It's been several months since Murray broke out in any odd rashes, or gauged himself on normally harmless items, or found a way to make himself lame. His luck was bound to run out sometime.
Tuesday, January 11
9:30 pm
Dave and I pour up mugs of decaffinated tea and trudge out to the barn for night stables. He re-fills water buckets while I pick manure from the stalls. As I shove the wheelbarrow into Murray's penthouse suite, I notice that something doesn't seem right. His left front leg looks odd. His cannon bone (the large bone which connects his knee to his fetlock/ankle) looks larger than usual.
I bend down to feel it, but Murray backs away. We do an odd dance around his stall until I finally convince him to let me touch his leg (I'm too stubborn to go grab his halter). There's no heat, I can clearly see his tendons, and at first there doesn't seem to be any swelling. Then, I feel the inside of his cannon bone and notice that the area over an old splint (a bony lump on the inside of his cannon bone) is a bit soft. That explains it.
The splint itself doesn't generally bother Murray, but because it's on the inside of his cannon bone, and because Murray has a tendency to whack himself with his opposite front leg, it does sometimes tend to become irritated, causing new bone growth to form, which in turn makes the splint larger, and which in turn makes it more likely that Murray will hit it again. I'm not to worried though. This cycle has been repeating itself for about five years now, and it generally doesn't cause any lameness.
Wednesday, January 12
7:45am
It's a beautiful, but eery morning. A blizzard is set to blow in later this afternoon; but for now, the air is still, and a curtain of thick grey fog makes the landscape look like something out of a black and white movie. Sepia grasses poking up through a blanket of snow are tipped with silver frost, as are the black fence rails. It's a great day for a ride, and as I dump Murray's grain into his bucket, I remind him that we're going for a romp in the snow before the bad weather hits. I've completely forgotten the bit of swelling I noticed in his leg last night.
I go about my morning chores as the horses crunch their pelletted feed. I'm partly done mucking Murray's stall when I notice his leg-- again. Uh-oh. Eleven hours later, and it's clear the splint is not the problem. No, while there is some tenderness on that splint, it's clear the real problem is on the outside of his leg, in his tendons. The swelling starts just below the knee and goes all the way to his fetlock. It's at its thickest about halfway down the lower portion of his leg. I'm hoping it's just a strain and not a bowed tendon, but with Murray's luck it's hard to say. I guess it's time to dust off the old ice packs and dig out the bottle of bute. And I guess Maggie will get a workout in the snow for the second day in a row.
Showing posts with label lameness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lameness. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Friday, March 12, 2010
Lessons Learned
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Murray's head is buried, cheek-deep in his feed-tub as I bend down to check his leg. It's a good thing I'm wearing a hat, since he uses his muzzle to send the less-appealing parts of his breakfast (mostly beet pulp) flying out of the tub and into the air. Wet beet pulp in my hair, not exactly the fashion statement I was going for.
The swelling on the upper outside of his left cannon is still there, and it's still warm, and it's still sore to the touch. I'm now fairly certain he's pulled his check ligament. I should have known better. I've had this horse for 13 years. I have known from the start (two pulled suspensory ligaments) that his long legs don't tolerate deep or wet footing. I've been so careful over the years, continuing to ride him indoors for weeks after everyone else is outside enjoying the sun. This time I guess I just got caught up in the moment. The footing in the ring was, and is great for just about any horse. But I know better than anyone that Murray's not any horse.
I refuse to keep him indoors on stall rest. He's 22, he's in a new place, and he needs to be outside moving around. I ice his leg, turn him out, and decide to bandage him overnight when he comes in.
2:00pm
I toss the horses some hay, and head toward Maggie, halter in hand. Even though Murray's out of commission, she still needs work. As I approach, I notice she's caked in mud, and every step she takes sends her short black hair flying through the air. It's sunny and warm, so I decide we'll probably both be happier if I groom her outdoors. I get her grooming kit and start brushing her right there in the middle of the pasture. She munches contentedly on her hay until she catches a glimpse of the box full of brushes.
I noticed Maggie's childlike curiosity within the first few days we had her. If there's something new, she wants to look at it, sniff it, and examine it with her lips (probably checking to see if it's edible). I find it fascinating, especially since Murray has the complete opposite reaction. If there's anything new in his environment, his first reaction is to turn and run, and not look back. I couldn't have chosen two more different horses if I'd tried.
So, Maggie's muzzle twitches as she starts riffling through the grooming kit. I let her, though I keep a close eye on her in case she tries to pick up the scissors, or something similar. Instead, she fixes her attention on my leather work gloves. Her lips smack as she forces them deeper into the blue-box, then, up comes her head, a yellow glove dangling from her mouth. Ok, time to step in. She's holding the glove between her teeth, and I have to tug hard to free it from her hungry grasp.
I drop the glove back into the box and divert her attention back to the hay on the ground, so I can continue flicking the mud from her coat. Moments later, I look up, and there's the glove, slowly disappearing into Maggie's mouth. I once again release the now slimy glove from her grasp. Perhaps this is a game I shouldn't have encouraged. If curiosity killed the cat, what did it do to the horse?
5:30 pm
Another beautiful sunset. I finally remember my camera. I bring it with me in hopes of taking a few shots before I bring in the horses-- perhaps the deer will be roaming in the field again (they aren't). The horses watch me leave the house, and immediately start jostling for position at the gate. They know it's almost supper time, and I'm their meal ticket.
I shove them back from the gate, and slip into the pasture. My camera is around my neck as I squelch my way through the mud to an area that will give me good light. At one point my pink rain boot is sucked down to the point that I nearly lose it in the muck.
Maggie follows so close behind me that I feel her breath on my neck, and Murray is following just as closely behind her. The two of them are quipping back and forth, pinning ears, and squealing complaints. They're cranky and hungry, and there's a good chance I'm going to get bowled over if they get into a real squabble. I yell at Murray to back off and he does (there's a certain irony in the fact that I've spent hours and hours over the past 10 years trying to catch him, and now I'm yelling at him to go away).
I try to take a few pictures, but Maggie keeps coming over to inspect my lens. Murray (jealous boy that he is) will have none of that. He chases her away, then stands in front of me waiting for whatever I must be doling out. I retreat and try again.
This game continues, and all three of us are becoming more and more frustrated. Finally Murray charges Maggie with particular intensity, mouth wide-open, showing his long, slanting teeth. His ears are pressed flat against his head. I stumble backwards out of the way just as he sinks his teeth into the ample flesh on Maggie's rump. There's a squeal, and a crack as she finally mounts an offence by kicking vigorously with both hind legs. One of them connects with Murray's shoulder and I'm suddenly very, very thankful that Maggie's not wearing shoes. I shout and wave my arms at them, and they grudgingly go their separate ways.
They're both ok, nothing more serious than wounded pride. But I abandon my photography for the night, and lead the sulking horses inside to their grain. Note to self: no matter how beautiful the light, don't try and take pictures of the horses at supper time.
Murray's head is buried, cheek-deep in his feed-tub as I bend down to check his leg. It's a good thing I'm wearing a hat, since he uses his muzzle to send the less-appealing parts of his breakfast (mostly beet pulp) flying out of the tub and into the air. Wet beet pulp in my hair, not exactly the fashion statement I was going for.
The swelling on the upper outside of his left cannon is still there, and it's still warm, and it's still sore to the touch. I'm now fairly certain he's pulled his check ligament. I should have known better. I've had this horse for 13 years. I have known from the start (two pulled suspensory ligaments) that his long legs don't tolerate deep or wet footing. I've been so careful over the years, continuing to ride him indoors for weeks after everyone else is outside enjoying the sun. This time I guess I just got caught up in the moment. The footing in the ring was, and is great for just about any horse. But I know better than anyone that Murray's not any horse.
I refuse to keep him indoors on stall rest. He's 22, he's in a new place, and he needs to be outside moving around. I ice his leg, turn him out, and decide to bandage him overnight when he comes in.
2:00pm
I toss the horses some hay, and head toward Maggie, halter in hand. Even though Murray's out of commission, she still needs work. As I approach, I notice she's caked in mud, and every step she takes sends her short black hair flying through the air. It's sunny and warm, so I decide we'll probably both be happier if I groom her outdoors. I get her grooming kit and start brushing her right there in the middle of the pasture. She munches contentedly on her hay until she catches a glimpse of the box full of brushes.
I noticed Maggie's childlike curiosity within the first few days we had her. If there's something new, she wants to look at it, sniff it, and examine it with her lips (probably checking to see if it's edible). I find it fascinating, especially since Murray has the complete opposite reaction. If there's anything new in his environment, his first reaction is to turn and run, and not look back. I couldn't have chosen two more different horses if I'd tried.
So, Maggie's muzzle twitches as she starts riffling through the grooming kit. I let her, though I keep a close eye on her in case she tries to pick up the scissors, or something similar. Instead, she fixes her attention on my leather work gloves. Her lips smack as she forces them deeper into the blue-box, then, up comes her head, a yellow glove dangling from her mouth. Ok, time to step in. She's holding the glove between her teeth, and I have to tug hard to free it from her hungry grasp.
I drop the glove back into the box and divert her attention back to the hay on the ground, so I can continue flicking the mud from her coat. Moments later, I look up, and there's the glove, slowly disappearing into Maggie's mouth. I once again release the now slimy glove from her grasp. Perhaps this is a game I shouldn't have encouraged. If curiosity killed the cat, what did it do to the horse?
5:30 pm
Another beautiful sunset. I finally remember my camera. I bring it with me in hopes of taking a few shots before I bring in the horses-- perhaps the deer will be roaming in the field again (they aren't). The horses watch me leave the house, and immediately start jostling for position at the gate. They know it's almost supper time, and I'm their meal ticket.
I shove them back from the gate, and slip into the pasture. My camera is around my neck as I squelch my way through the mud to an area that will give me good light. At one point my pink rain boot is sucked down to the point that I nearly lose it in the muck.
Maggie follows so close behind me that I feel her breath on my neck, and Murray is following just as closely behind her. The two of them are quipping back and forth, pinning ears, and squealing complaints. They're cranky and hungry, and there's a good chance I'm going to get bowled over if they get into a real squabble. I yell at Murray to back off and he does (there's a certain irony in the fact that I've spent hours and hours over the past 10 years trying to catch him, and now I'm yelling at him to go away).
I try to take a few pictures, but Maggie keeps coming over to inspect my lens. Murray (jealous boy that he is) will have none of that. He chases her away, then stands in front of me waiting for whatever I must be doling out. I retreat and try again.
This game continues, and all three of us are becoming more and more frustrated. Finally Murray charges Maggie with particular intensity, mouth wide-open, showing his long, slanting teeth. His ears are pressed flat against his head. I stumble backwards out of the way just as he sinks his teeth into the ample flesh on Maggie's rump. There's a squeal, and a crack as she finally mounts an offence by kicking vigorously with both hind legs. One of them connects with Murray's shoulder and I'm suddenly very, very thankful that Maggie's not wearing shoes. I shout and wave my arms at them, and they grudgingly go their separate ways.
They're both ok, nothing more serious than wounded pride. But I abandon my photography for the night, and lead the sulking horses inside to their grain. Note to self: no matter how beautiful the light, don't try and take pictures of the horses at supper time.
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