet. This is the exact spot that the horses were fixated on last night. I brace myself for the sight of a scruffy, growling coyote; however, much to my delight, what I see instead are two beautiful, healthy-looking does. They move into the field of weather-beaten grasses, and stretch their necks down in search of food.
By the time Maggie's in her stall, Murray (still outside) has noticed the deer as well. He's as still as a statue-- frozen with his head and neck raised majestically against the backdrop of a golden-blue sky. The camera, why can't I remember to bring my camera! I walk quietly over to him, and we stand shoulder to shoulder, mesmerized by the sight of the delicate creatures picking their way across the fields. They leisurely cross the land, and after two or three minutes, disappear into the woods with a flick of their short, white tails.
Perhaps there were deer in the woods last night, and that's what had the horses spooked? It's possible, but I'm still uneasy. The horses didn't seem at all anxious about the deer tonight, just curious, and as soon as they were out of sight, they seemed also to be out-of-mind.
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As I throw some hay into Murray's stall, I notice a swelling the length of my baby finger on his left-front leg, just below the outside of his knee. It's soft, warm, and he flinches when I press on it. Possible check ligament injury? Go figure. His suspensory ligaments on the other hand seem fine. I guess he's just earned himself some time off.
Showing posts with label deer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deer. Show all posts
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Something is out there
Tuesday, March 9
The air outside is fresh and there's a pink glow in the sky as the sun sinks below the tree-tops on the other side of the dirt road. But the horses aren't admiring the sunset. They're looking in the opposite direction, toward the woods at the back of our property. Murray's giraffe-like neck is extended to its fullest, and his knobbly knees are shaking. Maggie stands slightly behind him and keeps shifting her gaze from the woods to him, and back again.
I scan the tree-line, but I don't have my glasses on, and the light is fading fast. I see nothing and hear nothing. I look over at Muscade. She's her usual self, frolicking in the pathway, trying not to trip over the soccer-sized ball she keeps tossing to herself. I figure maybe there were a few deer in the woods. I call to the horses, and try to catch Murray, but he's now pacing around the outside of his run-in shelter, still staring at the trees. This isn't his habitual game of evade-my-owner, he's just too distracted to even notice I'm there.
I decide to start with Maggie instead. She's not her usual dive-the-nose-into the halter, lets-go-eat self, but I do manage to grab her. As we head to the gate, Murray moves in close behind her. I manage to keep him from rushing the gate, but he's clearly anxious at being left behind. The usually quiet Maggie is jigging, and turning, trying to keep her eyes fixed on the spot where they've seen, or sensed something. It's all I can do to hang onto her and she turns from Murray, to the woods, and back again, with every step. When we get close to the barn, she practically barels me over to get inside, then she yanks at the lead line at every passing window so she can see Murray-- who's now whinnying desperately.
Maggie squeezes past me, into her stall, and immediately presses her nose against the window to lock her gaze on Murray's anxious body. He's pacing, and whinnying and still staring intently at the tree-line. Maggie maintains her vigil without even bothering to sniff at her pile of hay.
I have no problem catching Murray this time; he's still oblivious to me though, and I have to stand on my tip-toes to lift the halter over his ears. His eyes are wide, his nostrils flared, his knees shaking. He snorts loudly before I lead him through the gate, and he's uncharacteristically tugging at the lead line. He seems torn between wanting to head to the barn, and not wanting to turn his back toward whatever's out there.
When we make it to the barn, Maggie is swinging her head above her stall door, nickering softly to him. I'm shocked to see that she still hasn't noticed her hay. With Murray in his stall, the two of them turn to stare out the back windows. I bring their grain. Maggie doesn't try to shove her head in the bucket as I enter her stall, in fact it actually takes her about 30 seconds to move to her feed tub. As for Murray, he will only sprint to his feed tub long enough to take one bite, then he moves off to the other side of his stall to chew-- the side furthest from the tree line.
Even though Maggie eats her grain, she's not at all interested in the hay. Both horses are pacing their stalls, looking worried. A chill runs up my spine. I call to Muscade who's outside. I lock her in the feed room while I finish my chores. I don't know what's out there, but both horses sense something, and it's something more threatening than deer. Dusk arrives as I head back to the house. I stand still and listen and look for signs of whatever may be out there, but I guess my senses just aren't as acute. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up though, so I urge Muscade inside, and rush to turn on all the lights.
Two hours later 8:30 pm
Dave makes it home from a late night at work. We go to the barn together to check on the horses. They've settled somewhat, but are still agitated, pausing between bites of hay to listen, or look out the windows. Dave says there's a large brush fire burning just a couple of kilometres from here. Perhaps that's it, Murray has always been very, very nervous of smoke and fire. The only problem with that theory is that the fire isn't burning in the same direction as they're looking.
The air outside is fresh and there's a pink glow in the sky as the sun sinks below the tree-tops on the other side of the dirt road. But the horses aren't admiring the sunset. They're looking in the opposite direction, toward the woods at the back of our property. Murray's giraffe-like neck is extended to its fullest, and his knobbly knees are shaking. Maggie stands slightly behind him and keeps shifting her gaze from the woods to him, and back again.
I scan the tree-line, but I don't have my glasses on, and the light is fading fast. I see nothing and hear nothing. I look over at Muscade. She's her usual self, frolicking in the pathway, trying not to trip over the soccer-sized ball she keeps tossing to herself. I figure maybe there were a few deer in the woods. I call to the horses, and try to catch Murray, but he's now pacing around the outside of his run-in shelter, still staring at the trees. This isn't his habitual game of evade-my-owner, he's just too distracted to even notice I'm there.
I decide to start with Maggie instead. She's not her usual dive-the-nose-into the halter, lets-go-eat self, but I do manage to grab her. As we head to the gate, Murray moves in close behind her. I manage to keep him from rushing the gate, but he's clearly anxious at being left behind. The usually quiet Maggie is jigging, and turning, trying to keep her eyes fixed on the spot where they've seen, or sensed something. It's all I can do to hang onto her and she turns from Murray, to the woods, and back again, with every step. When we get close to the barn, she practically barels me over to get inside, then she yanks at the lead line at every passing window so she can see Murray-- who's now whinnying desperately.
Maggie squeezes past me, into her stall, and immediately presses her nose against the window to lock her gaze on Murray's anxious body. He's pacing, and whinnying and still staring intently at the tree-line. Maggie maintains her vigil without even bothering to sniff at her pile of hay.
I have no problem catching Murray this time; he's still oblivious to me though, and I have to stand on my tip-toes to lift the halter over his ears. His eyes are wide, his nostrils flared, his knees shaking. He snorts loudly before I lead him through the gate, and he's uncharacteristically tugging at the lead line. He seems torn between wanting to head to the barn, and not wanting to turn his back toward whatever's out there.
When we make it to the barn, Maggie is swinging her head above her stall door, nickering softly to him. I'm shocked to see that she still hasn't noticed her hay. With Murray in his stall, the two of them turn to stare out the back windows. I bring their grain. Maggie doesn't try to shove her head in the bucket as I enter her stall, in fact it actually takes her about 30 seconds to move to her feed tub. As for Murray, he will only sprint to his feed tub long enough to take one bite, then he moves off to the other side of his stall to chew-- the side furthest from the tree line.
Even though Maggie eats her grain, she's not at all interested in the hay. Both horses are pacing their stalls, looking worried. A chill runs up my spine. I call to Muscade who's outside. I lock her in the feed room while I finish my chores. I don't know what's out there, but both horses sense something, and it's something more threatening than deer. Dusk arrives as I head back to the house. I stand still and listen and look for signs of whatever may be out there, but I guess my senses just aren't as acute. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up though, so I urge Muscade inside, and rush to turn on all the lights.
Two hours later 8:30 pm
Dave makes it home from a late night at work. We go to the barn together to check on the horses. They've settled somewhat, but are still agitated, pausing between bites of hay to listen, or look out the windows. Dave says there's a large brush fire burning just a couple of kilometres from here. Perhaps that's it, Murray has always been very, very nervous of smoke and fire. The only problem with that theory is that the fire isn't burning in the same direction as they're looking.
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