A Winter's Walk

It’s been a long, cold, icy winter, and there have been many days when I’ve dreamt of tunnelling into a cave to hibernate. 

Instead, on “nicer” days, I force myself to get out for a walk.  I’d like to take Muscade with me, but at 15, she can’t handle walking for more than a few minutes at a time.  So, for company, I decided that this winter, I’d bring the horses with me on my walks.  That way, we’d all get some exercise, and I could work on the horses’ ground manners at the same time.

The first time I took Maggie out for a walk was a beautiful sunny afternoon sometime in December.  There was lots of fresh, fluffy snow on the ground, so I free-lunged her for awhile in Murray’s paddock first (which, as it turns out, is a great stand-in for a round-pen).  She trotted and cantered happily through the snow, and managed to work up a bit of a sweat.  I planned on a nice walk together to cool her down.

Across the road from our place, a path had been plowed through our neighbour’s hayfield.  It leads to the woods, to an area where logs are cut and trees harvested.  The packed snow made for perfect footing, and I was curious to see how far into the woods the path went.  So, I secured a wool cooler to Maggie’s back, tied the rope halter around her head, shoved a handful of treats into my pocket, and off we went.  While we walked, I worked with Maggie, practicing getting her to halt or walk on command, with very little pressure from me.  I praised her for her efforts with treat after treat.  We were relaxed, and enjoying ourselves. 

Once we crossed the field to the tree-line, the path narrowed a bit.  De-limbed trees were stacked in neat piles on either side of what was left of the path.  I wondered for a minute whether it was a familiar scene for Maggie—who I was told had been used to haul logs out of the woods before we got her.  We walked on for another 30 feet or so, and came to the end of the plowed path.  The road itself continued through the trees and around a turn, but it hadn’t been cleared recently.  I could see sunlight streaming in through the trees where the path started to curve, and I wondered whether there was a clearing ahead.  It was such a beautiful day that I didn’t feel ready to turn back.  So, I urged Maggie forward into the un-packed snow.    

I didn’t realize just how deep that snow would be.  After a few steps, I tripped on what I assume was a log, invisible to me under the snow.  Maggie and I both stumbled blindly over it and onto the other side.   Suddenly, we had dropped down into snow that was up to my waist, and Maggie’s belly.  We staggered on for another 20 or 30 feet, trying to find more stable footing, but the ground was uneven, and the snow too deep.  We wiggled and waded on the narrow path, and managed to turn around to face back toward the field.  That’s when Maggie’s homing instinct kicked in and she showed me what 1300 pounds of pulling power can do.  She dropped her head, threw her shoulders forward, and with a squeal, she lurched ahead in a leaping motion.  She built up momentum and started hauling herself out through the snow like that in a very efficient fashion.  The only problem was that I couldn’t keep up.  I felt her lean into the rope halter as I grabbed the nylon lead with both hands, but I lost my grip as I stumbled clumsily through the snow. The lead slipped through my hands and I had visions of Maggie running free through the field, careening across the road, and then falling on our icy driveway. 

Luckily, there was a knot in the end of the lead, and I grabbed for it as I turned my head to avoid the snowballs flying through the air in Maggie’s wake.  My arm was yanked forward as Maggie bounded ahead of me. I yelled “whoa,” and hung on with all my strength.  She kept going, towing me through the deep snow as she went.  Finally she reached the buried log.  She gave one last leap, and landed on solid footing, dragging me with her.  But my feet got tangled in the log and I fell onto my knees.  I expected Maggie to pull the rope from my hand at any moment.  But she didn’t.  She just stood there with swirls of steam rising from her sweaty body, her sides heaving from her efforts. She waited while I got to my feet and caught my breath.  Then she turned her head toward me with a look that clearly said “don’t I get a reward for hauling your useless two-legged body out of the snow?”  So, I reached into my pocket and fished out several tiny treats for her.  Then, with jelly-like legs (at least on my part), we walked calmly back to the barn. 

Boots Made for Walking

"Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world"~~ Marilyn Monroe

Early Spring 2011
Minute by minute, the days are getting longer. The sun's ever strengthening rays have melted most of the snow, but they still aren't powerful enough to soften the still-frozen ground. I slip Maggie's halter from her head as I turn her loose. She stumbles and cringes as she navigates her way across the the paddock-- where the ground is a rutted mess of frozen clay. Finally, she makes her way to a pile of hay beside the run-in shed. She stands there for most of the day.

When I bring the horses in at the end of the day, instead of rushing to the gate and jockeying for position, she hangs back. Once the others are in, I walk out to the shed to get her. The edges of her feet are breaking up, and small pieces of hoof are missing. She walks forward reluctantly, gingerly, each step deliberate as she searches for a smooth piece of ground to place her tender feet. She looks extremely lame. Thankfully, as soon as we're out of the frozen-clay paddock, and onto the much smoother path, she picks up the pace and walks normally.

Murray's oblivious to the rough, rutted ground. He has shoes with rubber pads, so he has much more protection. Like Maggie, Jaava is barefoot, but her hooves are smaller, and in typical pony-fashion, much tougher. She occasionally takes a tender step, but for the most part, she bucks, rears, and runs with as much spunk as usual. It's just Maggie, with her naturally brittle hooves and tender soles who appears tortured by Jack Frost's unwillingness to relinquish his final grip on winter.

After a second day of watching Maggie navigate painfully around the paddock, I'm worried. Her hooves were in terrible shape when we bought her. There were deep cracks running from her toes to her coronary bands, and large chunks of wall were missing. Between regular visits from our diligent farrier, a balanced diet, and ample servings of hoof supplements, her feet are finally starting to look normal. I don't want a few days on hard, uneven ground to undo all the progress.

For the next few weeks, I separate her from the other two, leaving her alone to meander on the smoother, softer sand that covers her small paddock. She's lonely, and she's also without shelter on cold, wet, or windy days. It's a poor trade-off, but at least she's not in pain. I'm relieved when the ground finally softens and turns to slippery, squelching mud. I tell myself I should look into hoof boots so we don't have to go through this again. But of course, I don't.


Early Summer 2011
They've regraded our road again, only this time, they've covered the soft dirt with a layer of sharp, blueish stone. I'm not impressed. One of these razor-like stones pierces our truck tire. Even worse, when I try to take Maggie for her usual workout up-and-down the hill, she stumbles and trips. She jerks her head up in pain as the rough edges of the rocks press into the soles of her dinner-plate-like hooves. After a few metres, we turn around. Maggie loves the road work, but it looks like we're confined to our soft, sandy ring for the foreseeable future.

I need to find a way to toughen Maggie's tootsies. I could put shoes on her, but I don't really want to. Shoes are expensive, and since she's not competing, and she's fine without them most of the time, they seem unnecessary. Besides, she's eight years old and as far as we know, she's never worn shoes. She may not take kindly to having a smokey piece of iron nailed onto the wall of her hoof.

I have heard of hoof boots, and I think they might just be the fix I'm looking for. I don't know much about them so I do some research. I discover several companies which make them. My favourite boot, by far, is the colourful, bionic looking "Renegade" (I have my heart set on "Burgundy Blitz"). Alas, Renegade doesn't make boots to fit her large, draft-cross hooves...nor do any of the other brands I come across. It turns out that finding a boot for Maggie is as difficult as trying to fit one of Cinderella's dainty glass slippers onto the elephant-like feet of her evil step sisters.

October 2011

Autumn arrives, and Maggie is still bootless. The first early frosts harden the rutted clay in the paddocks, and my big mare chooses her path more carefully. I kick myself for dallying on the boots, and I renew my search for something that will fit. In desperation, I send an e-mail with Maggie's measurements to the "Easy Care" hoof boot company. I ask whether they make anything for her wide, round hooves. Within days, I receive a response-- I'm told that size 4 BOA boots should do the trick.

The boots aren't cheap, and I'm indecisive, so I put off ordering them for awhile, but when the ground begins to freeze in earnest, I dig out my credit card and order a pair. Her front feet are much more sensitive than her hind, so I buy boots to fit those feet first. I hope to put-off buying the hind ones until the spring.

It takes almost three weeks for her boots to arrive. Maggie stands patiently on the cross-ties while I try to wrestle her hooves into the boots for a good five minutes. I can get her feet partway in, but no matter how I twist, turn, pull, push, and shove, I cannot get her hooves all the way into the boots. I stop, I re-read the instructions. I check the size of the boots, and check the measurements required for that size. She's at the maximum width for those boots, but still, they should fit--barely.

I try again. After another ten minutes or so, I'm sweating, and swearing, and Maggie is becoming less and less willing to hold up her hooves for me. The boots are undeniably too small. I angrily throw the boots in a corner in the tack room, where I try to forget about them for a few days.

I consider sending the boots back. But the shipping and customs fees alone would cost a fortune, and they're already slightly scuffed. I decide to try again, but this time, I put the boots on her slightly smaller hind feet. According to the measurements, they should be a size three. Instead, they fit perfectly into the size four boots intended for her front feet. I look at the measurements for the size 5 boots. By rights, those boots should be too big for her. But if the size fours are too small, what other option do I have? I sigh, and decide to order the bigger boots. At least the boots are on sale now. I buy them at almost 50% off.

The weeks go by. I try the boots on Maggie's hind feet several times. They're still not easy to put on, but they stay firmly in place, and she barely seems to notice they're there. Finally, the larger boots arrive. Despite the fact that these boots are quite a bit larger, it still takes me a solid ten minutes to shove her hooves into them. They're a bit big and clunky, but they'll have to do.

Late Winter/ Early Spring 2012

As soon as the winter winds die-down, and the sun softens the ice, I take Maggie for a ride down our rocky road. There's no wincing, no stumbling, no sudden head-bobbing. We walk, trot, and even chance a small canter, accompanied by a large buck. Maggie is feeling no pain. Despite her antics, the boots stay firmly in place. Now, regardless of whether the ground is a rutted, frozen mess, or a hard, rocky trail, Maggie has the right boots for the occasion. But I'm glad she doesn't need them every day because I still break into sweat trying to pull them on.

A Close Encounter

Maggie HATES small animals. She loathes the dog, but she particularly despises the cats.

Saturday April 7th, 2012 (Easter Weekend)

As I throw the horses their mid-day hay, stray pieces of the dried grass are lifted into the air by a strong north wind. Because Maggie's recovering from a recently pulled check-ligament, the horses are segregated in their individual paddocks. They can see each other, but can't interact (or chase each other around). Murray's turn-out is in the middle so, to save time and energy, I toss hay over the fence to each of the "girls" from there.

The fence between Murray and Maggie is higher than most, with just small gaps between the boards. It was designed to separate the previous owners' stallion from the mares. With effort, I toss a flake of hay high over the fence and into Maggie's paddock. But Maggie doesn't notice. She's around the corner, in her stall, gulping up the fresh water I just poured into her bucket.

I call her name, but my voice is carried away on the wind. I call again, and bang on the fence to get her attention. Finally, I hear movement from her stall. It seems, however, that my voice has also reached Zorro's ears. My sly, dog-like, tuxedo- wearing cat suddenly appears at my feet. He pauses briefly to rub his sleek coat against my filth-covered boots. Then, with a flick of his tail, he stalks-off under the fence toward Maggie's lunch.

Hay piles are to Zorro are like empty boxes are to little children-- they're great places from which to build forts and plan attacks. Murray's mounds of hay (larger, and longer-lasting than those of the mares) are Zorro's favourite playgrounds. Thankfully, Murray is ambivalent toward Zorro's antics. For the most part he ignores him, though occasionally he gently rubs his velvety muzzle deep into the cat's fur. Unfortunately, such close contact with cat hair almost always causes Murray to sneeze, and that almost always frightens the cat away.

Maggie, however, has no tolerance for feline companionship. She gnashes her teeth at Zorro when he uses her door as a spring-board to launch himself into the hay loft. She shakes her head and squeals at him when he trots along the path outside her paddock fence. When he carelessly wanders into her paddock, she angrily chases after him. That generally leads me to duck frantically through the fence rails to scoop up my wayward cat.

Zorro's pursuit of Maggie's hay pile begins just as Maggie lumbers lazily around the corner, her hooves thudding dully on the dusty ground. My heart speeds up. I try calling Zorro back to me. He turns his head momentarily, but continues decidedly toward the hay. I look back at Maggie. Her kind, elephant-like eyes scan the paddock for her mid-day meal. Her ears prick up as she glimpses the new pile of hay.

In the next instant, the ears flick backwards, and are suddenly pinned against flat against her head. Her nostrils crinkle, her lips curl. She thrusts her jaw forward and lowers her head like a bull about to charge. Tension fills her body as she zeroes-in on Zorro. Unfortunately, Zorro, such a prolific hunter himself, seems to have no idea that he's being stalked.

Zorro ignores my frantic calling. His singular focus is a piece of hay waving in the wind. I want to duck between the fence boards and pull my feline friend to safety. But I don't fit. Only the tiniest of children could slip between the boards in this section of fence. And it's too high to climb. And anyway, each board is protected by an innocent-looking strand of electrical rope. All I can do is watch.

Maggie, within a stride or two of Zorro, menacingly shakes her head toward the cat, and grinds her teeth in anger. Then, with surprising speed, she lunges forward. I scream. I don't mean to scream. I intend to yell "whoa" in the deepest, most authoritative voice that I can muster. But what comes out is a high-pitched, half scream, half cry. With that, Zorro turns his head and his eyes widen in alarm as he finally notices Maggie. In that moment, she strikes violently at him with her dinner-plate-sized front hooves. She throws her entire 13 hundred pound frame into the effort. Dirt and sand spew into the air as her hooves hit the ground with a deafening thud.

Somehow, Zorro manages to shrink his lanky frame into a tiny ball, and her hooves merely graze his back, missing their mark by inches. Maggie, frustrated, squeals and lashes out again with her front feet, but as she raises them into the air, Zorro dashes-off with cheetah like speed. She turns to pursue him, but I regain my voice, and this time my deep, angry yell gets her attention. Besides, he's on the other side of her paddock now, and there's a fresh pile of hay at her feet. Maggie's features soften, her ears come forward, and she begins to make quick work of her lunch. Now safely outside of the fence, Zorro (unscathed except perhaps for his pride) takes a brief backward glance before heading into the field to find (hopefully) a less dangerous place to play. One of these days, his nine lives are going to run out.

How Zorro has spent his nine lives thus far:

1. Stuck his neck in the door of the truck as it was being slammed shut

2. Got knocked down out of the hayloft by a bale of hay

3. Jumped out of the hayloft for fun

4. Stayed out late when the coyotes were on the prowl

5. Got chased by Maggie

6. Got beaten up by the Tom cat

7. Tried to take a nap on Maggie's door and nearly got eaten

8. Rubbed up between Jaava's hind feet while she was being tacked-up

9. Got chased and nearly stomped on by Maggie

Hmm... so maybe he has 10 lives?

Maggie's Trick is no Treat for Murray

There's no question that Murray outranks Maggie in our three-horse-herd. He's less bossy than he used to be, but he still spends much of his days herding her from hay pile to hay pile, or forcing her to keep him company in the run-in shed while he naps. Overall Maggie doesn't seem to mind, but lately she has found a way to exert a bit of revenge.

Early one October Morning:

It's a morning like any other. As I walk into the feed room to prepare the grain, the horses begin their "feed me" rituals. Jaava pins her ears, shakes her head, trots around her stall, and rears several times. Maggie pins her ears and starts biting and licking the metal bars on Murray's stall wall. Murray stands patiently, but his nostrils quiver as he emits his "I'm hungry" noise. It's a whisper-like, high-pitched, not-at-all-masculine whinny.

Murray gets the most grain, and he's a slow eater, so he always gets fed first. I walk into his stall with a bucket of crumbly, soaked beet pulp in one hand, and a bucket of dry, hard, green pellets in the other. Murray spins around and follows excitedly as I walk toward the feed tub in the back corner of his stall. When he's halfway there, and at the point closest to Maggie's door, she stretches her head and neck close to him, then exhales abruptly through her nose to let out a sharp, loud snort. It's the noise horses make when they sense danger.

Murray, who's paranoid on the best of days, wastes no time in reacting to this call-to-arms. He abandons his breakfast, leaps sideways, sprints out the backdoor of his stall, and takes up an alert position in the centre of his paddock. His head is raised high. His ears are pricked, and his eyes scan the horizon for the invading army of enemies.

I turn back to Maggie to see if I can figure out what's caused this state of high anxiety. But she doesn't have the wide-eyed gaze of an anxious, spooked horse. The only thing she's staring at is me, and my buckets of grain. She shakes her head at me imploringly, rattling the long braids of her mane, so I give a shrug and go about dishing out the rest of the morning meal.

Murray, however, is determined not to be caught off guard. He stands outside for a few minutes, then eventually trots back into his stall. He picks at his breakfast distractedly, turning to look out his door between mouthfuls.

I forget about the incident until the same thing happens again a few days later. Just as Murray turns to follow me to his feed tub, Maggie again lets out a loud, urgent snort, and the whole scenario repeats itself. I start to wonder whether perhaps Maggie is frightening Murray on purpose.

Then, a few days after that, on a warm, sunny morning, it happens again, though in a different context. This time, the horses are out together in the larger paddock. I'm in the riding ring below, driving our truck around, and around, and around, in an effort to drag the ring and smooth the footing. I look up at the paddock and smile when I see Murray laying down for a snooze in a pile of hay. With his legs tucked under his body, he rests his chin on the ground, and closes his eyes. Maggie stands nearby to "guard" him. It's a peaceful scene.

The peace doesn't last long. After a few minutes, Maggie steps in even closer to the unsuspecting, dozing Murray. She then stretches out her head, closes her mouth, and snorts loudly through her nose. Murray's head snaps up instantly. Then, for dramatic effect, Maggie widens her eyes and trots two steps forward toward the fence-- purportedly staring at some immediate threat lurking beyond the treeline. Without any care for his arthritic joints, poor, old Murray leaps to his feet. The moment he does, Maggie relaxes. She turns back toward the hay pile and starts eating, as though nothing has happened. Murray simply stares perplexedly at the woods in search of a non-existent enemy. I swear there's a smirk on Maggie's face.

That was a few weeks ago. I don't know how often Maggie employs her decoy snort outside. But inside, she now gives a hearty "breakfast snort" every few days. And poor Murray falls for it every single time.

Are Nine Lives Enough? (Updated)

Monday July 25, 2011
9:30 pm
It's that in-between time of night. It's past dusk, but the sky is not yet completely envelopped by darkness. We trudge outside for a quick check on the horses, even though they're turned out for the night. Dave's in flip flops, and I'm in my winter-lined rubber boots-- because they're easy to pull on in a hurry.

We step out the front door with Muscade in toe. Within seconds, we hear the jackel-like cries. A pack of coyotes is yipping, and shrieking nearby. The bone-chilling sound is coming from somewhere down the hill-- though it's difficult to distinguish exactly where, and how far away (though definitely not far at all). Whenever I hear them like this, I always assume they've made a fresh kill and that they're gleefully tearing apart their prey.

I yell at Muscade to follow me "now!", and I practically shove her back in through the front door of the house. Meanwhile, Dave kneels in the driveway, coaxing the always timid Lilly out from under the car. As soon as she's within reach, he scoops her up in his arms, and we drop her off in the house as well. And then the high pitched cries stop. They stop suddenly, as though someone has muted the volume on their awful voices. We stand stock-still. We hear the distant barking of the fssive white-haired dog who guards the goat-farm down the hill. The farm is only a kilometre away, and the reassuring voice of the dog sounds much, much further off that that of the coyotes. When the coyotes fail to re-start their discussion, we stop holding our breaths, and head out to the pastures to check on the horses.

The horses have their noses buried deep within the dew-covered blades of grass. They're so intent on their eating, that they barely acknowledge our presence. But as we turn off the lights, my heart sinks. All the animals are accounted for-- except one. Zorro is nowhere to be seen. Normally, I would barely register his late-evening absence, but in the wake of what we just heard, I'm worried, and so is Dave. I start calling Zorro's name, and Dave goes back into the house in search of a flashlight. When he finally finds one (and replaces the dead batteries), we walk down the driveway, peering across the road into the black fields in search of glowing, green eyes. Nothing.

We change course and walk the length of our largest pasture, but the flashlight illuminates only weeds, and the large mounds of dirt which will soon cover the pipes leading away from our new septic tanks. We walk out to the garden, but find only undersized rainbow chard, and lush green potato plants. Still no Zorro.

We check the barn again, and Dave even climbs into the hayloft to see whether our tuxedo-cat may be in the midst of a particularily good nap on a sweet-smelling bale of our newest hay. He's not there. At my insistance, we get in the car and drive down the road. I open my window and call his name. At the corner, we turn around and drive back. Part of me is sure Zorro will be in the driveway when we pull in. But he's not.

10:30pm
If Zorro were around he would have found us by now. We call off the search for the night. As we resignedly re-enter the house, we pause in the mudroom to hug and hold Lilly. She squirms and struggles to get free-- to run out the front door. But we're not taking any chances. Tonight, Lilly's an indoor cat. All we can do for Zorro though is hope and pray that he's out hunting-- huddled in the grass somewhere, his body bunched, and ready to pounce. I hope against hope that he'll turn up on our doorstep in the morning, begging for his breakfast.

Tuesday July 26, 2011
1:30 am
I wake up as Dave peels back the blankets and gets up out of bed.
"What are you doing?" I ask groggily, though I already know why he can't sleep.
"It's hot," he says.
"Sure," I respond.

Then we hear it. It's not a pack of coyotes this time, it's a lone animal howling. Again, the goat-guard-dog down the road barks a response, but again the coyote sounds much closer. It sounds as though it could be in the bottom of our field.

Dave pulls on shorts and shoes as the coyote howls again. Then, I hear the door chime as he heads out into the night with a flashlight. He wonders around the property until swooping bats send him back inside. Still, no sign of Zorro. That's unusual. He does occasionally seem to roam, but he rarely disappears for more than an hour or so.

Dave crawls back into bed. "What if Zorro's not there in the morning?" I ask.
"He'll be there," says Dave, but I can tell he doesn't mean it. There's much tossing and turning before either of us falls back into a fitful sleep.

5:30am
Dave's alarm wakes us both. Normally, he would hit the snooze button for another 20 minutes before crawling sleepily out of bed; but despite the restless night, he's on his feet right away. I hear him walking through the house-- from window to window. Normally Zorro has a sixth sense about movement in the house. Normally he's at the picture window or the front door meowing the moment one of us is awake. A few minutes later I hear the shower spluttering and I know there's no sign of our lively little cat.

6:20am.
In the kitchen, Dave is pouring cereal, and putting his lunch together.
It's my day off, so I try to doze a bit longer before heading out to the barn to feed the horses. If Zorro's not around by then, I'll know his fate. He never misses a meal.

Then, the sound of a spoon scraping against a cereal bowl stops, and moments later I hear the front door chime. Moments later, I hear Dave walking toward the bedroom. I'm hoping against hope for good news, but I don't expect any. Suddenly, I feel a thud against my side and I open my eyes to see Zorro scrambling across the covers. I look up at Dave and he's smiling. So am I.

Dave: "I truely didn't think I'd see him again".
Me: "Me neither".
Dave: "I went around to all the windows this morning and there was no sign of him. After I got out of the shower, I checked again. When he wasn't there, I figured that was it. He's always up by the time I get out of the shower."
Me: "I know."

I grab Zorro behind the front legs and pull him close to me. He's unimpressed, but I don't care. I hold him tight for a few minutes, then Dave pulls him onto his lap and mauls him some more.

"That's it," I say, "from now on Zorro's an indoor cat." But we both know that will never be the case. As much as Zorro likes to sneak inside, he'd be miserable if he had to stay here all the time. However, I vow to force him into the house at night--every night.

"Ponying" the Pony

My goal is to ride all three horses at least three times a week. Ideally, I'd like to ride them all four times a week, but between my work schedule and the nasty weather we've been having, that just seems a bit unrealistic.

The one who suffers most from my lack of time is Jaava. I ride Murray to keep the "old guy's" lungs opened up and his arthritis at bay. I ride Maggie to keep her quiet and workable for Dave. Then, if I have time, I ride Jaava. I really enjoy riding her, but I'm a bit big for her stubby pony legs, so I don't like to work her too hard under-saddle (at least that's my excuse). However, when I saw her waddle in from the pasture the other day, I realized she needs more exercise. I vowed to either lunge or ride her every day...even if it's just for 20 minutes.

Saturday June 11, 2011
It's a warm, sunny, Saturday evening. I worked all day, and am now putting the rest of my energy to use riding Maggie. I didn't lunge Jaava this morning, and it will probably be almost dark by the time I get Maggie put away. I start to feel guilty. It was just yesterday that I vowed to give "the pony" more exercise.

As Maggie and I serpentine around the ring at a trot, my mind drifts, and I try to think of ways to make more time for Jaava. Then, I get an idea.

I yell up to Dave who's puttering about in his workshop. I ask him to catch Jaava in the pasture, and bring her down to the riding ring. It's almost supper time and Jaava thinks she's coming in for her evening meal. She seems a little bewildered though when Dave turns her down the hill toward Maggie and me.


Dave leads Jaava up to where Maggie and I are standing in the centre of the ring. Maggie nickers softly and turns her head to nuzzle the pony's nose. Jaava gives a short sniff in response, then turns her head to look up at me. She's likely trying to figure out what's going on. I reach down and take the leadline from Dave's hand. I hold it in my right hand, along with my right rein, and I nudge Maggie with my legs. She moves forward obligingly and I hope the pony will follow. The lead line tightens and Jaava startles a bit as she's tugged forward alongside of Maggie.

We walk like this for a minute or so, then I tell Maggie to "whoa". Both she and Jaava instantly come to a halt. I'd forgotten how well Jaava listens to voice commands. I prepare for us to walk forward again, but this time I say "walk on" out loud so Jaava will know what to expect and won't be unwittingly dragged forward like she was the first time.


We do a few more walk-halt transitions together, along with some turns and circles. The "girls" seem to be getting the hang of this side-by-side routine, so I figure it's time to step it up a notch. I cluck my tongue and say "t-rot" in the same sing-songy voice I use when I'm lunging them. Jaava's hesitant, and likely a bit confused, but after a lag of a second or two (during which time Maggie picks up a trot), her pony legs propel her into the faster gait as well. She has to move at a pretty good clip to keep up with Maggie, even though she's on the inside. This will give her a workout.

After a few minutes, we've mastered this one-rider pas-de-deux, and are managing some nice walk/ trot and even trot/ halt transitions. Maggie seems thrilled to have a companion with her in the ring. Jaava, however, turns her ears sideways and slightly back, and seems thoroughly humiliated at having to trundle along in Maggie's dusty wake. I think it will be awhile before we're ready to do canter work together, but at least I'm able to spend 15-20 minutes exercising two horses at once.


Oddly enough, the one who seems most disturbed by this new training routine is Murray. With both girls in the ring, he has no one to boss around. He whinnies frantically, and, alone in his pasture, he abandons the grass and trots back and forth along the fence line that overlooks the riding ring. I'm not too worried about his behaviour though. When I think about, I guess it's good. This way I'm actually exercising all three of them at once.

The Kindness of Strangers

Monday April 18
2:20pm
I'm on my way to teach riding lessons outside of Halifax. I'm sipping my tea, listening to the radio, and enjoying the sunshine that's filtering in through the windshield.

It's an ordinary day, and an ordinary drive until I pass Withrow's Farm Market, just 12 minutes or so into my hour-long drive. As the car slips into fifth gear, it shudders a bit. It's barely perceptible, but it's definitely an unusual feeling. I slow down, I speed up, and sure enough, it does it again. I keep experimenting to make sure I'm not imagining the sensation. I make a mental note to mention it to Dave when I get home. I hope it's nothing serious.

A couple of kilometres further down the country road, and one of the "check engine" lights starts flashing. The car shudders some more, even when I slow down. Then, the light stops flashing, and stays on. The shuddering disappears. Optimistically, I hope for the best, but within a minute or so, it starts flashing again, and the car starts shuddering again.

When I reach the exit to the highway, I pull into the car-pool parking lot and call Dave to ask whether he thinks I should keep driving. He tells me that if the light's solid, I'm probably ok. If it's flashing, I'm probably not ok. I tell him it keeps switching between the two. He's not sure what that means.

The light's solid now, so I decide to take a chance on the highway. I head down the exit ramp, and the light starts blinking and the shuddering returns. I experiment with various speeds, and occasionally the shuddering goes away, and the light stays solid-- but never for more than 30 to 60 seconds. I know there's a reliable little garage not far from the next exit, so I pull off the highway. The shuddering becomes almost constant as I drive the last kilometre or so to "McNeil's".

It's three pm. They close at five. They're busy and I don't have an appointment, but they agree to take a look at the car anyway. I call to cancel my lessons-- or at least the first couple. I'm hoping I can still make it for the last two.

In the waiting room, a couple of other customers read newspapers and books while the wall-mounted TV in the corner broadcasts an American daytime TV celebrity talk show. A larger bearded man in his fifties flips through a Dick Francis book he's brought to pass the time. I'm a huge Dick Francis fan, so we start a conversation-- which inevitably turns to horses since it turns out his University-aged daughter is a horse-person too. People coming in and out of the garage clearly know the man, and we all talk amongst ourselves during the hour or so it takes before the mechanic gives me the good/ bad news.

My car needs a new ignition coil. This has something to do with spark plugs and is apparently a fairly common problem in Mazda vehicles. It will only take 15 minutes or so to replace the part. "Great," I think, "I'll be able to make it to the city to teach my last two lessons."

Unfortunately, the garage doesn't have the part in stock. The very helpful and very friendly receptionist calls around, but can't find anyone who can get the part to them before the next morning.

"Is it safe to drive it to Halifax?" I ask.

The mechanic scrunches up his face in an apologetic way that lets me know the answer even before he speaks: "it's really not a good idea...not that far. And you risk causing a lot more damage."

I call to cancel the rest of my lessons.

As I give the garage the information they need to do the work tomorrow, the Dick Francis fan (Mr. Young) retrieves the keys to his car and pays his bill.

Young: "Do you need a ride?" he asks.

Me: "Oh no, it's ok. I'll just walk to the grocery store and loiter around there until my husband finishes work."

Young: "How long will that be?"

Me, glancing at my watch..."a couple of hours I guess".

Young: "Look, these people here know me. They'll tell you I'm loud, but I'm harmless. I'll give you a ride."

Me: "It's a pretty long drive from here". I'd already told him I have horses at home, and had given him a rough idea of where we live.

As I return to my conversation with the receptionist, Mr. Young makes a call on his cell phone. I hear him asking his daughter if she wants to come see some horses.

Young: "See," he says. "You'll feel more comfortable if my daughter comes with us, and she will get to see some horses."

So, I got in his car, we picked up his daughter, and we talked mostly horses for the entire 20 minute drive. It was much better than wandering the isles of the not-so-big grocery store for two and a half hours.

Three's Company

Well, Jaava's been munching hay and trotting around our paddocks for more than two months now, so I suppose it's time to explain why we added a third equine to the herd.

Friday February 4th-- mid-morning

With the horses fed and mucked out, I dig into a bowl of oatmeal and turn on my laptop. A new message pops up in my inbox. It's from one of the girls from Five Elms Stables-- the barn where I used to board Murray near Moncton.

The message asks whether I've heard the news-- the news that the roof of the 30+ stall barn collapsed overnight on Wednesday. My jaw drops and my heart starts pounding. Thankfully, the next line of the note answers the first question that comes to mind-- and yes, miraculously, all the horses are ok. In fact, the boarders have already been moved to other barns in the area, but the owners' horses and a couple of school horses (including Jaava and her "brother" Poet) are still homeless, and are currently living outside. I quickly write back asking her to let me know whether there's anything I can do.

As the news sinks in, I start thinking...we have two empty stalls. We could easily keep the ponies here for a few weeks or even months while the barn owners figure out what to do. I call Guy and Cheryl to offer what help I can.

They tell me how they walked through their two-acre apple-orchard in the morning, believing all was normal. They didn't see the devastation until they opened the door to the barn. That's because the roof collapsed over the back half of the barn-- the section furthest from view. It was a pile of rubble. Had there been horses there, they wouldn't have survived. However, for the first time in a dozen or so years, there were no horses there. That's because the stable had recently closed down its lesson program, and sold off most of the school horses. With fewer animals in the barn, they moved them all together to fill the stalls in the front isle.

After they tell me their harrowing story, I offer up the two empty stalls.

Cheryl responds by asking if I want a pony-- to keep for good.

Me: "Uh, what do you mean?

Cheryl: "Make me an offer, any offer."

Me: "For Jaava?"

Cheryl: "Sure, we could have her there by breakfast tomorrow."

Me: "uh, really?"

Cheryl: "yes, we need to find her a home. We might keep the others anyway, we're not sure, but not her. She needs a home."

This is not what I expected when I made this phone call. I expected to maybe temporarily house a couple of ponies, and have them off my hands by summer. I'm a bit flustered by this idea of buying one of them. But I'm also immediately tempted.

********

I worked with Jaava a fair amount when I was at Five Elms. I rode her her a couple times a week for the last six months or so that I was there. And I coached one of the more experienced girls on her as we started her over fences. Jaava is, and always was, a firecracker. She's naturally athletic, which means that when she spooks, she can spin on a dime, and can bolt from one end of the ring to another in a heartbeat. But when she goes well, she's a joy to watch. She's fidgety and insecure, but doesn't have a mean bone in her body.

I'd heard a few weeks earlier that Jaava was for sale. And for the first few days after I heard that news, I'd flirted with the idea of buying her. But, what the heck would I do with a pony? I already have two horses to ride. And while she's got oodles of talent, she needs an experienced rider, so even if I ever decide to start a small lesson program here, she's not an ideal school horse.

Buying her would mean higher shoeing and vet bills. It would also mean more work. I decided Jaava could find another home. I made peace with my decision, and started dreaming instead, of saving money for a horse trailer.

Then, the barn roof collapsed, and Jaava became homeless.

********

I tell Cheryl I'll think about it, and I hang up the phone.

I lift the receiver back to my ear and call Dave.

Me: "Um, so can I get a pony?"

Part of me genuinely hopes he'll say no. Part of me knows we can't afford another mouth to feed. Part of me knows this is going to disturb the well-established hierarchy that Murray and Maggie have settled on.

Dave says yes. I explain the situation to him, and he replies that we certainly should buy her.

I hang up with Dave and phone one of my best friends. "Am I crazy?" I ask. She tells me that no, I'm not crazy, and that yes, I should get the pony.

I call Cheryl back. I make an offer. She accepts, and says she'll have the pony, and 100 bales of hay here by 11 o'clock the next morning. I'll be at work. Dave will have to unload the hay and get Jaava settled on his own (thankfully though, our horse-sitter agrees to come help out).

I spend the rest of the day cleaning the empty stall next to Murray's. I wonder whether he'll remember his new neighbour from his old barn.

A Taste of Freedom

When horses misbehave, it's generally the fault of the humans around them. This was no exception.

Saturday March 5th, 2011

I wake up with a start and flip open my cell phone to check the time. It's 6:15am. I've overslept. I have a vague, foggy memory of turning off the alarm a half hour ago. At the time I thought I'd just doze for another 2 minutes or so. Yeah, right.

I have to leave for work at 7:45, so I'm going to have to do the barn chores in record time if I want to fit in a shower and some breakfast first. I lift yesterday's barn clothes from the heap on the floor, and get dressed as I walk to the mud room.

Out at the barn, I dump grain into the horses' buckets, and muck the stalls while they eat. Thankfully, the stalls are fairly clean, and I figure I'll finish them just-in-time. I'm in Jaava's stall, tossing the last few forkfulls of manure into my wheelbarrow when I hear "clip-clop, clip-clop" on the wooden floor. I crane my neck around and catch a glimpse of Murray's navy blanket as he meanders down the isle. I'd left his stall door open-- as I always do.

I don't panic. I lowered the garage-style door behind me when I came in the barn. Well, I lowered it most of the way. There's a three foot opening at the bottom, but even if my 16.3 hand Murray were to crouch on his knees, that'd be a tight squeeze. All the same, his strut down the isle has the girls quite excited.

Jaava is astounded by the fact that Murray is walking the isle alone. She pokes her nose out the front of her stall and calls to Murray in her ear-splitting, high pitched voice, then she begins dancing in circles and rearing. Her door is open too, but the overflowing wheelbarrow is blocking the exit. I shimmy my way out of her stall so I can nudge Murray back to his before he starts a riot.

Now that I'm in the isle, I see that Murray, like the good-ole-boy that he is, is already making his way back to his stall. But Jaava doesn't seem to notice. She's bursting with excitement and clearly wants to be part of this unusual adventure. And before I have time to move the wheelbarrow and close her stall door, she sits back on her haunches and launches herself into the air. Suddenly, she's whizzing by my side as she leaps over the wheelbarrow. Unfortunately, she clips the edge of it with her hind toe and it, along with its smelly contents topple to the floor with a crash.

Murray is now trapped between a crazed-pony whom he dislikes, a toppled wheelbarrow, and an almost-closed garage door. I don't have a clear view of what happens next, but in an instant, there's another crash and I see the garage door flying violently up toward the ceiling, as Murray's blanketed body dashes out into the driveway. The door hits the end of the track and quickly springs back down again, only to be bounced back up as it hits jaava's round rump. Kicking up her heels, she gallops off in Murray's wake.

With two horses loose in the driveway, it's Maggie's turn for hysterics. She's now screaming in panic, and letting loose with furious, frustrated kicks against the back Wall of her stall. So, before I go after the two freedom seekers, I take some preventative measures. I raise the bars on the top half of her door (which are normally lowered so the horses can look out), to keep her from attempting any ill-fated leaps herself.

Then, I run to the feed room to grab a bucket of grain and the horses' halters. I'm annoyed that the horses are loose, but I'm not really worried. Murray's generally a chicken who's not interested in exploring. So, I figure that he'll loop around the front of the house, then turn back toward the paddocks to be captured there-- and I'm sure Jaava (who can't stand being alone) will follow his lead.

When I finally make it outside though, my heart skips a beat. Murray and Jaava haven't come back. I scan the horizon for a moment before I see them. Murray is standing in the middle of the road in the blind spot on top of the hill. We don't get much traffic, but the traffic we do get generally speeds up as it climbs the hill to keep from slipping in the mud, or ice, depending upon the season. From where he's standing, there's no way that oncoming vehicles will see him until it's too late. Jaava is just a few feet behind him.

I start shaking my bucket of grain and calling their names. Murray takes a few steps away-- down the hill. Jaava follows. Then, they have second thoughts. They turn around and head back up the road toward the driveway at a trot. I hold out the bucket of grain, but they don't even pause to consider my peace offering. Instead of turning down the driveway as I'd hoped, they ignore me and continue up the road. At least oncoming traffic will be able to see them now.

It's at this point, as I'm standing in the middle of the road, helplessly shaking a bucket of grain, and holding two halters, that I pull out my cell phone. I could really use another set of hands to help me round them up, and Dave is inside the house-- asleep. I dial our home number and the phone rings and rings, until the voicemail clicks in. I continue down the road toward the horses, and redial the number....still no answer. I yell into the phone "wake up and pick up the phone"! as Murray leads Jaava off the road and into the woods.

I call Dave again...just as Murray sinks up to his belly in snow and begins to flail around. Deciding that "off-roading" is not such a good idea, he and Jaava turn back toward the road. I call Dave again. He picks up. His slurred sleepy voice asks "what's going on?" and I know he's just seen us outside the window. "GET OUT HERE NOW AND HELP!" is all I say before hanging up the phone. I look up to see Murray and Jaava trotting back toward me. Again they ignore the grain, but thankfully turn into the driveway. This time, they head straight down the lane, through the open gait, and into to the pasture. Dave arrives, wearing rubber boots and fleece pyjama pants, just as I close the gate behind them.

At least he tells me that he'll handle the rest of the chores (including cleaning up the contents of the toppled wheelbarrow), so that I can make it to work on time.

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 Naked

Sunday April 10
It's a warm, sunny day. I take off the horses' blankets so they can frolic naked in their paddocks. Of course, with their blankets removed, one of the first things they do is roll in the mud.

Murray's blanket's going to have to go back on as the temperature drops at the end of the day, so once the mud dries, I figure I'd better spend a few minutes cleaning him up. So, as Murray suns himself in the centre of the paddock, I start flicking a shedding blade across his fuzzy coat, sending dusty clumps of chestnut coloured hair swirling through the air. By the time I'm done, much of that hair is clinging to my own clothing, hands, and face.

In the past, there were times when I refused to use the shedding blade on Murray's thin, bony body, afraid I'd actually hurt him. But this year, I have to press into his flesh to find his ribs, and his hip and shoulder bones have lost their angular qualitites. He's also developed a low-hanging hay belly.

I kiss Murray's velvet muzzle, then step back to take a better look at his condition after the long, cold, storm-ridden winter. Last year, when spring arrived and I lifted off his mud-caked winter blanket, Murray looked old. This year, at 23, he still looks old. Grey hairs continue to spread across his face, and his lack of muscle means his back is starting to sink. But, at the same time, he looks, well, he looks good. In fact, for the first time in the fourteen years that I've had him, he's come through a winter without losing weight. Actually, I think I can legitimately say that he's fat.

There are probably a few reasons for his weight gain. First of all, all winter long, we offered him as much high-protein second-cut hay as he could eat. And, for the first time ever, he had the winter off (with the exception of a few rollicking romps together in the snow).

But it's not just his weight that I'm happy with. I worried that with the winter off, he'd be stiff, sore and arthritic by spring. But that's not the case at all. He's certainly unfit, but he's feeling great. I've given up on trail rides since I can't seem to contain his overabundance of energy when we're out on the road, but the few rides I've had with Murray in the ring have been fabulous. His trot is a springy and fluid as ever, his canter stride is big and bold, and he's as sound as he's felt in years.

There was a time before we moved here that I thought I'd have to retire him for good. His stride was uneven, he kept stumbling, and his right knee would completely give-out during almost every ride. But since moving to Nova Scotia, our new farrier has made some changes to his shoeing, and I can't believe the difference those changes have made to the way he moves.

I'm knocking on wood as I write this because it's early spring, and who's to say whether his soundess will last into summer. But I'm hoping it will because it's going to take quite a few rides to work off that hay belly of his. And, I haven't told Murray this yet, but Dave's been busy building jumps in his workshop, and if Murray's a good, sound boy, maybe he'll get the chance to try them out before the end of the summer. He won't be jumping any four foot oxers, but with any luck he can step over a few smaller fences just for fun.

Disappearing Horses

Sunday April 3rd We spend most of the day mending fences and cleaning up the "storage" stalls in the barn. By 4pm, we're finished most of our work and we decide to duck out to the corner store (on the corner 11kms way).

Before we leave, I toss the bored-looking horses a couple of flakes of hay. They're barred off from the large pastures to give the ground time to firm-up and the grass time to take root. They'll thank me for this when they're munching on an abundance of lush green grass in July; but right now, they're annoyed at being cooped up in the mud-hole which is currently their paddock.

A half hour later, we're on our way back from the store. Usually, as we crest the hill, I can see the horses meandering in their paddock. Not today. I press my nose to the window to catch a glimpse of the run-in shed. Murray spends many-a-day there, with just his head sticking out, his velvety muzzle breathing in the fresh spring air. He's usually easy to see since his red coat stands out against the painted-black shed, but today I don't see him.

The paddock disappears from view for a moment as we pull into the driveway. I wonder if maybe the three of them are hiding out behind the shed, perhaps gulping down some water from the large blue bucket in the corner. But no, they're not there either. This is odd. It is possible that they're in the shed, and I simply haven't seen them, but since we got Jaava, I've never seen all three of them in the shed. If she tries to enter, Murray usually chases her out, and leaves her to stand by whichever outer wall best blocks the wind. I mean really, the shed is only 10' x 20'. It's a bit cramped for three horses-- even if one of those horses is a pony.

Dave puts the car in park and I jump out, heading toward the paddock. Still no sign of the horses-- and Jaava always whinnies in greeting when we get home. The gate's closed, so it's unlikely that they're loose. Maybe someone stole them? But we've only been gone for half an hour-- and lets be honest, as much as I love my horses, they certainly aren't the sort horse-thieves would be after....if there even are horse-thieves anymore.

I walk toward the paddock. There are no heads peering out at me....no gluttonous mares running to the fence in search of food. Finally, my boots squelching in the half-frozen grass, I reach the side of the fence and lean around so I can see inside the shed. I'm only about 10 feet away. "Hey guys", I yell, even though I still can't see any of them. Suddenly, there's the sound of a startled horse jumping in fright, and three fuzzy equines pop their heads out of the shed simultaneously. I can't believe it. All three of them have been standing there inside-- completely inside, without so much as a tail hair or a whisker poking out through the openings.

Now that they know I'm here, Murray and Maggie wade through the mud and jockey for position at the fence line, hoping that I might be there to dole out some kind of treat. Jaava hangs back warily. She knows by now that the other two will gang up on her and viciously chase her off if she tries to snatch her rightful share of anything I might have to offer. On the bright-side, it seems that as of today, even if "the big guys" aren't willing to share their food with her, they are willing to at least share their shelter. Score one for the pony.

From Nine Lives, to Eight

The hayloft is generally Lilly's domain-- a safe haven where the timid cat can sleep soundly in her hay-lined den, free of Zorro's relentless attacks.

But, when I go up to drop hay, Zorro, afraid that he'll miss something important (like extra food), always follows. On this particular day, he pops his head through the cat-door in the feed room the moment he hears me lower the fold-away ladder to the loft. As I climb the ladder, so does he. I move to the new section of the loft, which holds the better hay. As I sort through the bales, Zorro struts across the rafters, and at one point stands on his hind legs in an attempt to reach the black roof vents which spin furiously in the wind. I roll my eyes and shake my head. I'm not sure what kind of gruesome scene would play out if he put a paw in the vents, but thankfully, they're out of reach.

Within a few minutes, I've piled my chosen bales in front of the hay chute. It's a four foot square hole in the hayloft floor, which, for safety's sake, is generally covered by a sort of plywood door which is hinged on one side. I raise the door and start tossing bales. As the bales hit the floor, the hungry horses stomp their hooves and bang against their doors. Jaava, with her high-pitched voice, nickers greedily. Her stall is closest to the opening and she cranes her neck in hopes of snatching a stray strand of hay.

Like a foreman, Zorro observes the ritual from the edge of the hay chute. His eyes follow the bales as they tumble to the hardwood floor below. He leans precariously forward into the hole and I try to shoo him away, but he's enthralled.
I wrap my fingers around the orange baler twine on the next bale in line. I lift the thirty-pound mass of dried grass and swing it forward. Just as it crosses the threshold of the chute, a black streak jumps across the opening. I scream. I know what's going to happen, but I'm too late to stop it. My fingers have already let go of the twine.

Zorro is in mid-stride when the bale hits him in the ribs. I look down in time to see his legs flailing and white belly twisting as he falls with the bale to the floor, ten feet below. The bale lands with a thud. Zorro is underneath. Tears well up in my eyes. Then, I see a black streak dash across the barn and I release a huge sigh of relief. I clamber down the ladder to make sure he's ok. He stands wide-eyed in the isle, with a look of utter confusion on his face.

Thankfully, several bales were on the floor already. They broke his fall, and the space between them provided a gap for him to escape-- preventing him from being pancaked by the bale which assaulted him.

I wonder whether the experience might temper his enthusiasm for hayloft visits. I have my answer soon-enough. I climb back up the ladder to finish the job. Close on my heels is a black and white tuxedo cat. No one ever told Zorro that curiosity kills the cat.

Finding Maggie

About a year ago....

February 4, 2010
I usually enjoy my work at Greenhawk in Moncton, but today, I'm anxious to get out of the store. At 3pm, I'm drumming my fingers on the desk behind the cash, anxiously waiting for my co-worker to arrive to relieve me. When she does, I dash out the door-- giddy with excitement.

The twenty minute drive to the barn is unbearable. When I finally arrive, I shout a brief hello to Murray in his paddock, then continue straight down the path into the barn. Murray's stall and my locker are directly ahead inside the main door, but I turn left down the isle. I walk to the last stall on the left. Inside, a fat, black mare glances up at me from what's left of a pile of hay. Maggie was dropped off just a few hours earlier. She seems reasonably content in her new, albeit temporary, surroundings.
**********************************************************

I started seriously looking for a second horse in early January 2010, when it looked like we really might be buying the farm. After all, I couldn't let Murray move here without a friend.

I knew exactly what I wanted:
-A horse big and strong enough to comfortably carry Dave
-A horse kind and quiet enough for Dave to work around
-A horse that is fairly young, not an old ready-to-drop-dead retiree
-A horse that's an easy keeper (no thoroughbreds this time around)
-And above all, most importantly, the horse has to be cheap

I spent hours and hours scrolling through classified ads on Atlanic Rider and scanning the "livestock for sale" column on Kijiji. Most of the horses within my price range (about $1500) were retired or unsuccessful standardbred racehorses, oddly bred draft horses, or quarter horse crosses of questionable backgrounds and training. But there were a few which stood out:


Mid-January 2010

The horses in most of the ads are easy to cross of the list, but there are two big draft crosses whose ads I click on several times a day. They're nice looking horses, who seem to meet all of our criteria-- except for the price. They're both priced above $3000. At first, I tell myself there's no way I'm willing to spend that kind of money on a "companion horse" for Murray (and Dave). But both of these horses are well-schooled, and would probably make good mounts for me (as well as Dave)-- I could compete at jumper shows and in events with either one of them. Looking at their ads in that light, I convince myself that either horse would be a worthwhile investment.

I hemm and haw for a few more days though before finally contacting the owners. Both horses have just been sold. Strike one. I'm disappointed, but part of me knows that neither horse was really what I was looking for, and that paying that kind of price would have put a serious strain on my ever-shrinking savings.

A few days later, another "horse for sale" ad catches my eye. It's for a Canadian mare. She's smaller than I would ideally like, and priced a bit above my limit at about $2000. In my experience, Canadian horses are generally strong, kind and friendly, so I don't rule her out, but I don't make any effort to contact the owners either. I troll the ads for a few more days, and I don't see any other horses which meet my criteria.

I casually mention the ad for the Canadian at the barn where Murray is stabled. Roxanne, a very talented young rider, immediately speaks up. "That's Nelly", she says. Nelly is owned by a friend of the family, and Roxanne had spent quite a few hours on her back. Both she and her mother are very fond of the horse. They say she's energetic, but safe, and think she'd make a great companion for both Murray and Dave.

That night, January 14th, Roxanne e-mails me pictures of Nelly. Dave instantly likes her. I decide to call the owners the next day.

The next morning, I fire up the computer and scroll through the ads. I can't find the ad for Nelly. I e-mail Roxanne for the family's contact info. She gets back to me with the bad news. Nelly was sold yesterday. Strike two.
It's back to the drawing board, so Dave and I decide to take a field trip.

It's a cold, but sunny morning and Dave and I are on our way to Amherst to see "Roger". Everyone in the horse world knows Roger. He makes a living buying and selling horses of all sizes, colours, and quality. Many end up in good homes. Many are eventually loaded onto a trailer and "shipped to Quebec" (which is a Maritime euphemism for being sent to slaughter).

We pull into a long driveway tucked down a lane behind the Walmart in Amherst. It's our first time here. In the minutes before Roger arrives to greet us, we glance around at a series of barns-- some very old, others quite new. Soon, a stocky, heavy-set man with a round, weather-worn face appears and we introduce ourselves to Roger. He tells us he has about 100 horses on the property. A few of the nicer looking ones belong to his daughter. The rest are for sale.

Roger is friendly enough, but he wastes little energy on words. He walks with us past a manure-covered paddock housing 15 or so particularly thin and unhealthy-looking animals. These unfortunate individuals, many of whom are unwanted retired standardbred racehorses, are due to travel to Quebec the next day.

We march morosely past them through the snow to a large field filled with several dozen much healthier-looking horses, many of whom are gathered around a large round-bale. A few are big draft horses, or draft crosses. One Clydesdale in particular catches Dave's eye. He's a massive animal, well over 17 hands high. We're told he has very little, if any training. Dave likes him, but there's something about this horse's expression that makes me wary, and he's just too big and too green for my liking. We're there for an hour or more. All of the horses we see are in need of good homes, but they're either too big, too small, or too green for our needs. We finally leave, telling Roger that if we don't find anything within the next few weeks, we'll be back to check out any new stock that trots in.

It's now mid to late January. I'm getting desperate. We haven't settled on a closing date for the house yet, but we know it will be sometime in mid-February. I will stay in Moncton for another few weeks to clear out and clean up our old house. But by the first of March, I'll have to leave. The problem is, I don't want to move Murray to our new home without a companion. I also don't want to move there without him. I need to find a horse...soon.


January 19, 2010
A few days after our trip to Roger's, I come across an ad for the perfect horse-- probably even better suited to us than Nelly would have been. "Trigger" is a plain-looking chestnut quarter horse crossed with something or rather-- likely a "Heinz 57". Attached to the ad is a link to a video of a seemingly inexperienced, adult, male rider trotting and loping around on him. The horse responds well and seems unfazed by the rider's slightly bouncy hands and unbalanced seat.

"Trigger" is for sale on Prince Edward Island, so I ask my good friend KK whether she knows anything about him. She does indeed know the horse. She says he's had experience as both a trail horse and a lesson horse. He's big enough for Dave, yet small enough that children won't be intimidated. She tells me he's perfect. And the price is right too.

It's Wednesday January 20th. I e-mail Trigger's owners. I'm working all week, but I set up an appointment to see him on Saturday. I spend Friday night dreaming about our perfect new horse. Saturday morning dawns bright and cold. I bundle up and drive off toward the Island. About a half hour outside of Moncton, my cell phone rings. It's Trigger's owners-- well, former owners. They sold him last night. Strike three.

Monday January 25
For what seems like (and probably is) the millionth time, I scroll absentmindedly through the latest "horse for sale" ads on Kijiji. One ad, just posted, shows a cute-looking Percheron x Quarter horse mare. I click for more information. There's not much more info at all, just a phone number, but I've got a good feeling...a really good feeling. I call right away. A woman answers. I tell her I'm calling about the horse for sale.

"Which one?" she asks.
"Um, the Percheron cross--a mare?"
"Oh," she says kindly "you must mean Maggie."

My heart skips a beat. My brother-in-law's dog had been named Maggie. She was one of the most kind, and beloved animals I'd ever known. We fell in love with our dog because she could have been Maggie's twin. The fact that this horse shares a name with what had been such a wonderful animal has to be a sign. This is our horse. Unfortunately, "our horse" is in Oxford, Nova Scotia. I'm working at Greenhawk all week, and teaching riding lessons most evenings.

"If she hasn't sold by the weekend, I'd like to come see her".
"Ok," says the kind voice on the phone. "I'll tell my husband, Ron, he's the one who deals with all this."

I'm on pins and needles all week. I check the ad on Kijiji everyday to make sure it's still there, and that the word "SOLD" hasn't appeared. On Friday I call Ron to confirm our appointment. "She's still there?" I say, with every finger and toe crossed. He tells me she is, and gives me directions to their modest farm.

Dave is home for the weekend, so we drive together to Oxford to meet Maggie on Saturday. When we arrive, we're greeted by an excitable, though friendly, young german shepard type dog. Soon, the dog is joined by Ron, a smiling, grey-bearded man in coveralls. He leads us to the barn where Maggie is tied in a straight stall. She has company in the form of a miniature horse, two massive Belgians, and two even more massive percherons. Maggie's a Percheron quarter horse cross herself, but she looks like a pony beside these gentle giants.

I walk into the narrow straight stall beside her. Her ears are forward, and despite the close quarters, there's no sign of aggression or anxiety. We bring her into the isle for a better look. She stands quietly while I run my hands through her thick, but shiny black coat, and down her legs. There's some swelling down the inside of her right hind. Her hooves clearly haven't been well cared for. Two of them are cracked from toe to coronary band, and large chunks are missing from all four.

Ron tells us Maggie was a PMU baby shipped from Alberta as a filly. At the time, she was sold to an older gentleman. Just two weeks ago, that man traded the now 7 year old mare back to Ron-- who has considerable experience with draft horses, but not saddle horses.

He tells us Maggie is broke to harness, but has never been ridden. He says she is gentle, though can be a bit "sharp" sometimes (meaning she occasionally has a stubborn streak). He's got too many horses right now, so she's been spending nights on his horse trailer, alongside his mini-horse (who looks like a dog beside all these drafts).

He leads Maggie outside into the bright sun. Despite her crumbling hooves, she walks just fine. He tries to trot her down the icy driveway for us, but she only manages to waddle a few steps before it becomes too slippery for both of them. It's almost impossible to tell for sure, but I convince myself that she seems sound.

I like Ron, he doesn't give us a sales pitch. He just answers our questions, seemingly honestly, and he sits back and waits for us to come to our own decision.

I look at Dave. He likes black horses, and he's been insistent that he wants a horse with big bone, something with substance so he can feel secure in the saddle. Maggie, with her elephant-eyes and docile temperament has won him over...and me too.

I'm a horrible negotiator. I don't even know where to start. I tell Ron we're interested, but that I'm a bit worried about her hooves. He drops the price from 12 hundred to 11 hundred dollars. I think some more. I tell him we don't have a trailer, and I wonder whether he could bring her to Moncton for us (it will cost at least $100 for me to hire someone else). He agrees, and says he can bring her sometime during the next week. I write a cheque for about half the cost.

Dave and I drive away both pleased and relieved with our decision. We've never, ever regretted our choice, and Maggie has become a much beloved part of our family.

Dave's Joy-Ride

A few days ago, Dave and I were talking about the horses. I mentioned that it had been quite awhile since he'd been for a ride. This wasn't meant as an accusation, or a challenge, or a call to action. It was merely a statement of fact. I think though, that my loving husband may have misinterpreted my statement. His response was "It's supposed to be nice on Sunday, why don't we go for a ride then?". I wonder now whether he regrets his suggestion.

Sunday January 29th
It's a beautiful winter's day-- warm, sunny, and not a breath of wind. By 11:30am we're ready for a ride.

I'll be honest. I'm a little nervous about this mid-winter escapade. The horses haven't been ridden much. They're pretty fresh, and Maggie has managed to muster a considerable amount of energy during the few recent rides I have had on her. I don't mention my concerns to Dave, and I manage to convince myself that we'll just go for a short, leisurely, and safe walk in the snow.

Before we ride, I scope out the state of the road. It's been sanded, but is very icy underneath. I worry that the hill is too slippery for Maggie's unshod hooves. I'm also worried about the riding ring. There's a fresh layer of snow, but it's not thick, and lurking underneath is perfect skating-rink-smooth ice. I decide our best option is to ride the horses in the large, snow-filled, fenced-in field. The footing is safe, and we'll be in an enclosed area-- a large enclosed area, but enclosed nonetheless.

Dave is ready before me. As usual, he uses the round, two-foot-high concrete crock above our well on the front-lawn, as a step-stool to hoist himself onto Maggie's western saddle.

Me: "Forgetting something?"

Dave: "What? No."

Me: "Are you sure?"

Dave: "Oh, my helmet...I guess I forgot to tack myself up".

We giggle, and I lead Murray back to the barn to retrieve Dave's helmet. I'm a stickler about helmets. I've had two concussions from falls WITH helmets, so I can't imagine what would have happened if I hadn't been wearing the mushroom-like caps.

With his helmet securely strapped to his head, Dave urges Maggie down the path toward the pastures while I go back to the barn once again to smear Vaseline in Murray's hooves. It helps keep the snow from balling up beneath his soles.

From inside the barn, I suddenly hear a squeaky clip-clip in the packed snow, along with a series of ever intensifying shouts of "whoa" intermingled with: "whoa Maggie whoa". I grab Murray's reins and lead him abruptly from the barn as Maggie rounds the corner toward us-- eyes wide and nostrils flared. Dave yells at her and tugs on the reins, but she doesn't stop until she's right in front of us.

Me: "What happened?"

Dave (somewhat breathless): "I tried to ride her through the gate and she wouldn't go through. She spun around, took off, then reared, then took off again."

Me (dismissively): "Well, I think she's stressed about leaving Murray behind. Just wait for me and we'll go in together."

In the back of my mind, my apprehension over this ride is growing. I still don't mention it to Dave though. If I make him nervous, he'll make Maggie nervous, and things will go quickly downhill from there.

Dave has limited riding experience, but the experience he has had has so far has been positive. He's never fallen off, and until Maggie's uncontrolled rear/trot-back-toward-the-barn, he's never had a horse do anything more threatening than a mild spook (though he's watched enough of Murray's antics that he's well aware of how powerful and unpredictable these 12 hundred pound animals can be when they so choose). To this point, Dave's confidence on horseback is fully intact, and I'd like it to stay that way.

I brush my worries aside, and lead Murray to the well, so I can get on. Dave and Maggie are behind me, wandering in the snow on the front lawn. Murray and I make it about 20 feet down the path before I hear Maggie's gait quicken, first to a trot, then a canter. Again, I hear the chorus of "WHOA's", each one becoming more desperate. I stop and turn in time to see Maggie cantering through the knee deep snow in the lawn, with Dave tugging unsuccessfully at her reins (Dave has only ever cantered a handful of times). She leaps a small snowbank and hits the icy driveway at a fast clip. She slips, yanking the reins through Dave's gloved-hands. She manages to stay on her feet, but Dave's reins are now too long to offer any control.

"Sit up and shorten your reins!" I yell. Then I ad my own "whoa's" to Dave's efforts. Maggie slows slightly, to a half-trot-half-canter gait, but she's heading straight for the tractor. At the last possible second, she ducks to the left, nearly unseating Dave, who's still trying to shorten his reins to a reasonable length. Then, Maggie veers sharply to the left again and heads straight for our truck. Instead of crashing into it, she climbs the four-foot high pile of snow behind it, then runs up along the passenger side.

By now, I've jumped off Murray, thankfully Dave has readjusted his reins, and Maggie has exhausted the supply of vehicles with which she can play chicken. With a final "WHOA", and a sharp tug on the reins, Maggie comes to a halt a few feet in front of Murray and me. I reach forward and grab the reins, giving them a few unproductive tugs. I force myself to check my anger, and I look up to Dave to ask whether he's ok.

He's flushed, out of breath, and a little shaken.

Dave: "What a little B*^#&."

I concur.

Me: "Why don't you hop off, and I'll lunge Maggie in the field for a bit before you get back on?"

Dave: "Ok, I'll get the lunge line".

I hand Murray's reins to Dave, and I lead Maggie into the field, all the while whispering to her about manners, and taking care of Dave and how it's ok to behave stupidly with me, but not with him.

I let her out on the lunge line and she bursts into a bigger extended trot than I would have thought possible for her short legs. Then she canters, then she bucks. I dig my heels into the snow and hold tightly to the end of the lunge line until she tires. I figure that should happen soon; after all, she's careening around in knee-deep snow.

Maggie's more worked up than I'd hoped and I'm reluctant to let Dave climb back into the saddle. In the meantime, Murray stands calmly beside Dave, half dozing. I know Dave still wants to ride (he's never ridden outside in the snow before), so I consider the options for a few minutes, then suggest to him that he get on Murray.

Dave: "Really?"

Me: "Yeah, just stay fairly close, and just WALK".

Dave's ridden Murray around on several occasions. He even went over a very small jump on him on the lunge line before. It's certainly unusual for Murray to be the "safer" choice, but today, he seems just that. So Dave scales the fence and gently lowers himself onto Murray's English saddle. The two of them walk calmly back and forth through the snow-drifts while I try to keep Maggie from ripping my arms out of their sockets on the lunge line.

After a few minutes, I bring Maggie to a walk, and I decide to get on to test her obedience level.

I bring her alongside Dave and Murray and for a few minutes, we all walk contentedly through the snow to the bottom of the field. The snow is deeper here, and I notice Murray has added a bit more bounce to his walk.

Me, calmly: "Make sure you sit up, and keep your heels down".

Dave: "Whoa Murray".

Me: "Whoa Murray".

We round the corner so the horses' muzzles are now pointing up the hill toward home.
Murray simply can't hold back his enthusiasm. He bounds into a springy trot, which then becomes a rocking-horse-like canter up the hill. It's really just a lope, but with his 14 foot stride, Murray's lope can out-pace the canter of many-a-horse. He's bouncy at the best of times, but now he's also wading through a foot and a half of snow. Each stride must feel to Dave as though he's just been launched from the heart of a tightly wound jack-in-the-box.

In stereo, Dave and I yell "whoa". But Murray's enjoying himself. He doesn't stop until he reaches the fence at the top of the hill. Seemingly proud of himself for offering Dave such an amusing ride, he slows down. Then, Murray senses that Dave has lost a stirrup and is off balance. Unused to inexperienced riders, and very sensitive to any shift in his rider's weight, Murray becomes worried and confused. He glances down the Hill toward Maggie and I with a worried look on his face, then continues toward the paddock gait in a moose-like trot-- anxious to be rid of the bouncing burden on his back. I'm sure Dave's about to take a dive into the snow.

Miraculously though, Dave hangs on as Murray abruptly changes course and decides to come to "mom" for help. He finally stops when he's back alongside Maggie and me. The look of anxiety on his face matches the look on Dave's. Their eyes are wide, they're both breathing hard, and they both look confused. I hop off of Maggie and gently grab hold of Murray's bridle. With Dave still in the saddle, he relaxes, an within a minute or so, the old boy's eyes are closed and he's dozing in the sun.

Dave (still out of breath): "I thought for sure I was going to fall off".

Me: "Me too. Shall we call it a day?"

Dave: "Yeah, I think that's probably enough of a ride for today."

Little Miss Lilly

When we got Zorro, our plan was to get two barn cats. It didn't take long for the second cat to appear-- or should I say "reappear".



We caught our first glimpse of Lilly in mid April, just a day after my initial encounter with the tom cat-- "Tomlin". She was skittish, timid, and completely wild. Nonetheless, we hoped she'd keep prowling, making meals of any enterprising mice who might think they could live the life of luxury in the feed room.

There seemed to be several amorous encounters between Lilly and Tomlin, and we braced ourselves for a litter of kittens. But the balls of fluff, with their sad little mews never appeared. And by mid-summer, Lilly's own appearances on the farm were brief and rare.

So, after sighting a few rice-sized brown dots in the feed room, we gave up on our feral cats and sought out a barn cat of our own. Our search turned up Zorro. And the day we brought him home is the day the Lilly-cat came back (see my earlier blog entry for that night's adventures).

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

Late August 2010
It's been about a week since Zorro arrived, and I think we've seen Lilly streak by somewhere on the property every single day. Finally, one day I walk into the feed room to prepare the horses' grain. Zorro quickly jumps on top of the narrow, four foot high door. He has many different meows, but for now, he uses his high-pitched, kitten-like, almost cute "mew" to entice me into dropping a handful of cat food into his plastic dish. As the dry kibbles fall, covering a fading portrait of a too-happy-looking fish, I hear another meow-- a raspy, and desperate sounding noise.

I peek into the isle of the barn and see Lilly tentatively making her way toward us, emboldened by hunger. I make the decision then and there. We are keeping her. And if we're going to keep her, we're going to feed her. As Zorro violently shoves his nose into his dish, I reach into the container of cat food and grab a small handful. I hold out my hand and move slowly toward Lilly. She's too frightened, and makes a dash for the great outdoors. She hides behind a pile of lumber, so I drop the food on top and leave. A few minutes later, I see her nervously sitting on top of the boards, scarfing down the food as quickly as she can. The slightest movement or noise sends her scurrying for cover.

For the next couple of days, that's how it is. Lilly shows up for most of Zorro's twice-a-day feedings, but she keeps her distance, waiting for me to drop a few triangles of food somewhere that offers her an unobstructed view of her surroundings and a quick getaway.

Then, one evening, she comes toward me with slightly more confidence. She's actually under my feet as I bring the food dish toward her. This time I put it in the tack room. I set it down and then back away a foot or two. Even though I'm there, Lilly devours her dinner. I slowly reach my hand toward her. She jerks in fright as my fingers make contact with her down-soft fur, but she keeps her nose pressed into the food dish. I start patting her head and back. Every single time my hand touches her, she twitches as though she's been shocked. Then, finally, she starts to purr.

As Lilly eats, I take my first close-up look at her. Her face is gaunt, almost skeletal. There's a yellow-brown crust in the corner of her sunken, red-rimmed eyes. Her pink nose is marred by a fresh, 1/2 inch long, red scab--probably the result of an unfriendly encounter with Zorro She's thin and looks unwell, but her coat is shiny, clean, and unbelievably soft.

A few days later, I make an an appointment for Lilly to be spayed and vaccinated, though I have no idea how I'll manage to get this shy, timid cat into the car and off to the vet. I've got two weeks to work on it though

In the meantime, I make a point of gently reaching out to Lilly each time she dashes to the barn in search of a free meal. She seems to enjoy the pats and scratches she gets, and often rewards me with her loud, engine-like purr. She's bold enough now that she supplements her meagre diet by climbing into Murray's feed tub when he's outside, and eating whatever beet pulp he leaves behind-- even if I'm standing or working in the barn.




Her interactions with Dave and I are still very tentative, and any too-quick movements send her scurrying for the door, or leaping toward the rafters, but she's slowly becoming part of the family.

After a few weeks, it's finally time to see the vet-- and time to find out whether wild Lilly can be coaxed into a cat carrier and transported 20 minutes down the road without sending too much fur flying through the air.


To be continued...