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.
From Four Sticks Farm 