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.

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.

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.