Life from a Different Angle

Chicago likes to remind me that the grass is truly greener on the other side of the fence. Even if the grass is last year’s hay and the other side is the barn aisle.

Though 19 years at Four Sticks Farm has allowed for the establishment of a solid chore routine, sometimes things just happen. During a recent lunchtime ritual, I forgot to close Chicago’s stall door, possibly distracted by Rowdy patrolling the pasture in search of something to eat, something to chase, or something in which to roll. Or maybe the disruption was Fennel, demanding I open the tack room door so he could sit in the opening, heating the unheated barn while he decided whether or not he felt up to an outdoor stroll or a hay pile inspection. Biskit may have been pounding the stall wall in protest of the sluggish service. It may have been the need to monitor a water bucket perched under the running faucet, precariously close to overflowing. Or Mace’s insistence that the Time For Which the Cat Dish Has Been Empty had now entered status Completely Unacceptable and required immediate attention.

In any case, The Big Red Beast opted for a little barn walkabout that ended right back at his stall, eating his ration from the outside looking in. With minimal encouragement he quietly returned to the confines of said stall, where he finished his lunch and settled into his bed of many shavings for the noontime nap.

No harm, no foul, just another little lesson in looking at the world through a different lens. Lots of ways to live your life. Or eat your hay. So let go of the judgement.

But do keep the cat dish filled.

Back in the Saddle 2016

After a minimum of two months on the ground, I finally saddled up and climbed on the back of The Big Red Horse yesterday. Given our lengthy lazy spell, it came as no surprise that the girth tightened two holes lower than last ride, and given my own refusal to even attempt to wrap a belt around my waist, I offered no judgment. However, a memory from last spring’s vet visit flashed a red warning light in my head. Last year Chicago stretched the weight tape (a nylon band that wraps around a horse’s girth to estimate its weight) to infinity and beyond, so we have 6-8 weeks to make sure Dr. Heather doesn’t have to bring the extension this time.

Off we went, onto our tiny wooded trail, where I couldn’t help but think of last spring’s first ride – a disastrous outing in which Chicago left me lying on my back in the woods while he bolted across the yard, around the barn and back again. He’d been spooked by a horse and buggy on the road 100 yards away, then parlayed the panic of Biskit and Rusty, who’d spotted the same vehicle from the safety of their pasture, into a full-blown fear fest.

I caught him on the lawn, (barely) relieved that he’d managed to avoid hurting himself by stepping on his reins; and climbed up, slightly sickened with the knowledge that we’d have to return to the scene of the crime and compose ourselves before we could call it day. He was at the height of Big Red Beastliness, prancing and puffing and threatening to explode as we made our way back, but this time I was more determined to stay calm and stay on than he was to get me off. So I stayed on.

That was then, this is now, I reminded myself. Fortunately for all concerned, this year’s First Ride bore no resemblance to that of 2015. The only vehicles on the road were appropriately powered by big engines, and though Chicago showed no concern about any of them, I will confess to breaking out in a couple calming verses of “The Wheels on the Bus” when the noisy yellow student-mobile passed by. Just in case.

To avoid a return to any of the rodeo rides of our past, I kept yesterday’s walk in the woods short. And safe. We returned to the barn, shared an apple and a preemptive dose of anti-inflammatory. A little grooming massagefor my big red friend, then back to the pasture with his friends. A good day for both of us.

We should do this more often…

Painted Pony

Several years ago, in an effort to encourage me to ride my Big Red Beast with a little more assertiveness, Dick told me I needed to give Chicago a cue he wouldn’t want to ignore. More to the point, I needed to “make him say, Damn!”

Two weeks ago, Chicago crossed back to the dark side of his younger years, and absolutely refused to take the left canter lead. We spent nearly 30 minutes trying every trick from his training bag, and the only cursing came from Dick. I was reminded of why he suggested we take up cart driving.

Last week, we worked outside; relaxed and quiet-minded, with a slow, stress-free, step-by-step plan of action. We started with the right lead, as that’s Chicago’s preferred side – set him up for success, start on the positive, right? So, I moved the hip, picked up the shoulder, and asked for the canter. His response? He took the left lead. Damn!

Today, we repeated our trail ride approach, with only a couple of canter departures, one incorrect, the other correct.

But here’s the thing – two weeks ago, the day after our dance on the dark side, Chicago agreeably acted as canvas for the artistic renderings of four Books in the Barn readers, allowing them to cover his coat with (pretty much) washable tempera paint, including “#1 Best Horse”, which spilled into the ticklish spot on his flank. And last week, he stood motionless as a 6 year old visitor took the shortcut under his belly to brush his other side.

On any lead, that’s a damn good horse.

Field Trials

For the first time since Christmas, Chicago and went to Dick’s for a lesson last Friday. Being a break of very little exercise, including the Holidays and a sudden onset of middle-age spread, my Big Red Beast and I grew overweight and out of shape during our hiatus, so I thought we’d start with a cart driving lesson. As I type, it occurs to me that, though I believe Chicago can more easily drag me around in a wheeled vehicle than he can haul me on his back, I may be wrong. But I don’t think so.

In any case, Friday’s record-breaking warmth pretty much demanded a trail ride. The picture above was taken by my friend Vikki several years ago, when Chicago and I were younger and thinner (and had less insurance, for you “Fried Green Tomatoes” fans) but his expression was much the same on Friday – “We’re doing what?”

So we started our weekend with an peaceful trail ride on a beautiful morning. We walked, trotted and even cantered a little, around the farm fields on the property. We crossed through water, scary to some horses, but for Chicago, merely an opportunity to indulge in a little refreshment. This wasn’t always the case, as Bob Johnson, “The Common Horseman”, might tell you, if he wasn’t such a nice guy. Bob once spent a good (well, actually not so good) hour standing knee deep in a water-filled ditch, trying to help me help Chicago learn he could, and would, survive the momentary discomfort of wet feet. Ugly stuff, but it built character and strengthened friendships of horse and humans involved.

We also passed several big round bales of hay, another source of imminent danger in the eyes of many equines. Chicago thought about spooking as we approached, then apparently caught a whiff of what was in front of him – horse heaven. He opted to swap his Duck & Spin for a Snatch & Grab, then helped himself to a mouthful of last fall’s grass. He repeated at the next bale. And the next . And at every bale along the trail. Not quite enough to incur boarding fees, but more than enough to ensure his winter weight will linger long into spring.

Keep that cart handy.

Knowing the Difference

What a difference a week makes. Last Sunday, Chicago threw a temper tantrum that left me flat out on a path in the middle of a state park. Friday, he won the heart of a frightened little girl, and provided a few quiet moments of concentrated effort for a frenetic one.

A ten year old and her parents visited the farm to meet the me and my animals, in consideration of coming out for some reading skills coaching. The horses were in their stalls and though she was intrigued by them, the child was also scared – barely able to hold the bucket from which she offered treats. Only with her dad’s hand under hers for support, and the distraction of Chicago with a peppermint, was she willing to touch his oh-so-soft muzzle.

We walked outside toward the Teeter-Totter tree, and she spotted the usually shy barn cat Basil, who worked a little magic by leaving a toasty napping spot on the grass compost when the little girl knelt and snapped her fingers. The little cat lover cradled Basil just right, and the two connected in a quiet bond that may have sealed the feline’s fate as an animal assistant in the Pawsitive Steps reading program.

Probably building on some cat-inspired confidence, the girl returned to the barn, where the Big Red Horse turned on the charm and enticed her to bring the stepstool to his stall front, stand on it and stroke away. She was hooked.

Next up, a younger girl who comes out to practice her reading skills. She has a nearly non-existent attention span, and our activities are rapid-fire, peppered with a steady stream of questions, comments and the search for the next fun thing. She had asked to braid Chicago’s tail, so our letter review game was built around his long sorrel hair, some colored elastic binders and a couple sheets of adhesive alphabet.

She combed, sectioned, twisted and bound the hair with focus and silence. Brief periods mind you, but a marked difference in the frantic flurry of our previous session. We moved up to the mane for pony tails and then used Chicago’s stomach as our sticker board for a last few sounds and letters. All the while he stood calmly in the cross-ties, quiet and cooperative, with not a shred of the bucking bronc I rode (or, didn’t ride) a few days earlier.

How can I not love this horse, who will let little kids brush and braid and paint and polish and poke stickers on all his “Basic Horse Anatomy” parts, without an ounce of objection? A horse who offers assurance to the anxious and calm to the chaotic. A horse who seems to understand that there are people he could mess with, but many that he shouldn’t. The only fool he won’t suffer gladly is me, but I can live with that.

As long as I have bubble bath and ibuprofen.

Trail Trial

I believe things happen for a reason.

For instance, I believe I titled Chicago’s stories on this blog “… Big Red Horse” as a rather uncharacteristic sign of optimism. Good karma. A commitment to the belief that he and I have settled our differences, made our peace and moved on to a happy life together.

See, I generally refer to Chicago as The Big Red Beast, a nickname reflective of our storied past. He has unseated so many times that I finally perfected the art of somersaulting over his left shoulder, sticking the landing and keeping hold of the reins in my right hand.

But we have worked on our relationship through lessons and clinics; tears and threats; prayers and perseverance; stubbornness and stupidity. And in the end, we’ve made it work. Life is good. Most of the time.

Today we were invited to join a group trail ride at a park five minutes from our house, one we used to ride regularly, but haven’t for a couple years. Yay!

And when my friends were delayed by technical difficulties, I decided this must be divine intervention. By the time I got the message, I was at the park, tacked up, ready to head out. Because it would be at least 45 minutes before the group arrived, I figured this would be a great opportunity for Chicago and I to go solo around the little 45 minute loop we used to ride. I’ve been of the mind lately that this is something we could and should do, and now here was the chance. An obvious sign.

Off we went. Chicago proceeded with caution, stopping a few times to test my judgment and/or resolve, but was easily convinced to continue. By the time we passed the halfway mark, he apparently realized we were on the homeward stretch and stepped up from his “Are you really sure this is a smart idea?” amble to his “I am Some Kind of trail horse!” walk. Life really was good. Most of the time.

As we neared the trail center, marking the end of our successful solo trip, I saw movement up ahead. Not a deer, a raccoon, or even a neon-shirted hiker, all hazards that haunt our Trail Rides Past. Nope, this was worse.

The dreaded Park Ranger on a Gator. With a fluorescent vest. To his credit, the guy was moving slowly and slowed a bit more when he saw us. But Chicago started jigging nervously, so we moved off the trail onto a side path, allowing the Very Scary Moving Vehicle to pass. Great, he went one way, we’re going the other, nearly home and completely uninjured after an uneventful ride. Almost.

Chicago continued to jig his way back on the trail and up the hill, mostly in a pretty little leg yield that moved us laterally upward. Then I made a couple mistakes: 1. I let him get straight, and 2. I let him get his head down. And as soon as he had the position, I felt the familiar power of his full 1200 pounds lifting straight vertical from all four legs. Experience has taught me that this is the part that ends badly. All the time.

Based on the dirt smudges on the back of my shirt, I landed right between my shoulder blades, (for my friends who are asking, Yes I was wearing my helmet) but managed to hang on the reins. Which was particularly useful today, as instead of the immediate stop that used to follow such an unceremonious dismount, this time the Big Red @#$%&!* did his best to make sure we walked home separately.

But I got back on and realized my good fortune (how’s that for positive spin?)in having one more steep hill left, just perfect for extinguishing that remaining equine energy with a little more uphill lateral work. By the top, he waved the white flag and walked quietly to the trailer.

So, was this part of some Vast Eternal Plan to trail ride by our lonesomes? I don’t know. Will I test fate and try it again? I don’t know that either.

What I do know, is that this is the reason God gave us bubble bath and Ibuprofen.

Are You My Mother?

The Rusty Report:

Once again, I have had to summon the strength and courage to defend my herd against the unpredictable advances of a small but persistent intruder. She appeared on a Friday afternoon, emerging from the reed canary border that separates our pasture from the adjoining marshland, to stroll directly at me and my mates (who were grazing with their customary blissful ignorance) announcing her approach with a rather avian-sounding bleat.

Fortunately for the dunderheads in my charge, I have retained the lightning quick flight response of my youth, so was able to sound the alarm and move them to safety with the swiftness of an equine half my age – which would be them btw – and establish a strategic plan of protection against this new invader, who shows no sign of retreat.

Book of the Big Red Horse:

Maybe the heat and humidity are finally getting to Rusty the Elder, because he’s been acting a little over-protective during the last couple weeks. For no apparent reason, he’ll make us rush up to the barn, usually just about the time I get to a really good clover patch. I hope he’s not headed down the path of Equine Cognitive Dysfunction, because that puts me at the front of the “Head of the Herd” line which is a no place I care to be. Waaay too much responsibility. You think I want to be in charge of a crazy old horse and a dumb young one? No thank you. I am I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T. A free-spirit. No-commitments. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll help out when I can, but the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, and if there’s an open gate, I’m goin’ through it.

So anyway, don’t know what’s up with the Senior Sorrel, but he keeps hangin’ awfully close, with his cataracts peeled, so maybe he’ll let me in on the secret sometime soon. In the meantime, I wish someone would execute a cease and desist order on whoever is making that tiresome honking noise – it interrupts the peaceful environment and interferes with the digestive process.

Pony Tails:

Wow! You should see this creature that keeps coming around our yard. Rusty won’t let her get close enough for me or Chicago to get a good look, but I think she’d make a fun pet. She’s almost the same color as me, so we could have two reds and two yellows. And she’s smaller than me so maybe I wouldn’t always have to be the one bossed around. Maybe I could do some of the bossin’ instead. Maybe not though, ‘cuz she sometimes sounds like she might be pretty bossy. And she is a little bit scary. At least that what Rusty keeps telling me. After he makes me run up to the barn, Which makes me tired and out of breath. I really don’t like to run. So maybe Rusty will stop making me run pretty soon. I hope so. I’d like to have a new friend. Two reds and two yellows. And one smaller than me. Cool.

Driving Mr. Chicago

In an effort to broaden my horsey horizons, Chicago and I have taken up cart driving, and four weeks into the process, he has his part down, but it appears I’ll spend much of the summer figuring out mine.

Possibly in celebration of the fact that I was, literally, off his back, Chicago breezed through his lessons in wearing the harness, feeling the shafts on his sides and the weight of the cart behind him. He now starts and stops, walks and trots, turns right and left with a beautiful natural lightness. As long as Dick is in the driver’s seat.

I watch Dick (aka “The Man Who Has the Patience to be My Riding Instructor”) ask a few questions, listen to his instruction, and the process is clear and logical and seemingly quite do-able. But put the reins in my hands, and we’re bumping cones, cutting through the shavings pile, knocking over cones, backing out of corners and running over cones. The good news – all that sensory training paid off. The bad news – my learning curve is apparently flatter than that of my horse.

So other than a couple brief moments when we pull it together and trot down the long wall, my Big Red Horse and I struggle to connect with some semblance of relaxed rhythm and move “Forward, forward, forward.

Should my technological skills prove more advanced than my cart driving, I’ll post video of our progress in the future. In the meantime, watch your toes.

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…