11:00am: I glance out the window to see the door to the hayloft waiving in the wind. The last thing I need is for five hundred fresh bales of hay to get soaked, and rot. I yank on my rain jacket and step out into Earl. I shouldn't have bothered with the jacket. It's just a short dash to the barn, but I'm already soaked from the horizontal rain.
The horses are no longer oblivious to the elements. Rain is pouring in through the cracks in their outside doors, and blowing into their open windows (I don't want to close them because it's very stuffy and humid right now).
I throw down the ladder to the hayloft, run up its steps, and climb across hundreds of bales of sweet-smelling hay to get to the loft door. The door is warped, and so is the metal loop that the sliding bolt is supposed to fit into. I have some strong ropes which I run from the door handle to the beams in the roof. I pull them tight and tie them, but there is still a gap, and the wind's ghost-like fingers won't stop trying to pry it open. I run back across the bales of hay, down the ladder, and into Dave's workshop. I scan the mess and find a set of pliers that I hope to use to fix the bolt.
As I'm about to scramble back up the stairs, I hear a crash, and the horses jump. Maggie's window swings shut and starts slamming against its frame. The wind has managed to rip the latch from the siding on the outside of the barn. I drop the pliers, run outside, and struggle to bolt the window closed.. Eventually, I get it. With rain dripping from my hair and clothes, I head back inside.
The pliers work and I manage to secure the bolt, though the wind still whistles through the small cracks, angry that I've managed to thwart its efforts. I'm just about to make my way down the ladder when everything goes dark, and the radio goes quiet. The power is out. Within 20 seconds or so, it's back on, but it's been flickering on and off ever since.
11:45 I really must have angered the wind, beacuse if I thought it was raging before, I was wrong. It's much worse now. The floor is vibrating and there's a deep, roaring sound each time the wind forces its way between the hurricane shutters and the picture window. I'm afraid that if this continues, the shutter will be ripped from the frame. I'm not sure what will happen then.
Showing posts with label nova scotia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nova scotia. Show all posts
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Quiet Rides, Wildlife, and Disappointment
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.
*****************************************
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.
**********************************************************
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.
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.
*****************************************
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.
**********************************************************
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The First Crisis
Sat. March 6th
The horses have been here for a week, but it's been too windy and wet to ride. Today is the first sunny day, and I'm ready to hop in the saddle.
The ground is still a bit hard, so I decide to ride Murray, who has shoes with ice studs. I consider riding in the ring, but it's still mostly snow-covered and wet, so I opt for a ride down the road instead. Now, anyone who knows Murray has heard tales of woe stemming from our out-of-the-ring rides. He is not a pleasurable trail-ride horse. He is obstinant, spooky, and when he becomes really frustrated, he's liable to throw himself into a ditch, up a tree, or off a cliff simply out of spite. These fits can come on suddenly, without warning, and when they do, there's nothing you can do but hang on and hope that he eventually chooses to stomp, leap and spin his way home (hopefully away from traffic). In case you're wondering, dismounting isn't generally a safe option in these instances, as he's liable run you over in a blind panic. It's just one of Murray's many quirks, so, I wasn't sure quite what to expect as I rode out onto our dirt road on a blustery Saturday afternoon.
*****************************************************
Maggie calls out to Murray as we leave the driveway. I can see her trotting back and forth along the fence-line. Good for her, she needs the exercise anyway. At least Murray seems unperterbed. He's looking around him curiously, ears swivelling like mini-antennae. He catches sight of the large empty field across the road, and I feel him start to veer in that direction. I give him a nudge with my leg, and he reluctantly veers back to the side of the road. He jumps a bit as we pass a narrow road to what appears to be a gravel pit, and he quite typically stumbles in a pothole or two, but otherwise, all goes well, even when we reach the first houses a few kilometres up the road. He stares intently at the white siding, ready to leap should any monsters reveal themselves in the doorways, but thankfully there are no horse-eating ghouls today.
We've been walking for about 15 minutes. We're just past the houses, and since all is going well, I decide this is enough for one day, and we turn to come home. Now, this is the point at which Murray usually becomes unruley. He is a thoroughbred off the track afterall, and they are taught to run for home. I give him a long rein and stay as relaxed as I possibly can in the saddle. I hum silly songs like Rockin' Robin, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. That works for about a minute, then the jigging and dancing begins. I let him blast off at a massive extended trot for a bit to blow off some steam. After a few hundred metres I test the brakes to see if I have any control at all. I do, I'm surprised. He still dances and yanks on the reins, and swings himself slightly sideways, but for him, those are just minor inconveniences. I find I can even bring him to a halt if I need to.
As we approach the house, Murray tries to turn into the driveway on his own, but I decide to ride him just a little further, so he doesn't assume he can turn just because we're home. Maggie has noticed our arrival, and follows us along the fence-line, whinnying in frustration the entire time. The end of our walk is uneventful, and I wave to Dave in the barn as I ride down to the ring, just to see how it looks.
I'm almost at the ring when, suddenly, after a particularily desperate whinny from Maggie, I hear metal clanging behind me. I turn just in time to see the fuzzy, overweight black mare launch her entire 13 hundred pound body at the metal gate to the paddock. The screw-eye pops out of the fence post, the clip holding the gate comes lose, and Maggie gets her first taste of freedom.
I assume she'll come straight for Murray, and that's exactly what she starts to do, but then she seems to notice the as-yet unexplored field on the left (it's where we pile our manure). Her voracious appetite and never-ending quest for food easily win-out over her desire to see Murray. Halterless, she manoevers her way over the piles of decomposing manure, and into an open field of long, brown, dead grass.
I hop off Murray (who's clearly offended that his love interest has chosen food over him), and start yelling for Dave. It's windy though, and my voice doesn't carry. I run with Murray back into the fenced-in paddock, hoping Maggie with follow, but she keeps moving further away. I call again for Dave, and he starts walking non-chalantly toward me.
Me: HURRY
Dave: What do you want? How was your ride?
Me: Maggie's lose!
Dave (still nonplussed): What?
Me: MAGGIE IS LOSE!!
Understanding dawns on Dave's face just as Maggie abandons the field and barrels down the gravel lane toward him. I try to call her into the paddock, but she's drunk with freedom, and heading toward the front of the barn-- and consequently, the road.
Dave tries to cut her off, but she dodges him (she's much more agile than I would have given her credit for). He tries to herd her into the open barn doors, but that doesn't work either. I come running around the corner holding Murray (who by now is completely baffled as to what's going on). I arrive just in time to see Dave coral Maggie into a small pasture. The problem is, there's no gate, and she's getting ready to double back. Between Dave, Murray and I, we herd her further back into an enclosed paddock, and we lock her in until I can grab a halter.
We fix (and reinforce) the latch on the gate, and put the horses back out, thankful that no one was hurt. Crisis averted, but I'm starting to wonder if there isn't more to Miss Maggie than I first thought.
Post Script:
It's six pm and I'm bringing the horses in. Maggie's at the gate first, so I pull her halter over her ears and lead her through the gate. Once we're out, I turn back to latch the gate so Murray can't escape. Suddenly, I feel a tug at my arm, and the brand-new slippery (but pretty), nylon leadline slides through my fingers and onto the ground. This wouldn't be so bad, except that Maggie's attached to the other end of that leadline, and she's making a beeline for the manure-pile pasture she started to explore earlier today. I leap forward in time to step on the end of the line, but it's slippery, and she's oblivious, and she simply tugs it out from under my feet. She trots through the muck, occasionally stepping on the leadline, and jerking her head down in the process. Undaunted, she continues, always just out of my reach. Finally, after probably about two minutes, she steps on the leadline so high up that her nose is pretty much pinned to the ground. She stays like that until I can reach her (thankfully she didn't realize that all she had to do to free herself was to lift her hoof). Again, I'm left wondering what more I'm going to learn about Maggie and her wandering ways.
The horses have been here for a week, but it's been too windy and wet to ride. Today is the first sunny day, and I'm ready to hop in the saddle.
The ground is still a bit hard, so I decide to ride Murray, who has shoes with ice studs. I consider riding in the ring, but it's still mostly snow-covered and wet, so I opt for a ride down the road instead. Now, anyone who knows Murray has heard tales of woe stemming from our out-of-the-ring rides. He is not a pleasurable trail-ride horse. He is obstinant, spooky, and when he becomes really frustrated, he's liable to throw himself into a ditch, up a tree, or off a cliff simply out of spite. These fits can come on suddenly, without warning, and when they do, there's nothing you can do but hang on and hope that he eventually chooses to stomp, leap and spin his way home (hopefully away from traffic). In case you're wondering, dismounting isn't generally a safe option in these instances, as he's liable run you over in a blind panic. It's just one of Murray's many quirks, so, I wasn't sure quite what to expect as I rode out onto our dirt road on a blustery Saturday afternoon.
*****************************************************
Maggie calls out to Murray as we leave the driveway. I can see her trotting back and forth along the fence-line. Good for her, she needs the exercise anyway. At least Murray seems unperterbed. He's looking around him curiously, ears swivelling like mini-antennae. He catches sight of the large empty field across the road, and I feel him start to veer in that direction. I give him a nudge with my leg, and he reluctantly veers back to the side of the road. He jumps a bit as we pass a narrow road to what appears to be a gravel pit, and he quite typically stumbles in a pothole or two, but otherwise, all goes well, even when we reach the first houses a few kilometres up the road. He stares intently at the white siding, ready to leap should any monsters reveal themselves in the doorways, but thankfully there are no horse-eating ghouls today.
We've been walking for about 15 minutes. We're just past the houses, and since all is going well, I decide this is enough for one day, and we turn to come home. Now, this is the point at which Murray usually becomes unruley. He is a thoroughbred off the track afterall, and they are taught to run for home. I give him a long rein and stay as relaxed as I possibly can in the saddle. I hum silly songs like Rockin' Robin, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. That works for about a minute, then the jigging and dancing begins. I let him blast off at a massive extended trot for a bit to blow off some steam. After a few hundred metres I test the brakes to see if I have any control at all. I do, I'm surprised. He still dances and yanks on the reins, and swings himself slightly sideways, but for him, those are just minor inconveniences. I find I can even bring him to a halt if I need to.
As we approach the house, Murray tries to turn into the driveway on his own, but I decide to ride him just a little further, so he doesn't assume he can turn just because we're home. Maggie has noticed our arrival, and follows us along the fence-line, whinnying in frustration the entire time. The end of our walk is uneventful, and I wave to Dave in the barn as I ride down to the ring, just to see how it looks.
I'm almost at the ring when, suddenly, after a particularily desperate whinny from Maggie, I hear metal clanging behind me. I turn just in time to see the fuzzy, overweight black mare launch her entire 13 hundred pound body at the metal gate to the paddock. The screw-eye pops out of the fence post, the clip holding the gate comes lose, and Maggie gets her first taste of freedom.
I assume she'll come straight for Murray, and that's exactly what she starts to do, but then she seems to notice the as-yet unexplored field on the left (it's where we pile our manure). Her voracious appetite and never-ending quest for food easily win-out over her desire to see Murray. Halterless, she manoevers her way over the piles of decomposing manure, and into an open field of long, brown, dead grass.
I hop off Murray (who's clearly offended that his love interest has chosen food over him), and start yelling for Dave. It's windy though, and my voice doesn't carry. I run with Murray back into the fenced-in paddock, hoping Maggie with follow, but she keeps moving further away. I call again for Dave, and he starts walking non-chalantly toward me.
Me: HURRY
Dave: What do you want? How was your ride?
Me: Maggie's lose!
Dave (still nonplussed): What?
Me: MAGGIE IS LOSE!!
Understanding dawns on Dave's face just as Maggie abandons the field and barrels down the gravel lane toward him. I try to call her into the paddock, but she's drunk with freedom, and heading toward the front of the barn-- and consequently, the road.
Dave tries to cut her off, but she dodges him (she's much more agile than I would have given her credit for). He tries to herd her into the open barn doors, but that doesn't work either. I come running around the corner holding Murray (who by now is completely baffled as to what's going on). I arrive just in time to see Dave coral Maggie into a small pasture. The problem is, there's no gate, and she's getting ready to double back. Between Dave, Murray and I, we herd her further back into an enclosed paddock, and we lock her in until I can grab a halter.
We fix (and reinforce) the latch on the gate, and put the horses back out, thankful that no one was hurt. Crisis averted, but I'm starting to wonder if there isn't more to Miss Maggie than I first thought.
Post Script:
It's six pm and I'm bringing the horses in. Maggie's at the gate first, so I pull her halter over her ears and lead her through the gate. Once we're out, I turn back to latch the gate so Murray can't escape. Suddenly, I feel a tug at my arm, and the brand-new slippery (but pretty), nylon leadline slides through my fingers and onto the ground. This wouldn't be so bad, except that Maggie's attached to the other end of that leadline, and she's making a beeline for the manure-pile pasture she started to explore earlier today. I leap forward in time to step on the end of the line, but it's slippery, and she's oblivious, and she simply tugs it out from under my feet. She trots through the muck, occasionally stepping on the leadline, and jerking her head down in the process. Undaunted, she continues, always just out of my reach. Finally, after probably about two minutes, she steps on the leadline so high up that her nose is pretty much pinned to the ground. She stays like that until I can reach her (thankfully she didn't realize that all she had to do to free herself was to lift her hoof). Again, I'm left wondering what more I'm going to learn about Maggie and her wandering ways.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)