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.