The hayloft is generally Lilly's domain-- a safe haven where the timid cat can sleep soundly in her hay-lined den, free of Zorro's relentless attacks.
But, when I go up to drop hay, Zorro, afraid that he'll miss something important (like extra food), always follows. On this particular day, he pops his head through the cat-door in the feed room the moment he hears me lower the fold-away ladder to the loft. As I climb the ladder, so does he. I move to the new section of the loft, which holds the better hay. As I sort through the bales, Zorro struts across the rafters, and at one point stands on his hind legs in an attempt to reach the black roof vents which spin furiously in the wind. I roll my eyes and shake my head. I'm not sure what kind of gruesome scene would play out if he put a paw in the vents, but thankfully, they're out of reach.
Within a few minutes, I've piled my chosen bales in front of the hay chute. It's a four foot square hole in the hayloft floor, which, for safety's sake, is generally covered by a sort of plywood door which is hinged on one side. I raise the door and start tossing bales. As the bales hit the floor, the hungry horses stomp their hooves and bang against their doors. Jaava, with her high-pitched voice, nickers greedily. Her stall is closest to the opening and she cranes her neck in hopes of snatching a stray strand of hay.
Like a foreman, Zorro observes the ritual from the edge of the hay chute. His eyes follow the bales as they tumble to the hardwood floor below. He leans precariously forward into the hole and I try to shoo him away, but he's enthralled.
I wrap my fingers around the orange baler twine on the next bale in line. I lift the thirty-pound mass of dried grass and swing it forward. Just as it crosses the threshold of the chute, a black streak jumps across the opening. I scream. I know what's going to happen, but I'm too late to stop it. My fingers have already let go of the twine.
Zorro is in mid-stride when the bale hits him in the ribs. I look down in time to see his legs flailing and white belly twisting as he falls with the bale to the floor, ten feet below. The bale lands with a thud. Zorro is underneath. Tears well up in my eyes. Then, I see a black streak dash across the barn and I release a huge sigh of relief. I clamber down the ladder to make sure he's ok. He stands wide-eyed in the isle, with a look of utter confusion on his face.
Thankfully, several bales were on the floor already. They broke his fall, and the space between them provided a gap for him to escape-- preventing him from being pancaked by the bale which assaulted him.
I wonder whether the experience might temper his enthusiasm for hayloft visits. I have my answer soon-enough. I climb back up the ladder to finish the job. Close on my heels is a black and white tuxedo cat. No one ever told Zorro that curiosity kills the cat.
Showing posts with label hay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hay. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Tale of the Disappearing Horse
January 10, 2011
8:20 pm
I'm on my way home from teaching riding lessons outside of Halifax. I call Dave to let him know, and to check and see how the horses and other "kids" are doing.
Me: "How are the horses?"
Dave: "They're fine."
Me: "They didn't give you any trouble coming in?"
Dave: "No. They behaved themselves." pause. "I hope I closed their stall doors".
Me: laughing, "Yeah, me too." My turn to pause. "You did close their doors, right?"
Dave: "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I did. Oh, hey, when I finished in the barn I went out on the tractor to widen the path and move some more snow around."
I notice that Dave has deftly changed the topic of conversation. I wonder about the stall doors, but I don't dwell on it. I'm sure he must have closed the stall doors, and if he thinks there's any chance he didn't, surely he'll go check. Right?
We hang up the phone and I settle-in behind the steering wheel for the rest of the hour-long drive to our rural piece of heaven.
As I finally pull onto our snow-covered road, my mind replays my earlier conversation with Dave. Just in case, I drive slowly and cautiously. I scan the ditches and alder patches for any sign of blanketed, four-legged animals, accidentally liberated by a tired, distracted husband. No such figures are illuminated by my high-beam headlights.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I roll into the driveway. The big barn door is closed, so even if anyone escaped (which I'm sure they didn't because I'm sure Dave would have double checked), they'd at least be corralled by the cinder-block walls.
It's about 20 after 9 now-- time to do night stables. I'm already in barn clothes, so I opt to check on the horses before going into the house. As usual, Zorro hears my boots crunching in the snow and leaps through his cat door to escort me into the feed room. I see Dave's left the light on. I remind myself to lecture him about the cost of electricity later. In the feed room, I take a moment to scratch Zorro's chin and pat his back, before making my way into the barn itself. Then, I flick on the lights and turn toward the horses' stalls.
Maggie, as usual, stretches her head out over her door and nods it in my direction in a plea for more food. Her door is closed and solidly latched. Murray, however, hasn't offered a greeting. I look to his stall to see the door pulled wide-open. His pile of hay is mostly untouched, and at first glance, there's no sign of him at all.
Now, Murray can be difficult, if not impossible to catch; but, he's not a wanderer at heart. He's simply not brave enough to go exploring on his own. As far as I know, the only time he ever "escaped" from his stall in the night was at Equidae stables in Halifax. The caretaker, Karen, lived in an apartment above the barn. At 1am, she woke to hear the clink of metal horse shoes on the cement floor. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, and navigated the dark steps down to the barn. When she got there, she found Murray standing outside his stall, a look of worry and concern on his face. The door to his stall was closed. As Karen opened it, he dashed back inside, clearly relieved to be "home". As far as we can tell, his sly, 22 year old, appaloosa neighbour had reached over and unlatched Murray's door. Murray seized the opportunity and headed toward freedom, but then, as the door slammed closed behind him, had second thoughts. There were no signs that he'd strayed more than a foot or two from his stall.
With that story in mind, I'm surprised that I don't see Murray behind his open door. So, I look down the isle to my left, toward the extra stalls. Still no sign of him, and no signs that anything has been disturbed. Then, I hear movement so I turn and take a few steps toward his open door. That's when I see him. I should have known.
He's standing at the back of his stall, his hindquarters pressed against the exterior wall, with his shoulders and ribs practically leaning on the dividing wall between his stall and Maggie's. He's hiding. It's a trick he mastered years ago, and has managed to replicate at every barn he's been at. He instinctively seems to know which area of his stall is least visible from the outside. He flattens himself against the wall in that area, and takes a nap. This habit of hiding in the shadows has caused many a stable manager to do a panicked double take when confronted with what, on first glance, appears to be an empty stall. It's amazing that a 12 hundred pound animal can manage to hide himself so completely.
I call Murray's name and he steps forward sleepily, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his door has been wide open for the past two hours. He drowsily meanders toward the uneaten mound of hay, and shoves his muzzle amongst the grassy forage.
I shake my head at Dave. I can't believe he left Murray's door open-- wide open. At least there was no harm done--this time. If it had been Maggie, it would be a whole different story. Hay would be spread across the isles, crossties would be pulled from the walls, and the barn in general would like a disaster zone.
8:20 pm
I'm on my way home from teaching riding lessons outside of Halifax. I call Dave to let him know, and to check and see how the horses and other "kids" are doing.
Me: "How are the horses?"
Dave: "They're fine."
Me: "They didn't give you any trouble coming in?"
Dave: "No. They behaved themselves." pause. "I hope I closed their stall doors".
Me: laughing, "Yeah, me too." My turn to pause. "You did close their doors, right?"
Dave: "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I did. Oh, hey, when I finished in the barn I went out on the tractor to widen the path and move some more snow around."
I notice that Dave has deftly changed the topic of conversation. I wonder about the stall doors, but I don't dwell on it. I'm sure he must have closed the stall doors, and if he thinks there's any chance he didn't, surely he'll go check. Right?
We hang up the phone and I settle-in behind the steering wheel for the rest of the hour-long drive to our rural piece of heaven.
As I finally pull onto our snow-covered road, my mind replays my earlier conversation with Dave. Just in case, I drive slowly and cautiously. I scan the ditches and alder patches for any sign of blanketed, four-legged animals, accidentally liberated by a tired, distracted husband. No such figures are illuminated by my high-beam headlights.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I roll into the driveway. The big barn door is closed, so even if anyone escaped (which I'm sure they didn't because I'm sure Dave would have double checked), they'd at least be corralled by the cinder-block walls.
It's about 20 after 9 now-- time to do night stables. I'm already in barn clothes, so I opt to check on the horses before going into the house. As usual, Zorro hears my boots crunching in the snow and leaps through his cat door to escort me into the feed room. I see Dave's left the light on. I remind myself to lecture him about the cost of electricity later. In the feed room, I take a moment to scratch Zorro's chin and pat his back, before making my way into the barn itself. Then, I flick on the lights and turn toward the horses' stalls.
Maggie, as usual, stretches her head out over her door and nods it in my direction in a plea for more food. Her door is closed and solidly latched. Murray, however, hasn't offered a greeting. I look to his stall to see the door pulled wide-open. His pile of hay is mostly untouched, and at first glance, there's no sign of him at all.
Now, Murray can be difficult, if not impossible to catch; but, he's not a wanderer at heart. He's simply not brave enough to go exploring on his own. As far as I know, the only time he ever "escaped" from his stall in the night was at Equidae stables in Halifax. The caretaker, Karen, lived in an apartment above the barn. At 1am, she woke to hear the clink of metal horse shoes on the cement floor. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, and navigated the dark steps down to the barn. When she got there, she found Murray standing outside his stall, a look of worry and concern on his face. The door to his stall was closed. As Karen opened it, he dashed back inside, clearly relieved to be "home". As far as we can tell, his sly, 22 year old, appaloosa neighbour had reached over and unlatched Murray's door. Murray seized the opportunity and headed toward freedom, but then, as the door slammed closed behind him, had second thoughts. There were no signs that he'd strayed more than a foot or two from his stall.
With that story in mind, I'm surprised that I don't see Murray behind his open door. So, I look down the isle to my left, toward the extra stalls. Still no sign of him, and no signs that anything has been disturbed. Then, I hear movement so I turn and take a few steps toward his open door. That's when I see him. I should have known.
He's standing at the back of his stall, his hindquarters pressed against the exterior wall, with his shoulders and ribs practically leaning on the dividing wall between his stall and Maggie's. He's hiding. It's a trick he mastered years ago, and has managed to replicate at every barn he's been at. He instinctively seems to know which area of his stall is least visible from the outside. He flattens himself against the wall in that area, and takes a nap. This habit of hiding in the shadows has caused many a stable manager to do a panicked double take when confronted with what, on first glance, appears to be an empty stall. It's amazing that a 12 hundred pound animal can manage to hide himself so completely.
I call Murray's name and he steps forward sleepily, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his door has been wide open for the past two hours. He drowsily meanders toward the uneaten mound of hay, and shoves his muzzle amongst the grassy forage.
I shake my head at Dave. I can't believe he left Murray's door open-- wide open. At least there was no harm done--this time. If it had been Maggie, it would be a whole different story. Hay would be spread across the isles, crossties would be pulled from the walls, and the barn in general would like a disaster zone.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
November Rain Brings Hay Pain
When it comes to the horses, hay is our biggest expense and I spent hours and hours searching the countryside for the best quality bales I could find. It wasn't fun, and I accidentally offended a local Mennonite farmer in the process. Finally though, I found exactly the kind of nutritious, fine, soft hay that Murray needs to keep his weight up and his lungs clear. Only now, I'm watching hundreds of dollars worth of hay morph into moldy, dusty, useless lumps...and there's nothing I can do about it.
Late July
It's a warm Saturday afternoon day when our first load of hay arrives. It's first-cut. It's very good quality, but it's coarse, and it has a fairly low protein content. It's exactly the kind of hay that would cause Murray to turn up his nose. However, it's perfect for Maggie, an overweight mare who eat absolutely anything. Unfortunately, I'm at work, so it's up to Dave to hoist the bales from our bright yellow hay conveyor. When I get home, I assess his work, and I'm impressed. Two hundred and fifty bales are stacked neatly in the back portion of the loft.
Late August
The call comes that the second load of hay is ready for delivery. This is the expensive hay-- Murray's hay. It's second-cut, high in protein, bright-green, sweet-smelling, and very fine and soft. Unfortunately, Dave and I are in Newfoundland. We can't be there to accept the load. So, our horse/house-sitter kindly offers to offload the hay for us... with the help of her friend who's visiting from Germany (some vacation).
I feel for them. Loading hay is hard work in any weather, but this is the hottest week of the summer in Nova Scotia. Daytime temperatures are in the low to mid 30's. Nights are just as warm. Humidity is through the roof.
The hay arrives on a sunny, sticky weekday afternoon. We thought the loft would be able to hold all the hay. At most, we figured the last few bales could be stored in a spare stall next to Murray. But the girls filled the loft and there were still many bales left on the truck. The girls filled the spare stall to the rafters. Still there were more bales to offload. They had no other choice but to put some of the hay in one of the newer stalls-- a stall with cinder block walls. A stall which oozes with mold-inducing moisture anytime it's rainy or humid. The girls did everything right. They stacked the hay neatly and they kept the doors and windows open for ventilation.
By the time I got home though, and by the time hurricane Earl whipped up the winds and brought still more humidity to the air, several of the cinder block-stall bales were starting to turn black and moldy. Dave and I moved a few things around and hoisted as many bales as we could from the stall up to the loft. We lost about two dozen bales, but we weren't overly concerned-- especially when we found out that our hay suppliers had sold us 120 more bales than we'd planned to buy (no wonder they wouldn't all fit in the loft). The rest of the hay looked great. And it continued to look great until about two days ago.
Early November
With the exception of two days last week, It's been raining steadily for the past two weeks. During that time, we've had close to 300mm of rain. On top of that, the temperatures have been unseasonably warm, and even when drops of water aren't falling pounding down from the sky in the form of rain, they're sitting heavily in the air causing everything to become sticky and wet. The high humidity is exaggerated in the barn where moisture oozes through the relatively new cinder block walls, and drips from the corrugated plastic roof over Murray and Maggie's heads. Nothing in the barn seems to stay dry in this weather.
Despite the moisture in the barn, the hayloft above (with its wooden floors and walls) stays much dryer. It also has very good ventilation in the form of spinning roof vents. Even so, I check the hay regularly, for signs of mold. All was fine until two days ago.
Two days ago I went into the loft to throw down some more bales of Maggie's hay. I picked up a bale and noticed tiny white spores on several of the stalks-- mold. I reached for another bale and yanked it to the floor. It fell with a thud and a cloud of white dust rose around it-- mold. I started checking more and more bales and I started finding more and more mold. My stomach sank. I tossed several bad bales down the chute-- destined for the manure pile. But how many more are up there? There's no way to know.
I hoped at first that the problem was confined to Maggie's hay, but as I delved further into the neatly stacked pile, I found a few of the once rich, soft, sweet-smelling, expensive Murray bales also covered in tiny, sour-smelling white spores. My hay is going bad and I don't know what to do. Because we accidentally bought extra hay, we have a cushion. But it's only November, and I don't know whether that cushion will fill Murray and Maggie's bellies until next July.
Late July
It's a warm Saturday afternoon day when our first load of hay arrives. It's first-cut. It's very good quality, but it's coarse, and it has a fairly low protein content. It's exactly the kind of hay that would cause Murray to turn up his nose. However, it's perfect for Maggie, an overweight mare who eat absolutely anything. Unfortunately, I'm at work, so it's up to Dave to hoist the bales from our bright yellow hay conveyor. When I get home, I assess his work, and I'm impressed. Two hundred and fifty bales are stacked neatly in the back portion of the loft.
Late August
The call comes that the second load of hay is ready for delivery. This is the expensive hay-- Murray's hay. It's second-cut, high in protein, bright-green, sweet-smelling, and very fine and soft. Unfortunately, Dave and I are in Newfoundland. We can't be there to accept the load. So, our horse/house-sitter kindly offers to offload the hay for us... with the help of her friend who's visiting from Germany (some vacation).
I feel for them. Loading hay is hard work in any weather, but this is the hottest week of the summer in Nova Scotia. Daytime temperatures are in the low to mid 30's. Nights are just as warm. Humidity is through the roof.
The hay arrives on a sunny, sticky weekday afternoon. We thought the loft would be able to hold all the hay. At most, we figured the last few bales could be stored in a spare stall next to Murray. But the girls filled the loft and there were still many bales left on the truck. The girls filled the spare stall to the rafters. Still there were more bales to offload. They had no other choice but to put some of the hay in one of the newer stalls-- a stall with cinder block walls. A stall which oozes with mold-inducing moisture anytime it's rainy or humid. The girls did everything right. They stacked the hay neatly and they kept the doors and windows open for ventilation.
By the time I got home though, and by the time hurricane Earl whipped up the winds and brought still more humidity to the air, several of the cinder block-stall bales were starting to turn black and moldy. Dave and I moved a few things around and hoisted as many bales as we could from the stall up to the loft. We lost about two dozen bales, but we weren't overly concerned-- especially when we found out that our hay suppliers had sold us 120 more bales than we'd planned to buy (no wonder they wouldn't all fit in the loft). The rest of the hay looked great. And it continued to look great until about two days ago.
Early November
With the exception of two days last week, It's been raining steadily for the past two weeks. During that time, we've had close to 300mm of rain. On top of that, the temperatures have been unseasonably warm, and even when drops of water aren't falling pounding down from the sky in the form of rain, they're sitting heavily in the air causing everything to become sticky and wet. The high humidity is exaggerated in the barn where moisture oozes through the relatively new cinder block walls, and drips from the corrugated plastic roof over Murray and Maggie's heads. Nothing in the barn seems to stay dry in this weather.
Despite the moisture in the barn, the hayloft above (with its wooden floors and walls) stays much dryer. It also has very good ventilation in the form of spinning roof vents. Even so, I check the hay regularly, for signs of mold. All was fine until two days ago.
Two days ago I went into the loft to throw down some more bales of Maggie's hay. I picked up a bale and noticed tiny white spores on several of the stalks-- mold. I reached for another bale and yanked it to the floor. It fell with a thud and a cloud of white dust rose around it-- mold. I started checking more and more bales and I started finding more and more mold. My stomach sank. I tossed several bad bales down the chute-- destined for the manure pile. But how many more are up there? There's no way to know.
I hoped at first that the problem was confined to Maggie's hay, but as I delved further into the neatly stacked pile, I found a few of the once rich, soft, sweet-smelling, expensive Murray bales also covered in tiny, sour-smelling white spores. My hay is going bad and I don't know what to do. Because we accidentally bought extra hay, we have a cushion. But it's only November, and I don't know whether that cushion will fill Murray and Maggie's bellies until next July.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Getting Rid of the Evidence
The evidence of Maggie's ill-fated leap over the paddock gate is slowly disappearing. The scars on the fence (the splintered posts, and kicked-down boards)have all been repaired-- thanks to Dave and his dad Fred, who was in town this past weekend. His jaw dropped when he saw how much damage Maggie had actually done, especially to the otherwise sturdy metal gate. He and Dave lifted the gate from its hinges, laid it on the driveway, placed two boards on it, and drove the truck over it in an attempt to straighten it's warped, bent, twisted frame. It's not perfect, but it is usable again.
The scars on Maggie's body aren't so easy to erase...though she is improving. On Saturday, Maggie trotted for the first time. Well, perhaps "trot" is a bit of an overstatement. I was throwing a fresh flake of hay into her paddock, and instead of the toe-dragging shuffle she has been using, she gingerly jogged about 5 steps toward the pile. She was very lame, but I still consider it a small step forward on the road to recovery.
Her cuts and scrapes are healing well, but her stifles are still puffy and sore. She pins her ears, swishes her tail, and spins her head toward me violently when I try and touch her left stifle-- very out-of-character for this laid-back, "laissez-faire" girl.
Unfortunately, as a side-effect of her lack of exercise, and of my sympathy toward her, I'm pretty sure Maggie's full-figure is expanding once again. I've tried cutting back her grain, but even when I'm riding her six days a week, she only gets a handful of sweet-feed plus vitamins. If I give her anything less, she won't get anything at all, and then I'll have a cranky, door-banging, tantrum-throwing, head-tossing mare on my hands.
But worse than the grain, is the belly-fattening hay. Murray and Maggie are in separate paddocks now, (until Maggie is once again able to defend herself against Murray's constant harassment). I thought this arrangement would be a perfect opportunity to offer skinny Murray all-the-hay-he-can-eat, while keeping Maggie's hay consumption to a minimum. I'm trying, but Murray eats so slowly, and Maggie devours her smaller portions so quickly, that she ends up standing at the fence watching him eat. Then, every time I step out of the house (or even if she sees me through the window) she looks longingly at me and bats her long black eyelashes, and I think about how helpless I felt watching and listening to her gasp for breath while stuck on the fence, and I cave. I open a bail, and I toss her another flake--which she of course devours at hot-dog-eating-contest speed. Then the coy, pleading looks start again.
The scars on Maggie's body aren't so easy to erase...though she is improving. On Saturday, Maggie trotted for the first time. Well, perhaps "trot" is a bit of an overstatement. I was throwing a fresh flake of hay into her paddock, and instead of the toe-dragging shuffle she has been using, she gingerly jogged about 5 steps toward the pile. She was very lame, but I still consider it a small step forward on the road to recovery.
Her cuts and scrapes are healing well, but her stifles are still puffy and sore. She pins her ears, swishes her tail, and spins her head toward me violently when I try and touch her left stifle-- very out-of-character for this laid-back, "laissez-faire" girl.
Unfortunately, as a side-effect of her lack of exercise, and of my sympathy toward her, I'm pretty sure Maggie's full-figure is expanding once again. I've tried cutting back her grain, but even when I'm riding her six days a week, she only gets a handful of sweet-feed plus vitamins. If I give her anything less, she won't get anything at all, and then I'll have a cranky, door-banging, tantrum-throwing, head-tossing mare on my hands.
But worse than the grain, is the belly-fattening hay. Murray and Maggie are in separate paddocks now, (until Maggie is once again able to defend herself against Murray's constant harassment). I thought this arrangement would be a perfect opportunity to offer skinny Murray all-the-hay-he-can-eat, while keeping Maggie's hay consumption to a minimum. I'm trying, but Murray eats so slowly, and Maggie devours her smaller portions so quickly, that she ends up standing at the fence watching him eat. Then, every time I step out of the house (or even if she sees me through the window) she looks longingly at me and bats her long black eyelashes, and I think about how helpless I felt watching and listening to her gasp for breath while stuck on the fence, and I cave. I open a bail, and I toss her another flake--which she of course devours at hot-dog-eating-contest speed. Then the coy, pleading looks start again.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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.
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