Happy Birthday Murray

Last year, Murray's birthday was overshadowed by Maggie's Kamikazee incident.
Thankfully, this year Murray had the chance to eat his birthday stud-muffins without all the chaos.

Monday April 11
The horses have been separated in their smaller paddocks for the past week to give their larger paddock a chance to dry out. Today though, with rain and wind in the forecast, they're to be reunited again-- so they can huddle together in the run-in shed if need-be.

"The girls" are already outside, choosing their hay piles by the time I bring Murray out. He walks obediently by my side, but I can tell by the spring in his step, that he's having a hard time containing his enthusiasm.

I open the gate, and walk him into the paddock. He turns his head toward the mares as I close the gate behind us. I stroke his neck and he jumps slightly. Yep, he's clearly on edge. I reach up to remove his halter, but just then, I notice that his blanket is crooked. I don't know why this bothers me. It's always crooked, and no matter how many times I fix it, it promptly slips back over to the left. But, for whatever reason, I feel the need to striaghten it before turning Murray loose.

The lead line slackens as I step to Murray's side. As I grab hold of the blanket, Murray can't contain himself any longer. He spins and bolts off at full speed toward the back of the paddock. I have a split-second decision to make-- do I keep hold of the leadline, or do I let go? I decide to hold onto it, partly because I don't want to risk having him running around with a leadline wrapped around his legs, and partly, because I don't want him to think he's allowed to do this. It's a long lead, he gains a fair amount of speed before he reaches the end of the rope. When he does, the force of the pull yanks my arm forward and nearly tugs me off my feet, but I hang tight, and Murray is forced to spin back around to face me.

He's clearly shocked to find that he's still tethered, and he balks at the pressure. He rears stright up, offering me a full view of his round hay-belly. Then he tosses his head and tries to yank the leadline from my hand, but I hold tight. I stalk up to him, glaring, and yelling: "YOU. DO. NOT. TAKE. OFF. LIKE. THAT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!". But my anger is just a farce, and really, I'm having trouble keeping a straight face. After all, it's Murray's birthday. He's 23. I'm glad he still has the strength and energy to pull silly stunts like this.

Murray lifts his chin and offers an arrogant look which is clearly unrepentant, but nonetheless, he allows me to lead him back to the gate. He stands quietly while I straighten his blanket. He lowers his head as I slowly drop the halter off his nose. I give him a final pat on the muzzle, then whisper "ok". This time with my blessing, he explodes like a rocket into the middle of the paddock. He leaps into the air, bucking like a bronc the whole time. As he approaches "the girls", he tosses his head and twists his front legs sideways into the air, striking out at imaginary targets. He leaps and prances around them, trying to entice them into playing with him-- but they're thinking only of food.

Murray does another lap around the paddock in this half-gallop, half-bucking gait, then he pauses to rear up. He stands so tall on his hind legs that his front hoof clips the roof of the run in shed. After that, he spins in circles, then drops to the ground to roll in the mud. When he gets up, his blanket is twisted to the left. I don't even consider fixing it. I just laugh and wish my good old boy a very happy birthday.

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.

On the Mend

It's been a long 38 hours, but Maggie is definitely on the mend. Her lower legs are beginning to look somewhat shapely again, though her right hind still has a partial stove-pipe appearance. As for her stifles, well, they still look like overstuffed pillows, but there is some improvement. She's also much more mobile today, and she was clearly able to lay down overnight (and get back up) since her black coat was covered in pale-yellow sawdust this morning.

Now that she's starting to feel better, Maggie's getting a bit fed up by all this extra attention. Now, when I hose her legs, she tugs at the lead line, and moves around to try and avoid the cool stream of water. When I try to syringe her medications into her mouth, she clamps her lips shut, wiggles and shakes her head back and forth, up and down. When I do manage to get the syringe into her mouth, she refuses to swallow and ends up spitting most of the mixture onto the ground (or on me).

I don't particularly mind. I'm just relieved that she's feeling well enough to show some of her sass again.

Not a Good Day

I just experienced the most frightening, traumatic event of my life.

I always expect Murray to find a way to do something stupid. But never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be Maggie who would send me running with weak knees to phone the vet...or anyone, anyone who might be able to help.

It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd headed for the wooden fence rails, but I have no idea what compelled my sweet, sensible Maggie to try and jump the five foot high metal gate to her paddock. No idea at all.

Sunday, April 11, 6:30 pm
I don't normally bring the horses in until between 7 and 7:30pm, but despite the bright sunshine beaming down on our hilltop stable, there's a sharp cold wind that chills to the bone, so I decide to tuck the horses in a bit early.

On my way to the barn, I see the horses standing contentedly in the pasture, leisurely tugging at fresh stalks of green grass.

Before I bring them in, I head to Maggie's stall to sweep up her bedding, and toss in a flake of hay. A movement outside her stall window catches my eye. I look out. I see Maggie galloping across the paddock, and Murray dancing sideways in his nervous, spooky way. The rest still seems surreal. Maggie is flying flat-out, toward the gate. She has, in the past, galloped to the gate and come to a sliding stop, but this time, she's not slowing down, she's speeding up. She launches herself awkwardly over the gate.

Maggie's over-weight, un-athletic body can't keep up with her enthusiastic spirit. Her front legs mostly clear the gate, but she doesn't have enough power to lift her hind-end up and over. There's a heart-stopping crash, then the sound of splintering wood as the fence rails beside the gate shatter like glass. Unfortunately, the gate itself, while slightly askew, holds fast. I run. I swear at the top of my lungs and I run.

It seems like ages, but I know it's only seconds until I make it to her side at the paddock. I'm horrified by what I see. Maggie is like a teeter totter balancing on the metal gate. Her head is down, nostrils flared, gasping for air. Her front toes just, and only just, touch the ground. Her entire hind end is suspended in the air, held in place by the metal gate which has wedged itself firmly at the back of her belly, in front of her stifles. One hind leg is dangling loose, the other is caught in the fence boards that meet the gate at a 90 degree angle.

I try and unhook the chain on the gate, but Maggie is directly on top of it. All her weight is pressing down on the gate, making it difficult for her to breathe, and making it impossible for me to loosen the chain. To make things worse, she starts thrashing around whenever I try and reach for it. I put my hand on her side, try telling her to whoa, to stay still, but she turns her head and punches me violently in my side with her muzzle. She does this again and again, trying to prod me into action, but I'm helpless. I'm home alone. I have no close neighbours, and there's nothing, nothing I can do.

I always think of myself as someone who stays calm under pressure, the kind of person who can take over in an emergency. I've held tourniquets against horses' blood-spurting arteries while waiting for the vet. I've stroked horses necks as they were given their final lethal injections. But these were never my horses, and I was never in a situation like this.

I try to lift the gate off its hinges, but it's bent, and with Maggie's 1250 lbs on top of it, I know it's impossible anyway. I kick at the fence post, but it's firmly planted in the ground. Helpless, I leave her. I turn my back on her and I run away. I look in Dave's workshop for something heavy, something I can use to bash at the post until the whole thing tumbles down. All I can find is a metal shovel and a pick-axe. I know they're not going to work. Not in time.

I remember that our one neighbour, the dairy farming family living 400 metres down the road gave me their phone number the other day. I run inside my house, I desperately dial their number, hoping that the men will have some kind of equipment, or at least enough brute strength to knock down the gate. Their phone rings. There's no answer, and I remember that they were going to a church supper tonight. I glance out the window. Maggie's still hanging, struggling, gasping. I'm truly panicking now. My legs are weak, my arms are shaking. The tears are rolling down my cheeks. I'm convinced I'm going to watch my sweet girl slowly die a painful death.

Dave is an hour away, about to pilot a plane into the air with his instructor in toe. I call him anyway, even though I know there's nothing he can do. I get his voicemail. Desperate, I grab the pick-axe and the shovel and run, trembling and still swearing back to where Maggie is dangling. I try the gate again, it's no use. I try shaking and pushing the post. It won't budge. Maggie starts flailing frantically. Her right hind leg splinters what's left of the wooden rail running perpendicular to the fence. Somehow in her desperation (perhaps it's that last kick at the fence rail), she manages to get a bit of leverage. Her front feet are fully on the ground now, and using her own brute strength, she kicks, wiggles, flails and heaves her body until she's up, over and off the gate.


I'm overcome with relief; but I'm still incredibly worried. Maggie sways and wobbles her way into the open gate of the neighbouring pasture. The one that leads to her stall door (which is closed). Her eyes are glassy, her head is down, her breathing laboured. She's clearly in shock. I run and grab her halter. I put it over her head, but I can't take her inside.

Murray is still in the paddock. Poor Murray-- who turns 22 today-- has been dancing, spinning, nickering, and fretting this whole time. His eyes are wide, his tail is up, and he's clearly frightened. The further away Maggie wanders, the more stressed he becomes. He wants to be out of the paddock. He wants to be close to Maggie, but he's too spooked to let me near him. I can't leave him. The fence is broken, the gate is twisted and bent. In his adrenalin-hyped state, he's likely to do exactly what Maggie did. He's far more likely to succeed, but I'm not about to take that chance.

I plead with him, "please, please let me catch you. I need to help Maggie". But it does no good. I try to calm myself and talk with him casually, but he can sense my panic too, and he dodges me and tries to shove his way through the slightly open gate. I yell at him and he backs off. I need to get to Maggie, so I take a chance. I wrestle the mangled gate open wide enough to allow him to go through, and I run to grab Maggie. Murray blasts through the gate and heads to the front of the barn. He prances nervously until I bring Maggie through the door, then he follows us in, and runs to his stall. Thank you Murray. I'm not sure what I would have done if he'd decided to head for the road or the woods instead.

I give Maggie a quick look-over--there is no spurting blood, no severed arteries, many scrapes and cuts though, and they're already starting to swell. I cover her with a cooler to help control her shock, and I call the vet. The trouble with this is that I haven't yet found a vet. Several names have been suggested to me though, so I scroll through the phone book (still in a panic), and call the first name I come to that I actually recognize.

The vet on-call is in Truro. I tell him what happened, I tell him I'm most worried about possible internal damage. He kindly tells me that if she's ruptured her spleen or kidney or bowel, there's nothing that can be done for her, so there's not much point in him coming out to check on her. He suggests I give her bute (anti-inflammatory), hose and ice her legs, keep a very good eye on her, and get a tetanus shot and some antibiotics for her in the morning. I would have liked to have a vet look at her, just to make me feel better, but he's right, I can handle the external damage to her legs, and the internal, well, we just have to hope there isn't any.

11:57 pm
I've hosed Maggie's stifles twice. I've iced her lower legs twice. There's so much heat and swelling that the ice melts, and the packs turn warm within minutes. Happily though, Maggie hasn't lost her appetite. She's not too keen on the bran mash (which is laced with bute), but she's eating her hay with her usual gusto. Now I just wish she'd drink some water.

The Boss is Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

***********************************************************

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magnanimous Maggie

Saturday, March 13, 2010

After last weekend's shenanigans, http://citylimitstories.blogspot.com/2010/03/mello-murray-and-mischievous-maggie.html , I admit, I had some doubts about Maggie, but this big black mare is definitely growing on me. I've been riding her everyday. Everyday I teach her something new, and always, she remembers it the next time I ride.

On Thursday, Maggie is so good that I venture down the road with her to cool out. It's our first experience outside of the confines (and relative safety) of a ring. Dave is off at work, so if something goes wrong, I'm on my own. But as it turns out, there's no need to worry.

As we leave the driveway, Murray, with his high-pitched whinny, calls to her from the pasture. She hesitates, but with a nudge from my leg, and a reassuring pat on the neck, she's on her way again. She plods along as leisurely as ever, looking curiously from side-to-side (probably in search of something edible in the ditch). When we turn to come home, her pace stays exactly the same. Unlike Murray, there's no anxious rush to get back. I start to wonder how she'll ever keep up with Murray on a trail ride. Oh well, better too slow than too fast right now.

On Friday, I ride Maggie again, and decide it's time to try a canter. She's unsure as to what I'm asking from her, but eventually she figures it out, and her short legs propel her into the three-beated gate. We do one long-side of the ring in each direction. She's on the wrong lead both times, but there's plenty of time to work on technique later.

After the burst of energy required for the canter, Maggie is huffing and puffing, and sweating. Once again I take her down the road to cool down. This time we meet a car. Maggie watches with interest as it moves toward her, bumping over pot-holes on its way. I wonder how she'll react when it passes by us, but I don't get the chance to find out. It turns into our neighbour's driveway. Maggie (who still hasn't taken her eyes off this burgundy coloured beast) tries to turn in the driveway to follow it. I see the driver lifting groceries from the backseat, and wonder if it's actually the food Maggie's after. The rest of the ride down the road is much the same, plodding and uneventful.

Saturday comes and Dave is asking to ride "his horse" for the first time. I'm hesitant. Despite her progress, Maggie's still very green. I've only been on her back eight or nine times, and Dave is a beginner rider, with only a few more rides under his belt than Maggie. But, I decide we can give it a try.

I ride her first, and this time, when I ask her to canter, she knows exactly what I mean. We canter the whole way around in each direction-- still on the wrong lead, but we'll fix that later. She also goes on the bit at the walk, and somewhat at the trot. I'm impressed, and I let her know it with continuous pats on the neck and cries of "good girl".

When I finish, I reluctantly hand her over to Dave. She's doing to so well, I realize I almost don't want to share her. Nevertheless, we bought her for Dave, so I might as well give them the chance to get used to each other. Dave rides around at the walk until he gets a feel for her steering and brakes, then he tries a little trot. He does a good job, but it's clear by the worried look on Maggie's face that she's a bit unnerved by his lack of balance and skill. She doesn't bolt off or buck, or do anything bad though. Her only bad habit is that she keeps trying to turn into the middle toward me.

All in all it's a very good day. We reward Maggie by releasing her back into the sunny pasture with Murray. We reward ourselves by sipping a bottle of wine underneath the arbour overlooking the ring.

Ruffles, Meet Murray-- Take 2

Saturday, March 13
Ruffles' first encounter with his equine brother and sister didn't go so well http://citylimitstories.blogspot.com/2010/03/ruffles-meet-murray.html . But the hissing and spitting seemingly left Dave undaunted.

Ruffles has only been to the barn once, but he does have a chance to observe the horses on a daily basis. That's because the big pasture where they spend most of their day can be seen perfectly from our living room picture-window. And of course, since the living room window offers the best view in the house, that's where Dave put Ruffles' functional, but less-than-beautiful, cat tree *sigh*.

Ruffles loves his cat tree. He lays on it, rolls around on it, bats his paws at passers-by from it, but mostly, it's his platform from which to observe his royal kingdom, and its lowly serfs.
Ruffles had been surveying his lands for a full week before the horses arrived, so he was thoroughly shocked when one day, he jumped upon his precious tree, only to see two hoofed invaders merely metres (at least 20 metres) from his sacred perch.

There he was, crouched, with his fur on end, his back arched, and a bone-chilling growling sound coming from his throat. He didn't seem to realize that the intruders (completely oblivious to his presence in the window) were separated from him by a pane of glass. No, he seemed to think he was in mortal danger. Suddenly, he leaped from the tree, a streak of black fur, skidding and sliding across the ceramic tiles on the floor, no doubt en-route to his basement sanctuary.

Somewhere along the way, I managed to scoop him up in an effort to comfort him. I scratched his chin and spoke softly to him as I walked slowly back toward the window. The closer we got, the more he started flailing and growling. Deciding I didn't want my arms and face shredded, I opted to let him come to terms with the horses in his own way.

It took more than a week, but Ruffles' finally re-claimed his throne, in spite of the large creatures wandering within view. Dave interpreted this as a sign that Ruffles was ready to once again try and meet with his loyal subjects.

On Saturday, we called to the horses from the deck, and to our surprise, they came trotting right up to the fence. I went over to scratch their necks and reward them with a few apples. Unbenounced to me, Dave went inside to get the cat. I had my back to the house, but turned abruptly when I heard vehment hissing, spitting and growling sounds. Dave was standing just a few feet from the fence. In his arms was Ruffles, clearly terrified, but also defiant. His ears were flat back, his mouth wide-open, exposing his long, snake-like fangs, and his legs were flailing in all directions in an effort to get away.

Dave: I thought he might be more comfortable coming to see them in the open, instead of in the barn.
Me: You are the cruelest person I know. Take the cat back inside!

Dave did return Ruffles to his natural environment (indoors), probably because the cat had managed to get some traction on his arm, and was preparing to leap away over his shoulder. He had no harness or leash on, and I think even Dave knew that once freed, the cat might find an impossible-to-locate hiding spot.

Thankfully, Ruffles doesn't seem to traumatized. He still sits on his cat-tree watching the horses from a safe distance, though the closer they get, the more his tail starts to twitch.

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*

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.