Continuing Education

I wrote in the spring that Biskit had been enrolled in the Four Sticks Farm School of Equine Etiquette, but failed to mention that he registered for the Nights and Every-Other-Weekend course. The Slow Track for the Uncommitted. If he was a human being, Biskit would spend six or seven years earning a Bachelor’s degree, then decide to move back into his parents’ basement while he pursued a different major.

The Potbellied Palomino has made progress though. He can now be in the crossties with minimal screaming for help (or demanding his release) head tossing, pooping or peeing. May not sound impressive, but when it’s your ears and your head in harm’s way, or when you’re the cleanup crew, these are huge victories.

He will usually pick up a foot when requested, though he’s taken a page from Chicago’s book and has yet to master the art of balancing on the other three, so hoof cleaning sometimes looks a bit like an interpretative dance of the swift and the stalwart. I suspect my farrier spends all I pay him for Biskit and Chicago on chiropractic care. But I don’t want to ask…

And finally, Biskit will now accept a bit in his mouth, usually without a fuss, and he ground-drives in the pasture, the arena and on our wooded trail. Ground-driving looks a little like cart driving, only without the cart. This means he wears long lines attached to his bridle while I hold the other end of the long lines and walk behind him. This also means wherever he walks, I walk – uphill, downhill, through the mud, around the trees – so if Biskit ever enrolls in the full-time course, he and I have a shot at reaching our goal weights.

He seems to enjoy getting out like the Big Boys, though it would be premature to claim he likes having a job. I think he was absent the day they taught “Work Ethic – What is it Good For”.

And though he signed up for the make-up, my guess is he’s holding out hope that it falls on his off-weekend.

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.