Puffy Ponies

There’s nothing like playin’ hooky and spending the afternoon with your horse. Especially when that time you spend not earning money ends in a big, unexpected vet bill.

While scooping the morning manure before putting out the afternoon hay, I noticed Chicago moving strangely – no surprise when I looked at his four swollen legs. Disturbing, but not alarming. Until I saw the twitching muscles on his left side, which prompted a “when can you get here” call to the vet and a “won’t be in” call to the boss.

Turns out the hay we got last weekend, the nice grass hay from the nice farm widow, includes some not nice hoary alyssum – a weed sometimes toxic to horses, and something they won’t usually eat in the pasture, but when dried in hay, they may not recognize. Until today, neither would I.

By the time the vet arrived, Chicago not only had swollen legs, but a temperature of 102, and hot, sore feet. Biskit and Rusty had also stocked up, and though neither had a fever, Rusty had mild soreness in one foot. Looking at all the swollen ankles brought back vivid memories of sitting in the living room of George’s grandparents, surrounded by the old Slavic women of Crosby-Ironton.

By the time the vet left, I was looking at five days of stall rest for the Big Red Beast, and anti-inflammatory for all my friends! Twice a day. Right after checking their temperatures. That means that for the next 3 days I will be spending an inordinate amount of time with my hand stuck up under a horse’s tail. And nearly up his @#$, as I learned today that the thermometer must go WAY in, and even if I lose my hold on it, not to worry, it will come back out. This teachable moment brought to you by Dr. J. Pribyl.

Added bonus: Chicago was dosed with DMSO, which Dr. Jamie warned would create a strong and distinctive odor in the barn. And she was right – within 5 minutes not only the barn, but the shop on the other side of the cat door smelled very much like something other than horses, hay or manure. I’ve heard the smell described as “like garlic” which may explain the expectation of wax-covered chianti bottles on red & white checked tablecloths upon entering the tack room.

Once all were secured in their stalls with ample bedding and safe hay, the ghosts of Nuns of School Days Past landed with their considerable weight on my Catholic schoolgirl shoulders. After shedding the guilty tears of a stupid horse owner, I started my penance, hauling the open bales out to the swamp with a hand-lettered “FREE” sign for the local wildlife with constitutions fortified to fight the ravages of hoary alyssum. Then I re-stacked the remaining bales and swept the floor to rid the barn of any wayward weeds. One Act of Contrition and three Hail Mary’s later, my work there was done, so I headed back to the house, where I could hear the Old Yellow Dog demanding his dinner. Sausage legs be damned, Zenga wants his dinner on time.

And that’s a blog for another day…

Patience Practice

Patience may just be possible for the Pot-bellied Palomino Pony, as proven by a mere 8 hours of practice in a chilly arena on a dreary, drafty day.

We spent last Saturday at a clinic of “The Common Horseman”, Bob Johnson. By the end of the day, Biskit learned to release to light pressure, which in this case means he now drops his head, backs up or moves forward in response to a quiet cue from me, given with two fingers on the snap of his lead rope. That’s light pressure. Heavy pressure would be my previous technique – verbal threats of bodily harm demanding his cooperation, generally beginning and ending with a string of un-pleasantries not fit to print.

It was a great day, with effective training in the company of fun people and beautiful horses. Biskit also enjoyed meeting new friends, and was especially smitten with the lone filly (girl) in the group – the lovely Gypsy, a very pretty roan with a sweet expression and soft eye.

Alas, Biskit’s romantic euphoria lasted only as long as his ride home, where he demonstrated his lessons of the day by walking calmly out of the trailer, to the pasture and the reality of life at the bottom of the herd – a swift kick to the afore-mentioned potbelly from Chicago. No damage done, just a warning shot to remind that “light pressure” is a relative term.

Happy Birthday to Me

Biskit is my 9 year old pony. His veterinary records indicate he is a Quarter Horse, but I call him a Pot-bellied Palomino Pony, and he answers to either.

Two weeks after I told George how do-able it was to care for only 2 horses (Chicago and Rusty) I met Biskit, who belonged to the Minnesota Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation (MNHARF). I suggested to George that he give me Biskit as his present for my birthday, only a week away. He thanked me kindly for the suggestion and told me he already had my present.

A week later we unloaded Biskit and settled him into our barn. Happy Birthday to Me.

A day later I heard him dragging his toes (Biskit, not George, who has long since accepted the futility of toe-dragging once I’ve made up my mind) as he walked. So, I scheduled an exam with Dr. Jamie, who strongly suspected neurological damage, drew some blood, sent it off for testing and prepared me for the realities of owning a neurologically unstable horse, among which was, no riding. Ever. During the week that we waited for test results, I sent my adoption fee to MNHARF, ensuring that damaged or not, Biskit would be mine forever.

I believe that Biskit and I were meant to be together. I don’t yet know the reason, but I believe there is one. I believe this, in part, because if I didn’t, I would be forced to believe that I am just not very bright.

Biskit is very social and very sweet, but has had few demands placed on him, resulting in a pony who occasionally forgets his manners and almost always DOES NOT BELIEVE THAT PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE!!! Therefore, he has been enrolled in the spring semester of Four Sticks Farm School of Equine Etiquette, which begins tomorrow with an 8-hour clinic at The Common Horseman.

Let the Games Begin.

The Boss

Blogger’s Note: Rusty is a 30-something Quarter Horse who belongs to my mom and lives here at Four Sticks Farm. He is apparently blessed with a Benjamin Button-like ability to grow younger with the passing years, as his age when we brought him home in 2004, was agreed to be 26, but was adjusted to 30 (again) in 2010, due, in equal parts, to physical condition and wishful thinking.

Rusty is a no-nonsense Head of the Herd, a lifelong lesson horse who loves my mom, enjoys toting around her grandchildren, and tolerates me. My mom comes to the barn with her hair nicely coiffed, lipstick artfully applied and an apple sliced in 8 equal wedges packed in a zip lock bag. I inherited none of these tendencies.

I do, however, keep Rusty’s stall clean and his feed bucket filled, so he accepts my presence as a mild, albeit necessary irritation. I am his cross to bear, the price he pays for being Jackie’s horse, but not his mouthpiece. Rusty prefers to tell his own story:

March 7, 2011 – Enough time has now elapsed, the danger has passed, and I’ve caught my breath; so I can relate to all who are interested “The Great Cow Caper”.

It seemed to be a day of Nothing Special, my pasture mates and I spending the afternoon picking at the last wisps of daytime hay, waiting to be let in the barn for the start of nighttime hay. Lisa, gone to wherever it is she goes on Monday afternoons, George, passing the time on his John Deere, moving buckets of snow from one pile to another.

Then I saw It. A black and white, cloven-hooved interloper. Right there in our pasture, trotting around as if he owned it, rudely leaving a steady stream of ruminant remnants across our grazing grounds. One quick glance revealed that George was completely unaware of the impending danger, caught up as he was with his snow pile project, so it was left to me to move the herd to safety – not an easy task with this group.

I sounded the alarm, suggested we head to the east, and watched Biskit race away with a panic-flagged tail, neurologically-dysfunctional feet flailing out behind him. Chicago trotted, or more accurately, strutted, down the alley, slowing as he passed by the house to admire his ground-covering extension in the window reflection.

Let me just say this – one doesn’t live to be an old horse by being a dope. Or by hanging out with them. That bovine was not leaving, and it was obvious that I would have to save myself and trust the others had the sense to follow. So I did what any self-respecting retired hunter-jumper would do. I jumped the fence and headed across the swamp. And beyond.

Since I found myself running solo through the neighbor’s yard, I can only assume that George was somehow alerted to the situation and managed to corral the 2 Stooges I live with into the barn. I looped around on the county road that passes the front of our property, saw no sign of The Steer, but could not risk returning quite yet, so continued westward to the safe haven of a neighboring horse home. There, a kind and caring woman put a rope around my neck, called 911, and stood with me until George arrived, halter and lead rope in hand. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers. And the county sheriff’s department.

George and I had an uneventful walk back down the hill, during which I was able to take stock of the neighborhood and scan the horizon for the threat of any rogue cattle on the lam. Seeing none, I walked into my barn and inhaled deeply. I regarded my charges, safe once again, blissfully ignorant of the day’s danger, and joined them in a delicious dinner.

It’s good to be king.