Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
Spring Break
It started on Good Friday, with fireworks, no less.
And I don't mean your garden-variety "pop! pop!" fireworks. I mean the kind that begins with the whooshing sound of a rapidly emptied canister the half second before you feel a thud in your sternum the half second before the sky explodes in colors and your ears begin to hum. The kind of fireworks that can't possibly be legal for such casual backyard celebrations.
Luckily the horses were already in the barn that night as one had unluckily thrown a shoe and was a bit lame. As they are used to the near-daily sounds of distant gunshots (we are in Tennessee, after all) the racket from the fireworks did not seem to disturb the horses.
This life with horses is not so rural as I would like. Our farm is carved out of the upper corner of an old dairy farm, and our lot is in the shape of an upside-down "L." At two places along our fence lines we butt up against the cul-de-sacs of two tiny subdivisions. Each year we live here, the heated contest among the neighborhood pyromaniacs gets more and more intense. And as the fireworks war rages around us, the horses and I just have to learn how to deal with it.
Holy Saturday was celebrated at the cul-de-sac at other end of the farm (the one nearest the barn, oh joy), complete with a bonfire and a nauseating mix of country music and rap. It was an odd juxtaposition to hear loud southern accents against a pounding backdrop of "All My Bitches Love Me." To my relief, the horses were more curious than frightened by the firelight and party sounds. Momento stood at the fence for a minute or two, then walked to where I stood nearby. I casually mentioned to him that what he was hearing was nothing more than people with unfortunately terrible taste in music, and he ambled off and began to graze, evidently satisfied with my explanation. Hero handled things differently: he stood stock-still at the fence with his beautiful head raised, ears pricked forward, nostrils slightly flared. The moonlight gleamed against his dark coat, and I honestly couldn't take my eyes off him. I was content to stand and stare at his statue-like pose all night if I could, but eventually he, too, decided that his time was better spent grazing. We all survived the party.
Easter Sunday was a highlight of the week and began with a visit by our very capable equine dentistry team, who provided me a front row seat to witnessing natural horsemanship as practiced by masters. Their visit set the tone for the rest of spring break, which was quiet and peaceful...just the way I like it.
I foolishly think that I can protect my horses from frightening sights and sounds. I'm kidding myself. I can no more control the behavior of the people who live near the farm than I can control the tide. It would be a waste of time and oxygen to try to explain to my neighbors that fireworks and bonfires can be frightening to horses because the truth is people just don't care. This is my problem, not theirs. These are the opportunities that turn weenies into horsewomen.
It is at these moments that I remind myself that exposing the horses to different situations helps them gain confidence; they learn to experience sights and sounds and smells and they comprehend that while it is different from their routine, it neither hurts them nor keeps them from feeding. At these times it is my job to remain as calm and steady as possible, radiating a "no big deal" attitude to them. Soon enough, they feel confident enough to lower their heads and graze. And when they gain confidence, so do I.
And I don't mean your garden-variety "pop! pop!" fireworks. I mean the kind that begins with the whooshing sound of a rapidly emptied canister the half second before you feel a thud in your sternum the half second before the sky explodes in colors and your ears begin to hum. The kind of fireworks that can't possibly be legal for such casual backyard celebrations.
Luckily the horses were already in the barn that night as one had unluckily thrown a shoe and was a bit lame. As they are used to the near-daily sounds of distant gunshots (we are in Tennessee, after all) the racket from the fireworks did not seem to disturb the horses.
This life with horses is not so rural as I would like. Our farm is carved out of the upper corner of an old dairy farm, and our lot is in the shape of an upside-down "L." At two places along our fence lines we butt up against the cul-de-sacs of two tiny subdivisions. Each year we live here, the heated contest among the neighborhood pyromaniacs gets more and more intense. And as the fireworks war rages around us, the horses and I just have to learn how to deal with it.
Holy Saturday was celebrated at the cul-de-sac at other end of the farm (the one nearest the barn, oh joy), complete with a bonfire and a nauseating mix of country music and rap. It was an odd juxtaposition to hear loud southern accents against a pounding backdrop of "All My Bitches Love Me." To my relief, the horses were more curious than frightened by the firelight and party sounds. Momento stood at the fence for a minute or two, then walked to where I stood nearby. I casually mentioned to him that what he was hearing was nothing more than people with unfortunately terrible taste in music, and he ambled off and began to graze, evidently satisfied with my explanation. Hero handled things differently: he stood stock-still at the fence with his beautiful head raised, ears pricked forward, nostrils slightly flared. The moonlight gleamed against his dark coat, and I honestly couldn't take my eyes off him. I was content to stand and stare at his statue-like pose all night if I could, but eventually he, too, decided that his time was better spent grazing. We all survived the party.
Easter Sunday was a highlight of the week and began with a visit by our very capable equine dentistry team, who provided me a front row seat to witnessing natural horsemanship as practiced by masters. Their visit set the tone for the rest of spring break, which was quiet and peaceful...just the way I like it.
I foolishly think that I can protect my horses from frightening sights and sounds. I'm kidding myself. I can no more control the behavior of the people who live near the farm than I can control the tide. It would be a waste of time and oxygen to try to explain to my neighbors that fireworks and bonfires can be frightening to horses because the truth is people just don't care. This is my problem, not theirs. These are the opportunities that turn weenies into horsewomen.
It is at these moments that I remind myself that exposing the horses to different situations helps them gain confidence; they learn to experience sights and sounds and smells and they comprehend that while it is different from their routine, it neither hurts them nor keeps them from feeding. At these times it is my job to remain as calm and steady as possible, radiating a "no big deal" attitude to them. Soon enough, they feel confident enough to lower their heads and graze. And when they gain confidence, so do I.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
This Life with Horses: In Praise of Horse Husbands
It would seem that I don't have a biological clock per se. But I do have an internal timepiece which apparently is a Rolex, for at the stroke of April every year my heart yearns and thoughts turn to Lexington. I'm compelled by some sort of migratory instinct to spend late April at Kentucky Horse Park.
My horses have an internal timepiece as well, also set to April. For three of the last six years, three horses have injured themselves in the week prior to the Rolex Kentucky Three Day Event. First, there was the gelding who ended his jumping career by blowing a hind suspensory ligament while turned out in the pasture. The very next April, an aging mare slipped on wet grass after rolling and fell hard on her right shoulder. I saw her struggling to rise and went to check on her and to my horror discovered she was having a seizure: eyes rolled back, legs twitching, erratic breathing. Bless her heart she recovered and lived several more years. Last April one of my geldings lacerated a sole while frolicking in a fresh spring pasture.
After every one of these incidents, as soon as the vet has driven off, I've looked to my husband with teary eyes and blubbered "I'm staying home...I can't leave with all of this going on" and every year he has put a steady hand on my shoulder and told me "You can go. I can handle this." And he has.
My husband was drafted into this life with horses with absolutely no preparation. He has been my show mom, my groom, my hand-walker, my driver. He has taken care of geldings made cranky by injury and stall rest and has patiently hand-grazed them and mucked out their stalls and cared for them just as I would have. He has been there to pat my back after a good class and he's been there to rub my back as I sob over a fresh grave. He takes vacation time from work every year to care for the horses so that I can go to Lexington. All of my horses have loved him and probably for the same reasons I do: he is calm, steady, reliable, easy-going, and upbeat. He makes me laugh. He scratches their itchy spots. We all feel more secure in his presence.
And so as official Rolex time pings louder and louder in my thoughts I realize how lucky I am to be able to enjoy time away in the company of others' horses because I share my life with a man that can ably look after mine whilst I'm gone. I couldn't do this life with horses without him.
My horses have an internal timepiece as well, also set to April. For three of the last six years, three horses have injured themselves in the week prior to the Rolex Kentucky Three Day Event. First, there was the gelding who ended his jumping career by blowing a hind suspensory ligament while turned out in the pasture. The very next April, an aging mare slipped on wet grass after rolling and fell hard on her right shoulder. I saw her struggling to rise and went to check on her and to my horror discovered she was having a seizure: eyes rolled back, legs twitching, erratic breathing. Bless her heart she recovered and lived several more years. Last April one of my geldings lacerated a sole while frolicking in a fresh spring pasture.
After every one of these incidents, as soon as the vet has driven off, I've looked to my husband with teary eyes and blubbered "I'm staying home...I can't leave with all of this going on" and every year he has put a steady hand on my shoulder and told me "You can go. I can handle this." And he has.
My husband was drafted into this life with horses with absolutely no preparation. He has been my show mom, my groom, my hand-walker, my driver. He has taken care of geldings made cranky by injury and stall rest and has patiently hand-grazed them and mucked out their stalls and cared for them just as I would have. He has been there to pat my back after a good class and he's been there to rub my back as I sob over a fresh grave. He takes vacation time from work every year to care for the horses so that I can go to Lexington. All of my horses have loved him and probably for the same reasons I do: he is calm, steady, reliable, easy-going, and upbeat. He makes me laugh. He scratches their itchy spots. We all feel more secure in his presence.
And so as official Rolex time pings louder and louder in my thoughts I realize how lucky I am to be able to enjoy time away in the company of others' horses because I share my life with a man that can ably look after mine whilst I'm gone. I couldn't do this life with horses without him.
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