The Boss is Back

Dave survived his first stint as stable manager mostly unscathed-- and thankfully, so did the horses. Though there were a few bumps along the road.

I was halfway through my stint away from home when, during a phone call to Dave, he revealed that Murray was a "bad boy".

Me: Really? What did he do? Is he ok?
Dave: It was my fault.
Me: What did you do?
Dave: Murray bit my finger.

Now, at this point I knew that Dave was right, it was his fault. Murray is a quirky, complicated, flighty animal, but he is safe to work around and DOES NOT bite or kick. I did manage a quick "are you ok?" before grilling Dave as to what he must have done to provoke my innocent horse.

Here's what Dave told me:
It's evening, time to tuck the horses into their stalls for the night. Dave decides they deserve a bedtime treat, so he digs into the bag of carrots. He gives Murray a bite first then, while he purposefully crunches away, Dave turns toward Maggie's stall. She reaches her head through the open top-half of her door, and greedily grabs her allotted portion. Without turning to look, and while still coddling Maggie, Dave reaches his carrot-filled hand back toward Murray's searching muzzle. Murray (understandably) grabs what's left of the carrot. Unfortunately, Dave is not holding it flat in his hand. Instead, his fist is closed around it, and as Murray tugs the succulent orange treat into his hungry mouth, he can't help but tug Dave's thumb right along with it.

It's at this point that Dave feels a stabbing pain jolt through his hand. He instinctively attempts to yank his hand back toward his body. Murray, frightened by the sudden movement, instinctively leaps backward in his stall--without releasing his grip on the carrot, and the human appendage attached to it. Dave's thumb is torn free of the vice-like grip of Murray's teeth, and both Murray and Dave are left wide-eyed and frightened. Dave reluctantly looks at his hand and is relieved (and somewhat shocked) to find that his thumb, while throbbing intensely, is still wholly intact.

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The next day, when I call and asked how things are, this is Dave's response:
"well, you'll be happy that I didn't burn down the barn".

My thoughts immediately turn to the heater mounted on the ceiling in the isle of the barn. Along with releasing heat, it also emits a burning smell when plugged in. It does help bring some warmth to the cold barn, but I rarely use it for fear that I'll forget to unplug it, and that it will somehow ignite the hay and shavings, and the barn will go up in smoke.

Me: Did you leave the heater plugged in?
Dave: No, nothing like that.
Me: Ok, what then?
Dave: It was the fence.

It's a cold, rainy morning and Dave is running late. Murray makes things worse by eating his grain even more slowly than usual (probably in an effort to put-off going out into the sloppy weather). With Murray leisurely lapping up his breakfast, Dave opens the door to Maggie's "daytime" stall, and props it open with a piece of concrete so that she can come in and out as she pleases.

Still waiting for Murray to finish (I'd told him not to let Murray out until he finishes his grain, or he likely won't come back to it, and he's too skinny to miss a meal), Dave plugs in the electric fence. He looks at the clock and curses Murray's slowness. But then, as he waits, he hears a clicking sound. It's the sound of the electric fence arcing. That's not entirely uncommon, but this time it's different. It's loud and it's very close. With time to kill, Dave investigates. He's about to step outside when he notices an orange glow which appears in time with the clicking. The glow is not along the line of the electric fence, it's along the metal edge of the stall door. Somehow, the energy from the electric fence is sending a current right through the door, by the floor of the stall which is covered in wood shavings. It's a fire waiting to happen, not to mention a cruel shock for Maggie if she happens to bump the door on her way out.

Perplexed, Dave steps outside to see that the piece of concrete he's used to prop open the door is actually pushing the metal-framed door back against the electric fence. Suddenly, it's all becoming clear. That piece of concrete had originally been behind the door, thick enough to keep the door from hitting the fence. But we moved it, thinking that its weight would work well to hold the door open. Dave turns off the fence and shoves the block of concrete back to its original position. He uses bailer twine to tie the door open. The clicking stops. Disaster averted. Thank you Murray for being so slow.

So, all in all, Dave and the horses made out ok, though he swears that when he went to work on Friday, the two of them were "talking" over the fence, and planning a mutiny. I guess it's a good thing I got back when I did.

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.