Murray's Misstep

Dear Municipality of East Hants,
Last week, I looked out my window and was delighted to see your yellow and brown trucks moving slowly along our pot-hole-filled road. You were finally grading it. However, in future, could you please use something other than seemingly unscreened fill consisting primarily of 2-3 inch long, sharp rocks?
Sincerely yours,
East Gore Resident,
Melissa Friedman

Saturday, June 5th, 2010
This morning was one of those mornings that makes a person want to get out of bed early. Outside, a mist-like fog lingered over the paddocks, clinging to green blades of horse-mowed grass. But even as I watched, the sun began to burn its way through, pulling the fog up off the ground and lifting it into the trees. It was the perfect morning to take in the view from the back of a horse.

Dave and I had both ridden Maggie the day before, but Murray had had the day off, so I chose him as my beast of burden. We've had days of deluge, so the footing in the ring was too soft for Murray's sensitive suspensories. It seemed like the perfect morning for a ride down the road anyway, so we left the driveway and pointed our noses down the hill toward the dairy farm.

The road was graded about a week ago. Since then, I've avoided taking Maggie on hacks. The new surface is riddled with large, sharp rocks, which leave her barefoot-hooves tender and bruised. Murray, however, has shoes and he has been able to walk, trot, and canter on the road without any problem whatsoever.

As we get closer to the dairy farm, the mist finally loses its battle with the sun and disperses into the hot, humid air. At the foot of the hill, two black and white dairy cows eye us warily as we walk past their lush pasture. Murray returns their stares with equal suspicion. But both the cows and Murray are too preoccupied with soaking up teh warmth of the sun to act on their mutual unease. We continue our leisurely stroll until we reach the intersection with the main road. Then, Murray and I lazily turn around. It's a picture-perfect morning, and Murray obligingly allows me to drop the reins long enough to snap a few quick shots.



We reach the base of the hill and as we begin to climb, Murray moves into a trot. He takes two enthusiastic steps, then in typical Murray form, trips over his right toe. As he recovers, his head bobs up and down, and I can tell by his awkward, uneven gait that he's limping. I immediately bring him back to walk and continue on for a few more steps. At first I figure he's just stung himself, much like stubbing one's toe, and that he'll soon be fine. But the lurch in his step continues.

I hop off and look down. Murray is bending his left knee and holding his left hoof pathetically off the ground-- the one that caught all his weight as he tripped. My first thought is that he's torn a tendon or ligament. But then I take a closer look at the hoof itself. There are a few dots of blood on the hard sole, and amidst the blood there's a thin gash about a 1/2 centimetre long. It looks much like a typical paper cut, only no paper could penetrate the tough substance which makes up his sole. A deep purple bruise is already forming around the cut. It seems that in trying to stay on his feet, Murray put his hoof down on a sharp rock. Well, so much for a perfect morning.

I pull the reins over Murray's head and lead my limping horse up the hill. Either this hill really is steeper than it looks, or I'm out of shape. I'm huffing and puffing by the time I reach the top.

Inside the barn, I dig through my well-stocked first aid kit for the necessary supplies. Same-old, same-old for Murray, only this time, I'm trading-in the ice packs for Epsom salts and hot water.

The Hill

Our house is at the top of a long, sloping hill. The hill is about three-quarters of a kilometre long, and while it doesn't seem that steep when you're driving, it certainly gets your muscles burning and lungs chugging if you're walking. I could use that hill to get myself in shape. Instead, I've made it a part of Murray and Maggie's workout routine. Every time I ride, I walk them down the hill and get them to trot back up. It's amazing how different two rides on the same hill can be.

Maggie's approach to the hill is much the same as her approach to every other energy consuming task in life--leisurely.

On the walk down, she plods along the the side of the road, weaving like a drunken sailor, snatching at wayward branches in hopes of pulling off a few leaves.

When we reach the bottom, we turn back toward home and I urge her into a trot. She reluctantly shuffles into a slow, short-strided jog. With much prompting, she maintains this energy-conserving pace until we're in line with our neighbour's mailbox (about halfway up the hill). Then, we take a short walk break. Once we pass the neighbour's driveway, I cluck and squeeze, and manage to get the same reluctant up-hill jog once again. She huffs and puffs, but I'm usually able to keep her trotting until we reach the crest of the hill. Then I let her slow to her meandering walk once again.

Murray has more of a "hurry up and get this over with" approach.
On our way down, he marches purposefully, head up, ears pricked and eyes focused on the traffic travelling the pothole filled Indian Rd. a kilometre or so away. Often, he's paying so much attention to his surroundings, and so little attention to what he's doing that he trips over his own hooves.

When we get to the bottom of the hill, he jigs a bit, in anticipation of the inevitable turn back toward home. I wait him out as long as I can, then, when I'm ready, I point his nose back up the hill. I make him walk for a few more steps, then I simply think "ok, lets go". His pent-up energy explodes, propelling him up the hill at a gallop. I squeeze the reins and slow him back down to a brisk trot.

Murray's ground-covering up-the-hill trot is nothing like Maggie's shuffling jog. He's so full of exuberance that he practically floats above the surface of the road, reaching, stretching, covering more ground that many horses could even at a canter. He flicks his toes and rotates his shoulders so that his legs are extended to their fullest reach, and for a moment in each stride he's suspended in mid-air, with all four feet off the ground.

It's a great feeling. The problem is, it's a pace that simply can't be maintained over a long, steep incline. A quarter of the way up, and his enthusiasm starts to wane. His nostrils expand and contract, pulling in as much oxygen as possible. His steps shorten, his rhythm slows. By the time we reach the half-way point (the neighbour's mailbox), the bounce has gone out of his step and his whole body heaves with the effort of each breath.

We take a break. When his breathing settles, he willingly moves back into a trot, only this time it's much more subdued. Unlike Maggie though, Murray can't make it over the crest of the hill. He has to come back to a walk several metres before the point where overweight, energy conserving Maggie does.

I thought that after a few times, Murray might catch on, and might try to use his energy more efficiently, but alas, he always starts off with the same burst of vigorous enthusiasm, and it always fades before we reach the top. I guess I understand now how slow-and-steady really can win the race. Perhaps that's why Murray was so unsuccessful in his earlier career on the track.