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.

It’s a Good Life

At the risk of sounding immodest, I’m not completely convinced that our extremely mild Minnesota winter only coincidentally coincides with the fact that I decided to take a break from hauling Chicago for lessons during January and February. Dick (The Man Who has the Patience to be my Riding Instructor) thanked me when I told him about the hiatus, very possibly for reasons unrelated to cold temps and snowy roads, but I chose not to dig too deep. In any case, Mother Nature has served us a heaping helping of Never-ending March up here, with no menu changes in the foreseeable future.

The warm weather cycle of snow and sleet, melt and freeze, creates challenges for outdoor riding, so The Big Red Horse and I spend much of the season walking in the woods, wearing minimal tack, working on quiet cues for bending, straightening, starting and stopping. Our rides relax and reset my spirit, almost as much as the end-of-session apple and grooming do his.

Yesterday we went out while clouds still shaded the sky, leaving the trees lit up with a feathery frost that created a real live enchanted forest. My fairy tale steed apparently also appreciated the magic of our morning, as he whoa-ed and go-ed and flexed with only the slightest signal from me, earning himself a peppermint dessert to finish off that apple.

Life is good at Four Sticks Farm.

Food for Thought

Don’t be fooled by the photo – after spying the camera, Biskit inhaled deeply, then briefly stopped breathing to slim his silhouette; and since this was taken last fall, his girth has grown. Greatly. So much so that his winter blanket burst at the seam. Literally. And he can’t blame it on the dryer.

But Tuesday we renewed our commitment to wellness. I’ve been watching a new trainer on RFD-TV lately, an advocate for focusing on the horse’s mind to understand and accept what it’s offering – “The Gift of the Horse.” One might think Biskit comes bearing a very small package, simply wrapped in plain brown paper, but he’s actually proven receptive to the approach, as demonstrated in Tuesday’s long-lining pasture walk.

In a dazzling display of horsemanship Don’ts, I snapped the lines on his bridle, draped them in a mildly knotted heap over his back with the end of one dragging just ever-so-slightly on the ground, then led him out of the barn, past Chicago, Rusty and the afternoon hay, down the hill and out to the pasture.

I needed little focus to understand what was happening in Biskit’s mind. The tossing head, sidestepping hindquarters and erratic gait punctuated with bursts of speed followed by sudden stops drew a pretty clear picture. Which worked out well, as I needed most of my attention to stay on my feet through the mine field of snow-covered frozen manure chunks.

But once I accepted Biskit’s offering of a “Left Turn Only” course, and let him walk in a giant counter-clockwise circle, peace prevailed. And after a couple laps, I set him on a course leading back toward the barn and the forage feast of his slacker friends, but only if he took a Right Turn. No problem for the now quiet-minded horse. Not only could he, would he, turn to the right, but he stopped and started, uphill, downhill, past the barn and down the alley with commendable cooperation.

Five minutes of Ugly followed by ten minutes of Pretty Good equals a successful session for the Portly Pony, so we returned to the barn where our happy day got happier when Biskit stood quietly for a bit of brushing without his usual demands for immediate release.

His reward? An apple and a private stash of hay. We can always buy a bigger blanket.

Still Got It

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 and the price he pays for being Jackie’s horse, but not his mouthpiece. Rusty prefers to tell his own story:

Another weekend spent providing an introductory experience to the Wonderful World of Horses for a couple of first-timers here at Four Sticks Farm – two tiny, cute blondes wearing pink cowboy boots, who were easy on both the eyes and the back.

Jackie was in attendance, looking lovely as always, in sharp contrast to the smudged rumpledness that is her daughter. How the value of a comb and a little lip gloss continues to elude that girl is truly one of life’s great mysteries.

But I’ll give her this – Lisa knows how to surround herself with a quality team. In addition to her mother, this weekend she brought in the niece A-listers, Allie and Anna, to assist. Two more cute blondes I still take great pleasure in trotting around, and who have become competent, compassionate mentors to the young and the horse-crazy.

Despite the daily display of dopiness, it appears that my barn mates have actually paid attention to my instruction in Behavioral Guidelines for Application Around Barn Guests. The portly palomino managed to keep his feet off everyone else’s, and stood still for some brushing from his amateur admirers.

And the big red dork walked and trotted around the arena like a seasoned lesson horse. He even ambled quietly through the trail like he’d done it a hundred times. Which he has, of course, but Lisa’s limited lumbar mobility might make one think otherwise. Fortunately for all concerned, Chicago has the sense to save his Bad Boy outbursts for the one who will (usually) land on her feet and get back in the saddle. Another great mystery, on so many levels, but one best left unsolved.

We were rewarded with a generous supply of hugs, kisses, apples, and, at the risk of sounding immodest, compliments. My eyesight may be fading but my hearing is not, and from her seat in the saddle I heard one little cowgirl say several times, “Rusty is sooo cool.

It’s all good for this old horse’s heart.

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.

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…