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.
Showing posts with label pasture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pasture. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Jealousy
Friday, March 12, 2010
Murray's on vacation because of his leg, but Maggie still has to punch the clock.
I decide again to groom Maggie out in the pasture so we can both bask in the sunshine. I grab her halter, and her grooming kit (sans leather gloves), and make my way across the pasture to where she and Murray are picking at grass. I try and give Murray a quick pat, but he eyes me suspiciously, and when he sees the grooming kit with it's potentially horse-eating utensils inside, he moves off in the other direction. I put the kit down, and make one more attempt to get close. Nope, he's in a don't-catch-me mood. Well, that's just fine with me, I have another horse to work with.
Maggie turns her head to sniff me as I approach. She wriggles her monstrous muzzle accross my vest in search of treats. Realizing that I've come empty-handed, she returns to her patch of grass, while I brush her coat. I glance behind me and notice that Murray is scruitinizing us. I move to the other side of Maggie, and as I do, Murray's look becomes an intense glare, and he pins his ears and bares his teeth in an effort to scare Maggie away. I yell his name and move around to the side closest to him, and suddenly his glare turns to a look of complete innocence. This happens several more times--when I'm between him and Maggie, he's fine, as soon as her lumbering body is between Murray and me, he lunges toward her.
I suddenly recognize this game. It's the same one he plays with the dog. Murray tolerates Muscade so long as he thinks I'm watching. He'll stretch his nose out to her with his ears up, and he'll even let her lie in his hay. The moment my back's turned, however, he threatens to bite or kick, or stomp on her. When I turn back around, his expression instantly morphs into one of sublime innocence. He's the equine equivalent of Jeckel and Hyde.
Murray is jealous, it's as simple as that. The only thing I'm unsure of this time is whether he's jealous of Maggie for hogging my attention, or whether he's jealous of me for turning her attention away from him. I try to appease him by making another attempt to reach out and scratch him, but he's having none-of-that. He moves deftly out of my reach, and turns his back on both of us. What a sulky old curmudgeon.
I'm somewhat offended by this slight, but at the same time I can't help but laugh. The image that sticks in my mind is one of Murray as a schoolyard bully. He tries so hard to act like a tough guy who doesn't want friendship or love, but then he's jealous when he's left out of the activities around him.
Murray's on vacation because of his leg, but Maggie still has to punch the clock.
I decide again to groom Maggie out in the pasture so we can both bask in the sunshine. I grab her halter, and her grooming kit (sans leather gloves), and make my way across the pasture to where she and Murray are picking at grass. I try and give Murray a quick pat, but he eyes me suspiciously, and when he sees the grooming kit with it's potentially horse-eating utensils inside, he moves off in the other direction. I put the kit down, and make one more attempt to get close. Nope, he's in a don't-catch-me mood. Well, that's just fine with me, I have another horse to work with.
Maggie turns her head to sniff me as I approach. She wriggles her monstrous muzzle accross my vest in search of treats. Realizing that I've come empty-handed, she returns to her patch of grass, while I brush her coat. I glance behind me and notice that Murray is scruitinizing us. I move to the other side of Maggie, and as I do, Murray's look becomes an intense glare, and he pins his ears and bares his teeth in an effort to scare Maggie away. I yell his name and move around to the side closest to him, and suddenly his glare turns to a look of complete innocence. This happens several more times--when I'm between him and Maggie, he's fine, as soon as her lumbering body is between Murray and me, he lunges toward her.
I suddenly recognize this game. It's the same one he plays with the dog. Murray tolerates Muscade so long as he thinks I'm watching. He'll stretch his nose out to her with his ears up, and he'll even let her lie in his hay. The moment my back's turned, however, he threatens to bite or kick, or stomp on her. When I turn back around, his expression instantly morphs into one of sublime innocence. He's the equine equivalent of Jeckel and Hyde.
Murray is jealous, it's as simple as that. The only thing I'm unsure of this time is whether he's jealous of Maggie for hogging my attention, or whether he's jealous of me for turning her attention away from him. I try to appease him by making another attempt to reach out and scratch him, but he's having none-of-that. He moves deftly out of my reach, and turns his back on both of us. What a sulky old curmudgeon.
I'm somewhat offended by this slight, but at the same time I can't help but laugh. The image that sticks in my mind is one of Murray as a schoolyard bully. He tries so hard to act like a tough guy who doesn't want friendship or love, but then he's jealous when he's left out of the activities around him.
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.
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.
A Roll Interupted
Friday March 5th
The trees bend and sway as the wind once again whips across the property from the north. I'm glad the horses have a well-built run-in shed they can use as shelter (though as of yet, they haven't bothered).
I put Maggie outside first, and amazingly, instead of waddling over to the piles of hay, and hoovering her way through as much as she can before Murray arrives to chase her away, she waits by the fence, her long black mane rippling in the wind.
Inside the barn, her "personal-trainer" whinnies in anticipation and loneliness. He prances as I lead him outside. But when his anxious eyes meet Maggie's flirtatious lashes, he relaxes and walks quietly. She follows alongside from the other side of the fence. It seems that love is in the air.
Maggie waits patiently for her prince to arrive. Of course, the moment I let Murray lose, he turns on her, flashing his teeth, pinning his ears, and forcing her ahead of him down the hill. He chases her once around the pasture at a trot, then he manoeuvres her into a corner so that he can have a relaxing roll in a pile of snow, while still keeping an eye on her.
Maggie, however, isn't completely complacent. Just as Murray's wobbly knees fold to lower his bony frame to the ground, Maggie squeals and bolts up the hill as fast as her short legs can carry her. Murray, frightened, and convinced that banshees are chasing them both, jumps to his feet and charges up the hill after her, sure that some kind of monster is close on his heels. I'm sure that Maggie is laughing at her own little prank.
The trees bend and sway as the wind once again whips across the property from the north. I'm glad the horses have a well-built run-in shed they can use as shelter (though as of yet, they haven't bothered).
I put Maggie outside first, and amazingly, instead of waddling over to the piles of hay, and hoovering her way through as much as she can before Murray arrives to chase her away, she waits by the fence, her long black mane rippling in the wind.
Inside the barn, her "personal-trainer" whinnies in anticipation and loneliness. He prances as I lead him outside. But when his anxious eyes meet Maggie's flirtatious lashes, he relaxes and walks quietly. She follows alongside from the other side of the fence. It seems that love is in the air.
Maggie waits patiently for her prince to arrive. Of course, the moment I let Murray lose, he turns on her, flashing his teeth, pinning his ears, and forcing her ahead of him down the hill. He chases her once around the pasture at a trot, then he manoeuvres her into a corner so that he can have a relaxing roll in a pile of snow, while still keeping an eye on her.
Maggie, however, isn't completely complacent. Just as Murray's wobbly knees fold to lower his bony frame to the ground, Maggie squeals and bolts up the hill as fast as her short legs can carry her. Murray, frightened, and convinced that banshees are chasing them both, jumps to his feet and charges up the hill after her, sure that some kind of monster is close on his heels. I'm sure that Maggie is laughing at her own little prank.
Independence Lost
Thursday, March 4th
Maggie had a taste of independence, but alas, Murray has summoned-up the courage to take his place as head of the horsey household. He now choreographs her every move, tossing his head and pinning his ears to direct her wherever he sees fit.
I take hay to the two of them. Murray's feeling generous, and allows me to pat him and scratch his neck. But his benevolence does not spread to Maggie. She settles in front of the closest pile of hay, but Murray (despite having his own pile) promptly gnashes his teeth and chases her away. She stands back and stretches her neck to its fullest extent, trying to grasp a piece of hay from beneath Murray's head. He scrunches his nose and flashes her an evil look. She moves on to another pile, but is immediately evicted from there as well.
And so it goes, round and round in their own version of "musical hay piles". Perhaps Murray has decided to take on the role of personal trainer, and diet coach.
Maggie had a taste of independence, but alas, Murray has summoned-up the courage to take his place as head of the horsey household. He now choreographs her every move, tossing his head and pinning his ears to direct her wherever he sees fit.
I take hay to the two of them. Murray's feeling generous, and allows me to pat him and scratch his neck. But his benevolence does not spread to Maggie. She settles in front of the closest pile of hay, but Murray (despite having his own pile) promptly gnashes his teeth and chases her away. She stands back and stretches her neck to its fullest extent, trying to grasp a piece of hay from beneath Murray's head. He scrunches his nose and flashes her an evil look. She moves on to another pile, but is immediately evicted from there as well.
And so it goes, round and round in their own version of "musical hay piles". Perhaps Murray has decided to take on the role of personal trainer, and diet coach.
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*
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