Mud Wars

Even if I had the newest smartphone with a lightening-fast 4G network it still wouldn't do me any damn good when it comes to mud.  All I could do with that technology is to call/text/email you to say that the mud is holding me hostage.

You will surely appreciate the irony when I tell you that the rain has kept me from installing a new water tank in the field.  When the rain stops ruining your day the mud is only just getting started at it, and so it is that after waiting weeks for a break in the weather, and then waiting days more for the ground to dry, today was finally my day.

Nothing makes me happier than NSFTH (new stuff for the horses) and today I wheeled my shiny new stock tank out to the field.  The tank is a 140 gallon container of gleaming galvanized metal, glinting in the sun and spooking my horses a little.

Once the horses had gotten over their fear of this thunderous new object in their midst, it only took minutes to prep the site and install the tank.  Then it was time to fill 'er up.  The sun and dry ground were evidently working on Hero and he decided to get in touch with his inner Maverick and do several fly-by's as the hose spurted water into the tank.  He buzzed me several times at a full gallop, which he interrupted only for dazzling little spurts of bucking and farting.  (For the horsey among you, he also swapped leads from left to right while galloping down hill.  I was impressed.)

Momento, who is kind of the Steve McQueen of horses, stood still at the top of the field, never even raising his head at all of the commotion.  He merely mustered a few angry tail swishes when Hero buzzed him, and kept his mind on his grazing.

I was feeling pretty good about the day, but I tend to align myself more with Momento when it comes to expressing my feelings, which for us meant a tiny nap in the sun.  On the other hand, Hero finally settled down to graze, but not before rolling and grunting like a pig in, yes, the MUD.  Again.

Try as I might I could not coax either horse to the sparkling new tank for a drink.

The muddy eye shadow is a nice touch.

Getting It Wrong, Making It Right

Winter arrived at 7:00pm last Thursday.  Our months of extended autumn were abruptly blown away by a cold front that exploded on us.  I had finished my chores around 6:00pm and did a final check on my horses.  They were standing quietly in the middle of the field, blanketed against the light drizzle.  All was calm, all was wet.

I seriously misread the conditions.  After a week of steady precipitation, the ground was soft and saturated.  Horses add to the misery by churning the mud like a plow.  Mud is both annoying and inevitable, just one more thing to manage, but I missed the management opportunity on Thursday night.  I should have known that the cold front would flash-freeze those muddy clumps of dirt.  I should have protected my horses from the hard, lumpy footing by putting them in the barn.

By the time I realized my mistake, the wind was literally howling and spitting angry snow.  The lane to the barn had a layer of ice over the gravel.  It was too dangerous to move horses in those conditions, so I had to support them as best I could.  This meant checking on them through the night every four hours:  taking fresh hay to the field, offering a bucket of water, breaking the ice off the tank, checking that blankets were still properly affixed.

They handled the cold well, despite the fact that they chose to stand not in their covered shelter but instead outside, in a low part of the field, where the wind was noticeably calmer.  By morning there was a layer of snow on the field and both horses were on their feet, but I noticed that Hero was lame on his right front.  Momento, who is shod on the front, was fine, but I think Hero must have stepped on a frozen clod of dirt and bruised his tender sole.

I went out to Hero with a hoof pick and a hoof sock (a soft but tough nylon "boot" that provides temporary protection to an injured hoof).  I violated every rule of safety and horsemanship by not putting a halter and lead rope on him.  He obediently lifted the right hoof, I gently cleaned it and saw no major injury, and I slipped the padded hoof sock over the hoof and secured it.  I helped Hero gently set his hoof back down.  He bore weight on it immediately, much to my relief.  I stepped back from his right shoulder and scratched him behind the ear, praising him for being such a good boy.

What happened next I will never forget.  Hero gracefully arched his neck and placed his beautiful head against my chest.  He let me wrap an arm under his throat and another alongside his head so that I gently cradled his head while I literally showered him with praise and kissed him all over his face.  There was no doubt in my mind that he was telling me that he appreciated the attention.

I don't think Hero was capable of understanding my culpability in his lameness, but I never will take advantage of his good nature in any way.  If a horse (or any other animal) is in any discomfort I believe we have a moral obligation to offer aid and comfort.

So often I look up at the learning curve of horsemanship and see it arching into infinity.  Often this view is obscured by tears of frustration.  But then there are those moments, those tiny moments of understanding between me and my horses that keep me rooted and anchored and committed and forever hooked on their presence in my life.

Hero turned out with a hoof sock on the right front.

I moved Hero to his warm, dry, and deeply bedded stall on Friday.  He wore his hoof sock on the trip down the lane to the barn and he walked very comfortably.  After 24 hours of stall rest I was relieved that he was much improved, that his lameness was minor.

Catharsis

It is inevitable.  You hit a rough patch in your life and you stare in disbelief as all around you the world goes on about its business, callously ignorant of your situation.

We lost an old horse this past summer.  She was most likely in her 30s and when it was her time to go, we all were at peace.  She died in the pasture on a June evening as the sun was setting, and we covered her in turnout blankets and made plans to bury her in the morning.  In case you are wondering, modern horse burial enlists a backhoe.  A man in my community owns an excavating business and over the years he has buried a couple of my horses as well as those of neighbors and acquaintances.  He enables the burial of an equine friend and therefore spares us the trauma of sending a carcass to unknown whereabouts.

The backhoe digs the grave, places the horse in it (an amazingly gentle procedure), and covers the grave with dirt.  At this point, you need three things:  a rake, a hoe, and time.  It takes several months for a horse grave to settle, and in the meantime you rake and hoe the dirt into the low spots, you remove all the sharp stones, and you let gravity and rainfall do the rest. On new year's eve, six months after our horse's death, my husband tended the grave by raking it smooth for the last time, then mulching it lightly with some old hay.  A chore, yes, but a peaceful one.

All around the world, people were making plans.  Some were celebrating with champagne and lights and perhaps a kiss at midnight.  Across the ocean, people from an island nation were grieving.  With aching hearts some wrote messages onto balloons to people whose faces they would never see nor voices they would never hear again.

And the world goes on.