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.

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…

The Boss

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.