So how'd I do?
I seem to be doing rather well.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
I Appear to be Getting the Hang of This
Today was my 63rd birthday -- yay me -- and I spent part of the morning at the range with the CZ Lux. Since it was my birthday, I treated myself to some easy shots; went through the first dozen-plus rounds at the sissy distance of 30 feet. Then I cranked the target out to 40 feet for another twenty or so shots, and finished the box of 50 rounds at 50 feet. Iron sights, standing, no rest, and didn't even reel in the target to check how I was doing till I was done. Though I didn't really need to; by halfway through the session I could see significant daylight through the target and its cardboard backing.
So how'd I do?
I seem to be doing rather well.
So how'd I do?
I seem to be doing rather well.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Cowed
There's a stock horse sport called working cow horse, in which a horse and rider face off against a cow in an arena. The object of the game is for the mounted pair to take control of the cow's immediate destiny, make it go down the arena side, turn back, turn left, turn right, turn in a circle, whether the cow wants to go along with the program or not. Some cows don't put up much resistance; some are defiant. Cow horses need speed, nimbleness, and spunk to do it well. The rider has to stay balanced and out of the horse's way; on a well-trained horse who's game for the game, s/he doesn't need to do a lot more than some subtle cuing.
Here's an example of doing it right, on a cow who isn't at first inclined to cooperate:
It's a sport that's exciting and fun to watch, and from its home in the American/Canadian West it's spread to Europe, Germany, for example. Of course, not everyone can afford to import a well-trained Quarter Horse or Paint, a competitor sprung from generations of horses bred to take it to the cow. So our European friends will press into service whatever breed they have to hand, dress up in full Western regalia, and go for it. Even if said breed is, say, a Haflinger, a smallish but sturdy flaxen-maned golden horse with that Western cow horse look but not, perhaps, quite the same Western cow horse attitude:
Having giggled her way through that video, a friend was moved to share this recollection:
That takes me back to a pony my parents leased for me on summer vacations when I was 8-11. Mr. Magee was a bay paint, about 13 hands, not very pretty, not very friendly, but a parent couldn't ask for a better babysitter. My friend's pony was a much prettier, friendlier and smaller chestnut paint mare. (I always felt I was on the lesser of the two on some childhood standard). We rode through old fields, orchards and cow pastures near the barn, but we never encountered cows in the cow pasture. Until one day we did. We, the young humans and the smaller pony, were in favor of exiting stage left when we came up on a bunch of them napping near some trees. They were BIG, and we didn't have a clue about cows. But Mr. Magee knew exactly what to do when one of them got to her feet. He took charge, walked toward the matron and informed her that she and her friends had better move on. Mrs. Bovine did not question Mr. Magee and we never saw the cows again.
In other words, that homely little pinto weren't no stinkin' beauty parlor Halflingwhatsiss.
Here's an example of doing it right, on a cow who isn't at first inclined to cooperate:
It's a sport that's exciting and fun to watch, and from its home in the American/Canadian West it's spread to Europe, Germany, for example. Of course, not everyone can afford to import a well-trained Quarter Horse or Paint, a competitor sprung from generations of horses bred to take it to the cow. So our European friends will press into service whatever breed they have to hand, dress up in full Western regalia, and go for it. Even if said breed is, say, a Haflinger, a smallish but sturdy flaxen-maned golden horse with that Western cow horse look but not, perhaps, quite the same Western cow horse attitude:
Having giggled her way through that video, a friend was moved to share this recollection:
That takes me back to a pony my parents leased for me on summer vacations when I was 8-11. Mr. Magee was a bay paint, about 13 hands, not very pretty, not very friendly, but a parent couldn't ask for a better babysitter. My friend's pony was a much prettier, friendlier and smaller chestnut paint mare. (I always felt I was on the lesser of the two on some childhood standard). We rode through old fields, orchards and cow pastures near the barn, but we never encountered cows in the cow pasture. Until one day we did. We, the young humans and the smaller pony, were in favor of exiting stage left when we came up on a bunch of them napping near some trees. They were BIG, and we didn't have a clue about cows. But Mr. Magee knew exactly what to do when one of them got to her feet. He took charge, walked toward the matron and informed her that she and her friends had better move on. Mrs. Bovine did not question Mr. Magee and we never saw the cows again.
In other words, that homely little pinto weren't no stinkin' beauty parlor Halflingwhatsiss.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Today's Target
Man, it was cold at the range this afternoon! Well, not brutal, but cold enough that I had to wear thick floppy fleece gloves except when actually loading the magazine. So I shot only 24 rounds through the CZ Lux – loaded 25, but messed up the bolt action on one shot and dinged the cartridge so I had to extract and dispose of it. Oh, well.
I’d had a chat with the guys at Patriot Arms about my last adventure in CZ shooting, got some good advice, and adjusted my aim accordingly. Here are the results – again, standing, 50 feet, iron sights (which, according to the manual, were factory-adjusted for 50 meters):
I gotta gotta GOTTA try this baby out with a rest. If I can shoot this well with my lack of experience and shaky old hands, just imagine what a real marksman could do.
I’d had a chat with the guys at Patriot Arms about my last adventure in CZ shooting, got some good advice, and adjusted my aim accordingly. Here are the results – again, standing, 50 feet, iron sights (which, according to the manual, were factory-adjusted for 50 meters):
I gotta gotta GOTTA try this baby out with a rest. If I can shoot this well with my lack of experience and shaky old hands, just imagine what a real marksman could do.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Another session with the CZ Lux
Had a narrow window of free time and pleasant weather, so I zipped over to the range after horse chores for a little recreational shooting. Decided to leave the Colt in the bag and just go with the rifle. Wound up putting 24 rounds through it before the lowering sky and ticking clock forced me to pack up and depart.
So, how'd it go, second time around?
At 50 feet, standing, no scope, it went like this:
And two of those 10-shots were in the first set of five. No way am I this good! This gun is making me look better than I am.
I wanna go again. Soon. See if I can figure out why I tend to shoot high, and fix it. Obliterate that 10 circle. Yee-ha!
So, how'd it go, second time around?
At 50 feet, standing, no scope, it went like this:
And two of those 10-shots were in the first set of five. No way am I this good! This gun is making me look better than I am.
I wanna go again. Soon. See if I can figure out why I tend to shoot high, and fix it. Obliterate that 10 circle. Yee-ha!
Monday, January 9, 2012
Bye-bye Ruger; hello CZ Lux
I’ve traded in my Ruger Mark III pistol for a .22 rifle, a CZ Lux bolt-action, to be precise.
Why? Because (a) I’d been thinking about getting a target rifle anyway, and (b) the Ruger just wasn’t fun to shoot anymore, not since getting the Colt Woodsman.
It took a few shooting sessions with both pistols to see and understand what was happening, but the essence of it is, I shoot better with the Woodsman: smoother trigger pull leading to tighter clusters closer to the bullseye. Why? The prime cause, I believe, is that the dimensions of the Ruger put the first joint crease of my finger on the trigger rather than the pad, leading to jerking rather than squeezing the trigger unless I consciously readjust with each shot. The Woodsman fills my hand better, places my finger precisely right on the trigger.
So, after my last session at the range, where the differences were too plain to brush off, off I went to Patriot Arms, to offer the Ruger for trade-in and see what they had for .22 rifles. They had several, and after hefting some Papa Bears and Momma Bears, the CZ turned out to be my Baby Bear – it just felt right. It sure doesn’t hurt that both the shop staff and some online research indicate that this is a tack-driver of a target gun.
Looks good, too, don’t you think? And it’s a snap to break down for cleaning. Not to mention, the trade-in value I got on the Ruger was very fair. So I’m quite pleased, and hope to be even more pleased tomorrow or the next day or whenever I can get over to the range and try it out without freezing my butt off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update, two days later:
Went down to the range this morning and tried out the CZ Lux.
My first five shots, taken standing on the pistol side of the range (my first shots ever with a rifle), at 50 feet, producd a three-inch spread. Wow! Why, you'd think I actually knew what I was doing. The bolt action, being out-of-the-box new, is still a little stiff but I was working it smoothly by the end of the session. Dropping, filling and reinserting the magazine was a snap. This gun is a sweetheart.
I put 50 rounds through it, with more or less the same results and an encouraging number into the 10 ring, even when I cranked the target out past 20 yards. I was tending to shoot high; dunno if that's the sights needing adjustment or (far more likely) my inexperience and perhaps not holding the rifle quite correctly. I'd do better with a rest for it, too; even propping my left elbow on the shelf in the pistol side where I was shooting, my aim wasn't entirely steady. Doggone shaky old hands!
Then I took out the Colt Woodsman and discovered one should shoot one’s pistol before one’s rifle; my right arm was too tired to keep my hand steady. By the third or fourth reload my hand had steadied enough to get several shots near or into the 10 at 50 feet, but by then it was time to pack it in and go tend the horses.
This is fun.
Why? Because (a) I’d been thinking about getting a target rifle anyway, and (b) the Ruger just wasn’t fun to shoot anymore, not since getting the Colt Woodsman.
It took a few shooting sessions with both pistols to see and understand what was happening, but the essence of it is, I shoot better with the Woodsman: smoother trigger pull leading to tighter clusters closer to the bullseye. Why? The prime cause, I believe, is that the dimensions of the Ruger put the first joint crease of my finger on the trigger rather than the pad, leading to jerking rather than squeezing the trigger unless I consciously readjust with each shot. The Woodsman fills my hand better, places my finger precisely right on the trigger.
So, after my last session at the range, where the differences were too plain to brush off, off I went to Patriot Arms, to offer the Ruger for trade-in and see what they had for .22 rifles. They had several, and after hefting some Papa Bears and Momma Bears, the CZ turned out to be my Baby Bear – it just felt right. It sure doesn’t hurt that both the shop staff and some online research indicate that this is a tack-driver of a target gun.
Looks good, too, don’t you think? And it’s a snap to break down for cleaning. Not to mention, the trade-in value I got on the Ruger was very fair. So I’m quite pleased, and hope to be even more pleased tomorrow or the next day or whenever I can get over to the range and try it out without freezing my butt off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update, two days later:
Went down to the range this morning and tried out the CZ Lux.
My first five shots, taken standing on the pistol side of the range (my first shots ever with a rifle), at 50 feet, producd a three-inch spread. Wow! Why, you'd think I actually knew what I was doing. The bolt action, being out-of-the-box new, is still a little stiff but I was working it smoothly by the end of the session. Dropping, filling and reinserting the magazine was a snap. This gun is a sweetheart.
I put 50 rounds through it, with more or less the same results and an encouraging number into the 10 ring, even when I cranked the target out past 20 yards. I was tending to shoot high; dunno if that's the sights needing adjustment or (far more likely) my inexperience and perhaps not holding the rifle quite correctly. I'd do better with a rest for it, too; even propping my left elbow on the shelf in the pistol side where I was shooting, my aim wasn't entirely steady. Doggone shaky old hands!
Then I took out the Colt Woodsman and discovered one should shoot one’s pistol before one’s rifle; my right arm was too tired to keep my hand steady. By the third or fourth reload my hand had steadied enough to get several shots near or into the 10 at 50 feet, but by then it was time to pack it in and go tend the horses.
This is fun.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Liberal with a Gun
I’m an unabashed liberal, and I’ve got a gun. Two, in fact. And one of them is a real prize.
‘Twasn’t always thus. I grew up and have lived most of my life in a weaponless family and friends milieu where gun ownership was not only nonexistent but often held in contempt. I continue to regard parts of the American gun world with dismay.
And yet, here I am today, owner of two pistols and member of the local fish and game club.
What brought this on? In essence, intimations of mortality. Timor mortis conturbat me.
I got to shoot a handgun way back in the mid-1980’s, enjoyed the experience, but for a number of reasons never pursued it then. Over the years I’d occasionally toyed with maybe taking up shooting, then put the idle thought aside – some day, maybe.......... And there were all those, for me, unpalatable aspects of the American gun culture – did I really want to wade into that world?
The cardiac scare I had in late April of this year reminded me that I am not, in fact, immortal; that I am going to die, not somewhere way off in the dim future, but relatively soon. My father died in the recovery room following open-heart surgery in his early 60s. I am a couple of months away from 63, with a much healthier heart, but still...... I don’t have all that much time left to waste, that much future to put things off to. Dammit, I’m running out of somedays. Ever since spring, I’ve been thinking off and on about dying – me, myself, DYING. Not obsessing, not fretting, but with a newfound awareness of the sands running out. If I’m going to do stuff, I better do it NOW.
There’s another issue, as well – I’ve been rolling along in a comfortable but narrow rut for quite some time: Working at home, doing some photography, taking care of the horses, seeing a few long-time friends, but otherwise not venturing outside of my snug little lair very often. I need to shake things up. To push my envelope. To get out of the rut, out of my comfort zone. And boy, this is one helluva way to roar past all that, innit? It was an odd feeling, to sit through the multi-hour gun safety course required for a Class A license (yup, I went all the way for concealed carry – same cost, same process as a more limited license), chatting with people who probably despise much of what I hold politically dear; to walk into that gun shop for the first time – me, the bleeding-heart liberal, the Obama-lover – and become absorbed in picking out just the right lethal weapon for me. (The guys at the shop couldn’t have been nicer to a self-confessed newbie, by the way.)
I’ve been granted membership in the local fish and game club, giving me range privileges so I can shoot my new toys. I plan to lie low as far as political discussions at the club go – envelope-pushing will go only so far – and simply enjoy developing a new skill, making new friends. I didn’t get a gun for self-defense; my town recently had its first murder in over 20 years, of a restaurant owner who made a habit of counting his money on the bar in front of his patrons. It’s target shooting I want to do, and have been doing over the last couple of months. And ya know what? It’s fun! It’s absorbing. When I shoot, it’s my whole focus, and everything else goes away. And the guys at the range have been sweethearts about helping a newbie, even a frumpy old woman newbie.
It still feels odd to be doing this. Still gives me at times a “Who are you, and what have you done with Laura?” feeling. I think that’s a good thing.
Ahhhhhhhhhh............. By now, anyone who’s (a) read this far, and (b) interested in what guns I bought will no doubt be hollering at the screen: “So what did you get anyway? What’s the real prize already? Give!” All righty, then.
First gun, what I picked out on my initial trip to the gun shop, with much helpful advice: A .22 caliber Ruger Mark III 22/45. It fits my hand well, has an easy trigger pull (a necessary consideration given the arthritis in my dominant hand), not much recoil, eats any ammo you care to feed it without jamming, and shoots with encouraging accuracy even in the wobbly hands of a newbie. I put 200 rounds through it the first time I shot it, and had a blast. Very tired hand and wrist by the end, but definitely a good time.
And the second handgun? Why get a second one when the first one suits me just fine? Why take a further step on the road toward gun nut damnation? Why, when on an ammo-buying trip I spotted it on the bottom shelf of a far-corner display case, did I succumb to temptation and (after researching it online; I’m not entirely bereft of my senses) did I pay twice what the Ruger cost me to own it?
Because it isn’t a new gun; it’s an old and very handsome Colt Woodsman Match Target .22 pistol. Its serial number (MT 23XX) indicates it’s from the first year of manufacture of the First Series Woodsman (the “Bullseye” model), which was made between 1938 and 1944. It came without the original box but with the original four-sheet manual. From what I’ve read online about it, it’s a finely crafted, very good target pistol. Well, okay, I’ve discovered it’s fussy about what it eats, but feed it the right ammo and it shoots beautifully. Looks mighty fine doing it too. Fits my hand even better than the Ruger.
And this particular pistol is extra-special in two ways: It has the original walnut “elephant ear” grips, which are valuable by themselves, plus a previous (its first?) owner had it engraved, making it one of a kind. The engraving included the person’s initials, which perhaps is why, even though it’s in fine shooting shape, it was mine for a price well under others I found online for the same make and model.
I guess collectors want stuff that looks fresh from the factory, but not me. To the contrary; the engraving tells me that “SAG” cared a lot for this pistol, and I feel a kind of kinship with that person in our appreciation of a finely crafted implement. This gun will be spending its time at the range, not in a display case.
If you’d told me a year ago I’d be writing this, I would have collapsed in giggles. And yet, here I am. Life is strange.
‘Twasn’t always thus. I grew up and have lived most of my life in a weaponless family and friends milieu where gun ownership was not only nonexistent but often held in contempt. I continue to regard parts of the American gun world with dismay.
And yet, here I am today, owner of two pistols and member of the local fish and game club.
What brought this on? In essence, intimations of mortality. Timor mortis conturbat me.
I got to shoot a handgun way back in the mid-1980’s, enjoyed the experience, but for a number of reasons never pursued it then. Over the years I’d occasionally toyed with maybe taking up shooting, then put the idle thought aside – some day, maybe.......... And there were all those, for me, unpalatable aspects of the American gun culture – did I really want to wade into that world?
The cardiac scare I had in late April of this year reminded me that I am not, in fact, immortal; that I am going to die, not somewhere way off in the dim future, but relatively soon. My father died in the recovery room following open-heart surgery in his early 60s. I am a couple of months away from 63, with a much healthier heart, but still...... I don’t have all that much time left to waste, that much future to put things off to. Dammit, I’m running out of somedays. Ever since spring, I’ve been thinking off and on about dying – me, myself, DYING. Not obsessing, not fretting, but with a newfound awareness of the sands running out. If I’m going to do stuff, I better do it NOW.
There’s another issue, as well – I’ve been rolling along in a comfortable but narrow rut for quite some time: Working at home, doing some photography, taking care of the horses, seeing a few long-time friends, but otherwise not venturing outside of my snug little lair very often. I need to shake things up. To push my envelope. To get out of the rut, out of my comfort zone. And boy, this is one helluva way to roar past all that, innit? It was an odd feeling, to sit through the multi-hour gun safety course required for a Class A license (yup, I went all the way for concealed carry – same cost, same process as a more limited license), chatting with people who probably despise much of what I hold politically dear; to walk into that gun shop for the first time – me, the bleeding-heart liberal, the Obama-lover – and become absorbed in picking out just the right lethal weapon for me. (The guys at the shop couldn’t have been nicer to a self-confessed newbie, by the way.)
I’ve been granted membership in the local fish and game club, giving me range privileges so I can shoot my new toys. I plan to lie low as far as political discussions at the club go – envelope-pushing will go only so far – and simply enjoy developing a new skill, making new friends. I didn’t get a gun for self-defense; my town recently had its first murder in over 20 years, of a restaurant owner who made a habit of counting his money on the bar in front of his patrons. It’s target shooting I want to do, and have been doing over the last couple of months. And ya know what? It’s fun! It’s absorbing. When I shoot, it’s my whole focus, and everything else goes away. And the guys at the range have been sweethearts about helping a newbie, even a frumpy old woman newbie.
It still feels odd to be doing this. Still gives me at times a “Who are you, and what have you done with Laura?” feeling. I think that’s a good thing.
Ahhhhhhhhhh............. By now, anyone who’s (a) read this far, and (b) interested in what guns I bought will no doubt be hollering at the screen: “So what did you get anyway? What’s the real prize already? Give!” All righty, then.
First gun, what I picked out on my initial trip to the gun shop, with much helpful advice: A .22 caliber Ruger Mark III 22/45. It fits my hand well, has an easy trigger pull (a necessary consideration given the arthritis in my dominant hand), not much recoil, eats any ammo you care to feed it without jamming, and shoots with encouraging accuracy even in the wobbly hands of a newbie. I put 200 rounds through it the first time I shot it, and had a blast. Very tired hand and wrist by the end, but definitely a good time.
And the second handgun? Why get a second one when the first one suits me just fine? Why take a further step on the road toward gun nut damnation? Why, when on an ammo-buying trip I spotted it on the bottom shelf of a far-corner display case, did I succumb to temptation and (after researching it online; I’m not entirely bereft of my senses) did I pay twice what the Ruger cost me to own it?
Because it isn’t a new gun; it’s an old and very handsome Colt Woodsman Match Target .22 pistol. Its serial number (MT 23XX) indicates it’s from the first year of manufacture of the First Series Woodsman (the “Bullseye” model), which was made between 1938 and 1944. It came without the original box but with the original four-sheet manual. From what I’ve read online about it, it’s a finely crafted, very good target pistol. Well, okay, I’ve discovered it’s fussy about what it eats, but feed it the right ammo and it shoots beautifully. Looks mighty fine doing it too. Fits my hand even better than the Ruger.
And this particular pistol is extra-special in two ways: It has the original walnut “elephant ear” grips, which are valuable by themselves, plus a previous (its first?) owner had it engraved, making it one of a kind. The engraving included the person’s initials, which perhaps is why, even though it’s in fine shooting shape, it was mine for a price well under others I found online for the same make and model.
I guess collectors want stuff that looks fresh from the factory, but not me. To the contrary; the engraving tells me that “SAG” cared a lot for this pistol, and I feel a kind of kinship with that person in our appreciation of a finely crafted implement. This gun will be spending its time at the range, not in a display case.
If you’d told me a year ago I’d be writing this, I would have collapsed in giggles. And yet, here I am. Life is strange.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Rats and Drat and Bummer, Dude
Today I took Tanya back to the shelter. No, for damn sure I didn't want to give up my sweet little girl, but Schooner left me no choice.
Tanya'd never been a big fan of the other cats, even before Tomba had to go back to the shelter; and while she got along with him she didn't seem at all upset once he was gone, so who knows whether she considered him a friend or just tolerated the big lunk? The other cats (except Sally) tend to buddy up, but she went her own way, complete with tiny soft growls if they got too close.
Still, Tanya seemed happy enough, especially when she could get lap time with me. We had a lovely cuddle just last evening, in fact, in the living room recliner. Then she got down, wandered off....
And a short time thereafter screaming crashing chaos erupted in the basement, rolled up the stairs, and tumbled out into the living room -- Tanya, hysterical, dashing under the couch in full-throated furious growling and keening; on her heels Schooner, puffed out, wild-eyed, taunting her just outside the couch till I flung a magazine at him and spooked him away. Poor Tanya was inconsolable (and vociferous about it) for the rest of the evening, even when Schooner wasn't coming back to harass her. Everyone else was freaked out, either hiding or slinking about looking fearful.
The wee hours of last night brought another eruption. Then this morning when I came down to feed breakfast I found a stench in the living room and Tanya miserably trying to groom off excremental smears on her nether regions. I have to suppose that Schooner pounced on the poor girl while she was in one of the litter boxes in the basement (and that's probably what happened the night before).
To Tanya's misery and humiliation add the horrors of a bath. Once I'd cleaned her and dried her as best I could, I let her slink away into hiding and called Matt at the shelter to Tell All. We agreed straight out she had to go back. Schooner's an instigator and, having found an entertaining victim to torment, isn't likely to back off; Smedley, seeing a chance for some fun, was getting in some swipes too this morning; there was no point in prolonging Tanya's plight as the butt of the pack.
It was a wrench, handing her over, but it's the right decision, for all of the household but especially for her. Yes, it's tough for an old cat like Tanya to find a new family, but she's so pretty, and such a sweetheart, I have great hopes of her landing in a good home soon. In the meantime, she'll be comfortable and much less stressed living in the shelter's big cat room (the other current residents Matt told me won't bother her). The other cats were totally freaked out by last night's and this morning's screeching chaos; they're settling down now, though, as the tension dissipates.
But I'm bummed. She was one of my favorites. I'll miss her.
Tanya'd never been a big fan of the other cats, even before Tomba had to go back to the shelter; and while she got along with him she didn't seem at all upset once he was gone, so who knows whether she considered him a friend or just tolerated the big lunk? The other cats (except Sally) tend to buddy up, but she went her own way, complete with tiny soft growls if they got too close.
Still, Tanya seemed happy enough, especially when she could get lap time with me. We had a lovely cuddle just last evening, in fact, in the living room recliner. Then she got down, wandered off....
And a short time thereafter screaming crashing chaos erupted in the basement, rolled up the stairs, and tumbled out into the living room -- Tanya, hysterical, dashing under the couch in full-throated furious growling and keening; on her heels Schooner, puffed out, wild-eyed, taunting her just outside the couch till I flung a magazine at him and spooked him away. Poor Tanya was inconsolable (and vociferous about it) for the rest of the evening, even when Schooner wasn't coming back to harass her. Everyone else was freaked out, either hiding or slinking about looking fearful.
The wee hours of last night brought another eruption. Then this morning when I came down to feed breakfast I found a stench in the living room and Tanya miserably trying to groom off excremental smears on her nether regions. I have to suppose that Schooner pounced on the poor girl while she was in one of the litter boxes in the basement (and that's probably what happened the night before).
To Tanya's misery and humiliation add the horrors of a bath. Once I'd cleaned her and dried her as best I could, I let her slink away into hiding and called Matt at the shelter to Tell All. We agreed straight out she had to go back. Schooner's an instigator and, having found an entertaining victim to torment, isn't likely to back off; Smedley, seeing a chance for some fun, was getting in some swipes too this morning; there was no point in prolonging Tanya's plight as the butt of the pack.
It was a wrench, handing her over, but it's the right decision, for all of the household but especially for her. Yes, it's tough for an old cat like Tanya to find a new family, but she's so pretty, and such a sweetheart, I have great hopes of her landing in a good home soon. In the meantime, she'll be comfortable and much less stressed living in the shelter's big cat room (the other current residents Matt told me won't bother her). The other cats were totally freaked out by last night's and this morning's screeching chaos; they're settling down now, though, as the tension dissipates.
But I'm bummed. She was one of my favorites. I'll miss her.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Commander is Go! Ben? Not so.
There’s a new twist in the will-I-ever-ride-Ben-again saga: the operative verb may be “can” rather than “will”. Can he safely carry a rider or is he no longer serviceably sound?
The question arises because I now have a delightful young woman passionate enough about riding, and hungry enough for a horse fix, to drive the roughly 35 miles from Winchester to Essex two or three times a week so she can saddle up my two pudgy old boys for ten or fifteen minutes each of walking around the ring, with maybe a couple minutes of trot thrown in at the end of that wild excitement. To date, Betsy’s had one riding session under my supervision to check her out while she checked out Ben and Commander, and one without me there (but with farm owner Maria observing from the house, unseen by Betsy). The verdict on Betsy is she’s just what the boys need to be brought back carefully into riding shape.
The verdict on Commander’s rideability is heck, yeh, he’s ready to boogie. Betsy loves him, thinks he’s a hoot. He needed to warm up out of a little stiffness but quickly loosened up and swung right out. This has been normal for him as long as I’ve had him (two years now!). As long as the founder doesn’t recur (and I’m being fanatical about that) he should work back into his usual Energizer-Bunny form, no problem.
The verdict on Ben’s rideability is not as encouraging. Now, he’s always had issues with kissing spines and hock arthritis as long as I’ve owned him. Even when in regular work, with a saddle on his back he needed to be handwalked before mounting for a few minutes to get his hind legs out of tiny mincing steps into a more swinging sweep; then with his rider aboard he’d be back to mincing again for some minutes before his hind feet were reaching well under him. The long layoff from work it seems hasn’t changed that.
What was different and worrisome on Betsy’s first ride was his reaction to being asked for the right-lead canter near the end of her trial ride. He’d walked well once warmed up; had even volunteered to trot several times before being allowed to do brief test spurts; had picked up a lovely easy left-lead canter, which after a few strides got mildly “Hey! Yippee! I’m running here!” hinky. Betsy lightly said no, walk please, and Ben complied, no problem. Then after another minute of walk we decided to test his right lead.
Oh-oh. Betsy asked on the curve of the turn. Ben flung himself into a half-dozen strides of agitated head-high wrong-lead jouncing mess. He calmed down back at the walk, but it was a sobering sight.
Two other observations: Betsy told me after her second ride that she did a minute or so of trot each way and that Ben was uncomfortable with the left diagonal. I’ve noticed over the last few months that when he and Commander are released for grazing onto the paddock, as he surges out onto the downward slope to the grass he sometimes catches his left hind toe in a mini-stumble.
I talked this all over with Ben’s long-time massage therapist, who used to work him over regularly when I was riding him. Lael pointed out that his left hind has always been weaker than the right, and we agreed that his current state of flabby unfitness isn’t helping it any. We also discussed his back, what signs of trouble to be alert for there.
Bottom line: The light exercise Betsy’s providing should help improve Ben’s physical condition, but there’s no question the boy has some problems, especially in his left hind. For everyone’s safety it may turn out to be best for Ben to retire completely.
As long as the food and love keep coming, I doubt this will bother Ben at all.
The question arises because I now have a delightful young woman passionate enough about riding, and hungry enough for a horse fix, to drive the roughly 35 miles from Winchester to Essex two or three times a week so she can saddle up my two pudgy old boys for ten or fifteen minutes each of walking around the ring, with maybe a couple minutes of trot thrown in at the end of that wild excitement. To date, Betsy’s had one riding session under my supervision to check her out while she checked out Ben and Commander, and one without me there (but with farm owner Maria observing from the house, unseen by Betsy). The verdict on Betsy is she’s just what the boys need to be brought back carefully into riding shape.
The verdict on Commander’s rideability is heck, yeh, he’s ready to boogie. Betsy loves him, thinks he’s a hoot. He needed to warm up out of a little stiffness but quickly loosened up and swung right out. This has been normal for him as long as I’ve had him (two years now!). As long as the founder doesn’t recur (and I’m being fanatical about that) he should work back into his usual Energizer-Bunny form, no problem.
The verdict on Ben’s rideability is not as encouraging. Now, he’s always had issues with kissing spines and hock arthritis as long as I’ve owned him. Even when in regular work, with a saddle on his back he needed to be handwalked before mounting for a few minutes to get his hind legs out of tiny mincing steps into a more swinging sweep; then with his rider aboard he’d be back to mincing again for some minutes before his hind feet were reaching well under him. The long layoff from work it seems hasn’t changed that.
What was different and worrisome on Betsy’s first ride was his reaction to being asked for the right-lead canter near the end of her trial ride. He’d walked well once warmed up; had even volunteered to trot several times before being allowed to do brief test spurts; had picked up a lovely easy left-lead canter, which after a few strides got mildly “Hey! Yippee! I’m running here!” hinky. Betsy lightly said no, walk please, and Ben complied, no problem. Then after another minute of walk we decided to test his right lead.
Oh-oh. Betsy asked on the curve of the turn. Ben flung himself into a half-dozen strides of agitated head-high wrong-lead jouncing mess. He calmed down back at the walk, but it was a sobering sight.
Two other observations: Betsy told me after her second ride that she did a minute or so of trot each way and that Ben was uncomfortable with the left diagonal. I’ve noticed over the last few months that when he and Commander are released for grazing onto the paddock, as he surges out onto the downward slope to the grass he sometimes catches his left hind toe in a mini-stumble.
I talked this all over with Ben’s long-time massage therapist, who used to work him over regularly when I was riding him. Lael pointed out that his left hind has always been weaker than the right, and we agreed that his current state of flabby unfitness isn’t helping it any. We also discussed his back, what signs of trouble to be alert for there.
Bottom line: The light exercise Betsy’s providing should help improve Ben’s physical condition, but there’s no question the boy has some problems, especially in his left hind. For everyone’s safety it may turn out to be best for Ben to retire completely.
As long as the food and love keep coming, I doubt this will bother Ben at all.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
"Because I'm old and falling apart!"
That’s what Justice Thurgood Marshall barked at a reporter who asked him why he was retiring from the Supreme Court. These days, I understand what he meant. Various parts and portions of the corporation I inhabit get ever more creaky, achy and recalcitrant. The worst is my right hand; arthritis has set up shop there and the damn thing hurts. The middle finger, especially after a stretch of immobility, or in cold and damp, would really rather not bend, thankyouverymuch. Oh, you insist? “Clonk”. The joints themselves don’t have that knobbly look; the fingers aren’t warped into twisted caricatures; but the hand ain’t what it used to be, and as a proofreader making hundreds if not thousands of pen strokes daily, I need it to work well and (mostly at least) painfree.
Yesterday I saw a therapist (acupuncture/massage), and he nailed why that hand, the middle finger especially, is so messed up – it’s the way I hold a pen, which is not the normal way you all do, but rather a weird grip which puts excessive strain on the middle finger through the hand and wrist right up into the forearm. By the time he was done massaging and pressing and realigning and freeing up this and that, well, it was NO FUN to go through but that entire appendage felt a lot better. I departed with a topical treatment, exercise instructions, recommendations for gloves to keep the hand warm, and orders to change the way I hold a pen.
Change the way I hold a pen and have done since I first learned to write, back when we used Archaeopteryx feathers for quills.
In essence, relearn how to handwrite.
Yeh, right.
Starting with yesterday afternoon and evening’s proofreading jobs, I did so. Awkwardly. Clumsily. Slowly. Even using the fattest pens I could find, it was hard. But the writing got done – shaky at times, lopsided, with a lurch here and a tremor there – and it was readable.
Even if I had to scratch it out and rewrite it. And rewrite it again.
The fingers did stray back to their old familiar form now and then. But that hurt, which helped to snap me out of error. Then it was back to merely slow and ungainly.
Sigh. For a while, anyway, my handwriting is probably going to look like a third-grader’s attempts at learning cursive.* Still, it should be worth it (and far more legible) in the long run; and I’m already feeling the benefits.
Sucks to get old, doesn’t it?
* Which reminds me – did you know they make grips to help teach kids how to hold a pencil correctly? Like this:
Since my weird pen grip involves wrapping the index finger over top of the implement and curling back around it, with the middle finger jamming the pen onto my thumb, this thing might actually help me retrain.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
At some point I'll get it right
Today’s adventures in grazing muzzles:
I sliced the hole in Commander’s muzzle about a quarter to a third larger, muzzled both boys, and turned them loose. Ta-daa! Commander, with some determined muzzle-wriggling, was able to get enough grass to keep him trying. Ben was doing fine. Both boys rolled, then resumed grazing.
Encouraged, and wanting to encourage Commander, I opened the gate from the paddock to the field. They gleefully scurried out there and dove into the forbidden fruit, with some more rolling interspersed. I went back to mucking, checking occasionally. They stayed head-down in the grass, but in a bit returned to the paddock.
Some minutes later Commander trotted in, fed up with measly rewards and mass swarms of bugs. Even with his muzzle removed he chose to stay in the run-in, so okay, just stay out of the side I’m mucking, little guy. Ben stayed out, but now he was galloping about. Was he enjoying his freedom to run, from field to paddock to run-in and back out? Or........
No. No, this wasn’t playful racing; this was Ben whipping himself into a freakout, probably over that THING on his face he couldn’t get off. After a couple of circuits so jazzed that I didn’t dare try to catch him, he rammed into the run-in beside Commander and stood still, sweaty and panting, long enough for me to talk him down a bit, then sidle up and get the muzzle off.
Phew! That was it, all right. He calmed right down. I did a quick adjustment on the straps and put Ben’s on the mighty Morgan, then led the boys back out.
Ta-daaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! They both stayed out grazing, calm and contented, till I’d finished chores and brought their midday mini-mashes to the gate. Well, “calm” – Commander did do a lot of pawing, as if to hurry the reluctant blades into the muzzle hole, but otherwise he seemed much happier. The Ben muzzle has a more open weave on the nose and the hole is an oblong roughly an inch by two inches, so the air-to-nostril flow is better and a vigorous grass-gathering effort is well-rewarded.
So, are we there yet? A lot closer to what will work, anyway. On the way home I picked up a couple of fly masks for the boys:
A Crusader with ears for Ben -- it’s a mask he’s worn before and does well in.
An Absorbine Ultrashield fly bonnet for Commander -- with that design I should be able to put it on over the grazing muzzle, or under it, whichever fits better. I went for the earless because I figure he’s less bothered by flies than Ben and has enough other stuff on his head hassling him without earhats too.
So, tomorrow we’ll try the new configuration and see how it goes. With lower temperatures and humidity, I’m hoping it will go well.
I sliced the hole in Commander’s muzzle about a quarter to a third larger, muzzled both boys, and turned them loose. Ta-daa! Commander, with some determined muzzle-wriggling, was able to get enough grass to keep him trying. Ben was doing fine. Both boys rolled, then resumed grazing.
Encouraged, and wanting to encourage Commander, I opened the gate from the paddock to the field. They gleefully scurried out there and dove into the forbidden fruit, with some more rolling interspersed. I went back to mucking, checking occasionally. They stayed head-down in the grass, but in a bit returned to the paddock.
Some minutes later Commander trotted in, fed up with measly rewards and mass swarms of bugs. Even with his muzzle removed he chose to stay in the run-in, so okay, just stay out of the side I’m mucking, little guy. Ben stayed out, but now he was galloping about. Was he enjoying his freedom to run, from field to paddock to run-in and back out? Or........
No. No, this wasn’t playful racing; this was Ben whipping himself into a freakout, probably over that THING on his face he couldn’t get off. After a couple of circuits so jazzed that I didn’t dare try to catch him, he rammed into the run-in beside Commander and stood still, sweaty and panting, long enough for me to talk him down a bit, then sidle up and get the muzzle off.
Phew! That was it, all right. He calmed right down. I did a quick adjustment on the straps and put Ben’s on the mighty Morgan, then led the boys back out.
Ta-daaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! They both stayed out grazing, calm and contented, till I’d finished chores and brought their midday mini-mashes to the gate. Well, “calm” – Commander did do a lot of pawing, as if to hurry the reluctant blades into the muzzle hole, but otherwise he seemed much happier. The Ben muzzle has a more open weave on the nose and the hole is an oblong roughly an inch by two inches, so the air-to-nostril flow is better and a vigorous grass-gathering effort is well-rewarded.
So, are we there yet? A lot closer to what will work, anyway. On the way home I picked up a couple of fly masks for the boys:
A Crusader with ears for Ben -- it’s a mask he’s worn before and does well in.
An Absorbine Ultrashield fly bonnet for Commander -- with that design I should be able to put it on over the grazing muzzle, or under it, whichever fits better. I went for the earless because I figure he’s less bothered by flies than Ben and has enough other stuff on his head hassling him without earhats too.
So, tomorrow we’ll try the new configuration and see how it goes. With lower temperatures and humidity, I’m hoping it will go well.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Commander gets a new grazing muzzle
You all, my Dear Readers, may recall that my last attempt to use a grazing muzzle on Commander didn’t work out so well. It took no more than an hour for the thing to be destroyed. But I’d really like to let the boys have more time out on their grass paddock than the couple of 15-or-so-minute outings they’re currently getting per day, so I invested in a pair of muzzles – one for Commander, the other for Ben. Commander’s has a tiny central circular hole; Ben’s is oblong, larger, and should let him get more grass while still stopping him from tugging off the bottom of his buddy’s muzzle.
Today was the day I tried their new duds on the boys. First up was Commander.
He was PISSED! He knew exactly what it was and he was indignant when I put it on him! He kept twitching his head away or shoving it at me as I adjusted the thing, then when I walked away he came after me, trying to rub it off against the vicious cruel human (or maybe just knock me down so he could trample me to death in revenge). Then he went into the run-in and sulked.
Poor Ben just looked resigned and a bit befuddled when I put his on.
As it turns out, by the time I got to the barn and got them both muzzled, it was twilight and the mosquitos were buzzing. Neither horse was willing to spend any time out on the grass at all. I’d lead them out, they’d dip a muzzle into the grass, say “Screw this, I can’t get anything and the skeeters are swarming me” and bolt back to the run-in.
We’ll see how they do tomorrow midday. Normally when I let them out onto the paddock for a bit of grazing while I muck the run-in, they stay out for at least ten minutes before the various daytime insects harry them back into shelter. Will it still be worth their time to go out when they can’t gobble huge mouthfuls of grass?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update:
At midday Friday, with muzzles on both, Ben happily nibbled away at what made it through to his busy lips and teeth. Commander got frustrated fairly soon, quite trying, and trotted back to the run-in. Ben kept grazing even without his buddy there.
I took off both muzzles and put Commander back out. He dove into the grass and greedily chomped away. This time it was Ben, bug-bugged, who broke away first to flee into the run-in. I had to go out to Commander and lead him back when it was time to end his grazing spree.
Saturday midday: Let both out without muzzles and allowed them to graze freely for a few minutes; then put the muzzle on Commander. He was pissed, circled me demanding I take it off, when I walked away tried halfheartedly to graze, then said the hell with it and stomped back to the run-in, where I did remove the offending device. When he found no food in his run-in stall he tromped over to the water trough, sloshed his face around, and threw an innocent bucket into the trough. I was going to lead him back out onto the paddock for a few more minutes, but Ben came galloping back and they both crammed into Ben's run-in stall for a feverish grooming, so that was it for the grass today.
I need to make the hole in his muzzle larger. And kill every insect in Essex County.
Today was the day I tried their new duds on the boys. First up was Commander.
He was PISSED! He knew exactly what it was and he was indignant when I put it on him! He kept twitching his head away or shoving it at me as I adjusted the thing, then when I walked away he came after me, trying to rub it off against the vicious cruel human (or maybe just knock me down so he could trample me to death in revenge). Then he went into the run-in and sulked.
Poor Ben just looked resigned and a bit befuddled when I put his on.
As it turns out, by the time I got to the barn and got them both muzzled, it was twilight and the mosquitos were buzzing. Neither horse was willing to spend any time out on the grass at all. I’d lead them out, they’d dip a muzzle into the grass, say “Screw this, I can’t get anything and the skeeters are swarming me” and bolt back to the run-in.
We’ll see how they do tomorrow midday. Normally when I let them out onto the paddock for a bit of grazing while I muck the run-in, they stay out for at least ten minutes before the various daytime insects harry them back into shelter. Will it still be worth their time to go out when they can’t gobble huge mouthfuls of grass?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update:
At midday Friday, with muzzles on both, Ben happily nibbled away at what made it through to his busy lips and teeth. Commander got frustrated fairly soon, quite trying, and trotted back to the run-in. Ben kept grazing even without his buddy there.
I took off both muzzles and put Commander back out. He dove into the grass and greedily chomped away. This time it was Ben, bug-bugged, who broke away first to flee into the run-in. I had to go out to Commander and lead him back when it was time to end his grazing spree.
Saturday midday: Let both out without muzzles and allowed them to graze freely for a few minutes; then put the muzzle on Commander. He was pissed, circled me demanding I take it off, when I walked away tried halfheartedly to graze, then said the hell with it and stomped back to the run-in, where I did remove the offending device. When he found no food in his run-in stall he tromped over to the water trough, sloshed his face around, and threw an innocent bucket into the trough. I was going to lead him back out onto the paddock for a few more minutes, but Ben came galloping back and they both crammed into Ben's run-in stall for a feverish grooming, so that was it for the grass today.
I need to make the hole in his muzzle larger. And kill every insect in Essex County.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Today I Rode Commander!
Bareback!!
For an entire minute!!!
Maybe two!!!!
And we both escaped unscathed!!!!!
Crazy, wild, dashing bravado on my part; stoic heroic endurance on his, it was.
Sorta.
Actually it was a contemplated impulse on my part. I’d been toying with the idea of backing him for the last week, seeing how comfortable he looks on a half-Previcox daily. Silly daydreaming, no more – then today, with cooler temperatures, lower humidity, and a cheerful Morgan who marched soundly over to me from the water trough (where he’d been busy playing before I arrived, to judge by the water dripping off his forelock) spurred me to just do it.
I grabbed helmet, bridle and crop, dragged the mounting block out from its weed-choked abandonment next to the barn, bridled my steed and brought him out to the driveway, and swung aboard.
Be darned if the little guy didn’t march right off, walking freely, smartly, and with no hesitation or discomfort. We slogged through the high grass into the overgrown ring and commenced striding across it. Alas, this stirred up clouds of tiny pesky flying nuisances to annoy and offend Commander. But despite irritated head flips, he kept marching.
Greatly daring, I tapped his flanks with my heels. He stepped right into a short choppy trot . His normal short choppy trot. We jogged along for several strides: Commander, head up, head tossing, body saying “Sure, why not? How far, how fast?” Me, laughing, trying to steer my wandering steed more or less straight while trying to stay centered on the broad wiggly bare back under my wobbly self.
After a few seconds of such hair-raising excitement I rein-and-seat-tweaked the mighty Morgan back to a walk, exited the bug-infested ring, and slid off, still laughing. Commander looked pleased and proud. As well he should!
Where do we go from here? Not far, not fast. I want to see if he still looks as good when I go back to do evening chores, and tomorrow too; I want to see down the road a bit if I can take him off the Previcox entirely, or must maintain him on it indefinitely; and I for darn sure would like to see fewer bug swarms when next I try taking him for a ride.
But this was very, very encouraging. For both of us.
For an entire minute!!!
Maybe two!!!!
And we both escaped unscathed!!!!!
Crazy, wild, dashing bravado on my part; stoic heroic endurance on his, it was.
Sorta.
Actually it was a contemplated impulse on my part. I’d been toying with the idea of backing him for the last week, seeing how comfortable he looks on a half-Previcox daily. Silly daydreaming, no more – then today, with cooler temperatures, lower humidity, and a cheerful Morgan who marched soundly over to me from the water trough (where he’d been busy playing before I arrived, to judge by the water dripping off his forelock) spurred me to just do it.
I grabbed helmet, bridle and crop, dragged the mounting block out from its weed-choked abandonment next to the barn, bridled my steed and brought him out to the driveway, and swung aboard.
Be darned if the little guy didn’t march right off, walking freely, smartly, and with no hesitation or discomfort. We slogged through the high grass into the overgrown ring and commenced striding across it. Alas, this stirred up clouds of tiny pesky flying nuisances to annoy and offend Commander. But despite irritated head flips, he kept marching.
Greatly daring, I tapped his flanks with my heels. He stepped right into a short choppy trot . His normal short choppy trot. We jogged along for several strides: Commander, head up, head tossing, body saying “Sure, why not? How far, how fast?” Me, laughing, trying to steer my wandering steed more or less straight while trying to stay centered on the broad wiggly bare back under my wobbly self.
After a few seconds of such hair-raising excitement I rein-and-seat-tweaked the mighty Morgan back to a walk, exited the bug-infested ring, and slid off, still laughing. Commander looked pleased and proud. As well he should!
Where do we go from here? Not far, not fast. I want to see if he still looks as good when I go back to do evening chores, and tomorrow too; I want to see down the road a bit if I can take him off the Previcox entirely, or must maintain him on it indefinitely; and I for darn sure would like to see fewer bug swarms when next I try taking him for a ride.
But this was very, very encouraging. For both of us.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Getting away from it all for a while
I'm stressed out, worn out, hollowed out by the debt ceiling/deficit drama.
I'm bummed out, grossed out, skeeved out by the monstrous fools and poltroons running this country headlong into disaster.
I'm checking out of caring about the whole hideous horror show for a while. Got to recharge, refresh, reanimate the spirit before taking up the fight once more.
I'm going to the beach.
And not just any beach -- the winter beach. Vast, serene, cool, capacious, spreading its ephemeral dance floor for any who brave the chill winds of winter to explore it.
I walk up the boardwalk crossing the dunes, and there before me sweeps the beach -- quiet, sparsely peopled, peaceful.
Even the waves stroking the shore are muted today.
The sand stretches out before me, limitless (or so it seems), calling to me to go onward, onward.
Horses and dogs, verboten from April through September, are welcome, and their humans make the most of that temporary liberty.
Sometimes other critters haul onto the beach too.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh............... So peaceful, so relaxing, so mutedly soothing is the winter beach.
The dune faces are at once eternal and ephemeral, dancing with wind and wave to and fro, now here, now there, now growing, now vanishing.
Flotsam rides stormy seas to land, lies stranded awhile, then on another storm surge vanishes back into the waters that hurled it forth.
Rocky headlands scatter stones into the sand.
The stones defy the sea, though in time they too will wash away.
Fluff and foam, wavelets lapping feebly against rock, easily repulsed yet in the vastly long run triumphant.
There's a special quality to the light over the ocean and its shore, in good weather and in bad.
People are drawn to the winter beach, undeterred by the cold sharp wind that rules it. They walk, they dig holes, they play fetch with dogs, they simply sit or stand and contemplate the ocean.
Yes, I think I'll go back to the winter beach for a while, walk away from all the madness, let the serenity fill my soul.
I'm bummed out, grossed out, skeeved out by the monstrous fools and poltroons running this country headlong into disaster.
I'm checking out of caring about the whole hideous horror show for a while. Got to recharge, refresh, reanimate the spirit before taking up the fight once more.
I'm going to the beach.
And not just any beach -- the winter beach. Vast, serene, cool, capacious, spreading its ephemeral dance floor for any who brave the chill winds of winter to explore it.
I walk up the boardwalk crossing the dunes, and there before me sweeps the beach -- quiet, sparsely peopled, peaceful.
Even the waves stroking the shore are muted today.
The sand stretches out before me, limitless (or so it seems), calling to me to go onward, onward.
Horses and dogs, verboten from April through September, are welcome, and their humans make the most of that temporary liberty.
Sometimes other critters haul onto the beach too.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh............... So peaceful, so relaxing, so mutedly soothing is the winter beach.
The dune faces are at once eternal and ephemeral, dancing with wind and wave to and fro, now here, now there, now growing, now vanishing.
Flotsam rides stormy seas to land, lies stranded awhile, then on another storm surge vanishes back into the waters that hurled it forth.
Rocky headlands scatter stones into the sand.
The stones defy the sea, though in time they too will wash away.
Fluff and foam, wavelets lapping feebly against rock, easily repulsed yet in the vastly long run triumphant.
There's a special quality to the light over the ocean and its shore, in good weather and in bad.
People are drawn to the winter beach, undeterred by the cold sharp wind that rules it. They walk, they dig holes, they play fetch with dogs, they simply sit or stand and contemplate the ocean.
Yes, I think I'll go back to the winter beach for a while, walk away from all the madness, let the serenity fill my soul.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Riding Ben: A Confession of Cowardice
I’m afraid.
I’m afraid to ride my lovely, sweet, well-trained, well-mannered Thoroughbred.
I may never get on him again. If I do, I may never again take him out of a walk.
And it’s not his fault; it’s me.
Way back in early May, before Commander’s laminitis blew everything equine to hell for me, I got on both boys seriatim for a short putter about the ring. I hadn’t been riding either horse much if at all since last fall, but neither one needs to be longe-line-worked into sanity before it’s safe to get on. They’re both steady old fellows who can be pulled out of the paddock for a ride a day, a week, a month after their last work, and not get over-excited about it.
First I rode Commander, who pitter-pattered about at walk and (briefly) trot for me in his usual small-strided fashion. Then it was time for Ben, he of the big, elastic stride; I walked him about for some minutes, getting him warmed up, then asked for a trot. He surged into a big booming TROT; I could feel his body under me saying “Yeh! Feels GOOD! Wheeee!”
Fear lanced through me. Instant ohmygod fear. Snap! Fear that he was going to get silly and stupid, as he will do once in a blue moon (and which has nada to do with his fitness level) and try to take off, maybe even buck. Fear that my aging, overweight, underfit, slow-reflexed self wouldn’t be able to ride through whatever silliness erupted under me.
Fear that I’d fall off and get hurt. Really hurt. Wreck-my-life hurt.
So I pulled him back to a walk – which he came back to easily, without a fuss; he’s really a good boy. I walked him around the ring once, to settle both of us, and got off, feeling that sick weakness fear leaves behind. I untacked him, told him what a fine fellow he is, and put away saddle and bridle, wondering whether I’d ever take them out for him again.
Sigh.......... If I were ten years younger, twenty pounds lighter, riding regularly, my muscles and reflexes tuned to the task, this wouldn’t have bothered me. Indeed, just last September I survived a much scarier experience on Ben – rode through it and kept going on him for another hour. I’ve made it a rule for a long time now, even before that bolt, to ride Ben only in my Aussie stock saddle, that is far more secure than an English saddle. If Commander comes back from his laminitis riding-sound, I’ll happily get on him, even bareback (in the ring; not hacking out in the fields, mind you), because I trust him to be sensible. And besides, he’s nowhere near as BIG as Ben is.
But Ben? I’ve lost my feeling of safety on him, my desire to throw a leg over his back again. Perhaps last September’s scare has stayed with me at a visceral level I hadn’t been aware of. Perhaps it’s a keener consciousness of mortality developing in me as I age into my 60s. Perhaps part of it is that riding just doesn’t matter that much to me any more; the care and feeding and being with and observing and loving have become what fulfills me in horse ownership. Certainly a large part of the passion for riding died in me when Nick, my first horse, died in September 2005; as marvelous as Ben is, and as much as I adore him, riding just hasn’t been the same for me since then.
Further thoughts, in response to a friend reciting her own fears: I’ve come off a handful of times over the years, never seriously hurt, though one time when Ben stumbled badly and I tumbled over his shoulder I got my bell rung hard enough that the barn owner drove me home and called later to make sure I was still (more or less) all there. I used to be much braver; many years ago I rode my dear departed Nick with a broken (not from horse fall) arm, in fact.
But I’m at that stage in my life when I’m more likely to break, not bounce, if I fall. And I am the sole support of two horses, nine cats, and a mortgage, with no disability insurance. It does give one pause.
Whatever the cause, singular or multiple, the effect is this: I am afraid to ride Ben, and may never do so again. This doesn’t bother him, but it saddens me.
And if I do ride him again, we for sure will never do this:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update: That post also went out to friends as an email, and a number of them responded. It would appear I hit some nerves. Their thoughtful replies I post below. First, from fellow horse owners/riders/lovers:
Christine:
So I've never come off one.......and you know it's inevitable I will!!!!! So as I start to ride my now five-year-old, high-strung mare, Barbie, instead of my laid back 20-year-old gelding, Buck, I'm getting fearful waiting for it. And the other night I was on Buck and Matt was riding Barb and I was getting myself into a tizz because Buck gets nervous around Barb because his eyesight's poor and the indoor's shadowy and Matt's training on her. So after about 20 minutes of just jogging him, I was done. I can't risk a hand/arm injury. I do LOVE the grooming, taking care of them. But I don't want to be fearful. So I completely get you!!
Vicki:
I feel your pain. I too have lost my desire to ride. It really isn't anything to do with Maggie, except that she isn't Nelson. I know you can't compare, but I do, and I shouldn't. I trusted him with my life - and the life of my son - unborn and until the age of almost 5. She is perfectly fine, but has a stupid spook that involves her running out from under you sideways (and occasionally backwards) that scares the crap out of me. I too just love the care and observation, but it is turning into an expensive hobby. Hang in there and enjoy them as much as you can.
Ruth:
I don’t think I’d call you a coward, Laura. You are being very honest and fear is a huge factor when we are riding. You are brave to admit it and certainly smart to listen to your visceral feelings about the fear.
If you enjoy caring for your horses, then that is what you should do. Forget the riding and enjoy them for what joy they bring to you.
Francie:
Oh Laura! I so understand.
I don't climb aboard the beasties anymore either. :o(
Pretty much the same reason too. Slow reflexes,the perpetual weight struggle,I just don't have the balance, agility,athleticism....in short,I feel afraid while I'm up there.
((Hugs))
And then, the reflections on a non-horseperson, upon life in general:
Ed:
I read your “confession” as a lament for the passing of something fun, and dear, in your life. That’s life, as the sage says. But I’m responding to suggest to you that the label “cowardice” is just plain wrong and, worse, saddles you (no pun intended, actually) with unnecessary guilt, as though your realization that you feel unsafe (insecure) on Ben’s back is a stain on your character. Not so! It is, for better or worse, an acknowledgement of aging. I will be 65 this summer, I feel fine, yet there are several things I’ve enjoyed in my life that I shall not do again. And they all involve matters where physical dexterity and balance and physical competence are involved.
I have all my life loved to go fast: I raced cars back in the muscle car days, rode and raced on my motorcycle, and loved it. But, if I were ever to ride a motorcycle again, it will be to putt-putt about the scenic roads of New England, not to race at breakneck speed. I no longer feel comfortable doing that. Likewise, racing in a car. I drive well, and sanely these days. It’s been a long time since I have lived up to my pledge to myself, made when I was about 21, that I would hit 100 mph in my car at least once every day of my life. Believe it or not, I lived up to that pledge for many years after that. But I wouldn’t think of doing so now. The excitement I used to feel at 100 mph would be fear and anxiousness now – what if something goes wrong? – and so there would be no joy in it.
Less extreme, I no longer pursue a favorite summertime hobby: getting out of my car alongside a fast-moving alluvial stream somewhere in New England and hopping out on the rocks midstream, making my way from one rock to another, skipping, jumping, sometimes quickly planning out a three- or four-hop route to make it from point A to point B. Great fun! I’ve done it with my kids since they were young, and long after they grew up. But not now. I know I am no longer light on my feet enough to feel safe doing that. And, good grief, suppose I slipped and went ass over teacups into the water, or worse, landed on a rock? My aging bones would not handle it well.
But cowardice has nothing to do with it. Rather, simple mature acceptance that I have passed the point in my life where I can prudently take those physical risks. I have neither the physical prowess for it any longer, and, just as important, my nervous system can’t handle such “excitement” anymore.
This is all a part of aging gracefully, something I hope to do. I don’t intend to curtail all activities; just the ones I am no longer comfortable doing. Nor will I let myself slide into idle senescence. But I will decline to do what is no longer comfortable for me to do. (In 2006, I won the NCRA Speed Contest for the sixth time. A great day! But I announced my retirement that day from speed contests. I knew it was time to quit.)
So please accept the changes in you that come with aging, Laura. Don’t lacerate yourself over this presentiment of mortality. You’re in good health, you’ve got your mind intact – not everyone does! – and so you can savor the wisdom and experiences you have accumulated, and go on enjoying the things you love, like horses, and taking care of them and loving them, and riding them if you choose to – or not.
I’m afraid to ride my lovely, sweet, well-trained, well-mannered Thoroughbred.
I may never get on him again. If I do, I may never again take him out of a walk.
And it’s not his fault; it’s me.
Way back in early May, before Commander’s laminitis blew everything equine to hell for me, I got on both boys seriatim for a short putter about the ring. I hadn’t been riding either horse much if at all since last fall, but neither one needs to be longe-line-worked into sanity before it’s safe to get on. They’re both steady old fellows who can be pulled out of the paddock for a ride a day, a week, a month after their last work, and not get over-excited about it.
First I rode Commander, who pitter-pattered about at walk and (briefly) trot for me in his usual small-strided fashion. Then it was time for Ben, he of the big, elastic stride; I walked him about for some minutes, getting him warmed up, then asked for a trot. He surged into a big booming TROT; I could feel his body under me saying “Yeh! Feels GOOD! Wheeee!”
Fear lanced through me. Instant ohmygod fear. Snap! Fear that he was going to get silly and stupid, as he will do once in a blue moon (and which has nada to do with his fitness level) and try to take off, maybe even buck. Fear that my aging, overweight, underfit, slow-reflexed self wouldn’t be able to ride through whatever silliness erupted under me.
Fear that I’d fall off and get hurt. Really hurt. Wreck-my-life hurt.
So I pulled him back to a walk – which he came back to easily, without a fuss; he’s really a good boy. I walked him around the ring once, to settle both of us, and got off, feeling that sick weakness fear leaves behind. I untacked him, told him what a fine fellow he is, and put away saddle and bridle, wondering whether I’d ever take them out for him again.
Sigh.......... If I were ten years younger, twenty pounds lighter, riding regularly, my muscles and reflexes tuned to the task, this wouldn’t have bothered me. Indeed, just last September I survived a much scarier experience on Ben – rode through it and kept going on him for another hour. I’ve made it a rule for a long time now, even before that bolt, to ride Ben only in my Aussie stock saddle, that is far more secure than an English saddle. If Commander comes back from his laminitis riding-sound, I’ll happily get on him, even bareback (in the ring; not hacking out in the fields, mind you), because I trust him to be sensible. And besides, he’s nowhere near as BIG as Ben is.
But Ben? I’ve lost my feeling of safety on him, my desire to throw a leg over his back again. Perhaps last September’s scare has stayed with me at a visceral level I hadn’t been aware of. Perhaps it’s a keener consciousness of mortality developing in me as I age into my 60s. Perhaps part of it is that riding just doesn’t matter that much to me any more; the care and feeding and being with and observing and loving have become what fulfills me in horse ownership. Certainly a large part of the passion for riding died in me when Nick, my first horse, died in September 2005; as marvelous as Ben is, and as much as I adore him, riding just hasn’t been the same for me since then.
Further thoughts, in response to a friend reciting her own fears: I’ve come off a handful of times over the years, never seriously hurt, though one time when Ben stumbled badly and I tumbled over his shoulder I got my bell rung hard enough that the barn owner drove me home and called later to make sure I was still (more or less) all there. I used to be much braver; many years ago I rode my dear departed Nick with a broken (not from horse fall) arm, in fact.
But I’m at that stage in my life when I’m more likely to break, not bounce, if I fall. And I am the sole support of two horses, nine cats, and a mortgage, with no disability insurance. It does give one pause.
Whatever the cause, singular or multiple, the effect is this: I am afraid to ride Ben, and may never do so again. This doesn’t bother him, but it saddens me.
And if I do ride him again, we for sure will never do this:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update: That post also went out to friends as an email, and a number of them responded. It would appear I hit some nerves. Their thoughtful replies I post below. First, from fellow horse owners/riders/lovers:
Christine:
So I've never come off one.......and you know it's inevitable I will!!!!! So as I start to ride my now five-year-old, high-strung mare, Barbie, instead of my laid back 20-year-old gelding, Buck, I'm getting fearful waiting for it. And the other night I was on Buck and Matt was riding Barb and I was getting myself into a tizz because Buck gets nervous around Barb because his eyesight's poor and the indoor's shadowy and Matt's training on her. So after about 20 minutes of just jogging him, I was done. I can't risk a hand/arm injury. I do LOVE the grooming, taking care of them. But I don't want to be fearful. So I completely get you!!
Vicki:
I feel your pain. I too have lost my desire to ride. It really isn't anything to do with Maggie, except that she isn't Nelson. I know you can't compare, but I do, and I shouldn't. I trusted him with my life - and the life of my son - unborn and until the age of almost 5. She is perfectly fine, but has a stupid spook that involves her running out from under you sideways (and occasionally backwards) that scares the crap out of me. I too just love the care and observation, but it is turning into an expensive hobby. Hang in there and enjoy them as much as you can.
Ruth:
I don’t think I’d call you a coward, Laura. You are being very honest and fear is a huge factor when we are riding. You are brave to admit it and certainly smart to listen to your visceral feelings about the fear.
If you enjoy caring for your horses, then that is what you should do. Forget the riding and enjoy them for what joy they bring to you.
Francie:
Oh Laura! I so understand.
I don't climb aboard the beasties anymore either. :o(
Pretty much the same reason too. Slow reflexes,the perpetual weight struggle,I just don't have the balance, agility,athleticism....in short,I feel afraid while I'm up there.
((Hugs))
And then, the reflections on a non-horseperson, upon life in general:
Ed:
I read your “confession” as a lament for the passing of something fun, and dear, in your life. That’s life, as the sage says. But I’m responding to suggest to you that the label “cowardice” is just plain wrong and, worse, saddles you (no pun intended, actually) with unnecessary guilt, as though your realization that you feel unsafe (insecure) on Ben’s back is a stain on your character. Not so! It is, for better or worse, an acknowledgement of aging. I will be 65 this summer, I feel fine, yet there are several things I’ve enjoyed in my life that I shall not do again. And they all involve matters where physical dexterity and balance and physical competence are involved.
I have all my life loved to go fast: I raced cars back in the muscle car days, rode and raced on my motorcycle, and loved it. But, if I were ever to ride a motorcycle again, it will be to putt-putt about the scenic roads of New England, not to race at breakneck speed. I no longer feel comfortable doing that. Likewise, racing in a car. I drive well, and sanely these days. It’s been a long time since I have lived up to my pledge to myself, made when I was about 21, that I would hit 100 mph in my car at least once every day of my life. Believe it or not, I lived up to that pledge for many years after that. But I wouldn’t think of doing so now. The excitement I used to feel at 100 mph would be fear and anxiousness now – what if something goes wrong? – and so there would be no joy in it.
Less extreme, I no longer pursue a favorite summertime hobby: getting out of my car alongside a fast-moving alluvial stream somewhere in New England and hopping out on the rocks midstream, making my way from one rock to another, skipping, jumping, sometimes quickly planning out a three- or four-hop route to make it from point A to point B. Great fun! I’ve done it with my kids since they were young, and long after they grew up. But not now. I know I am no longer light on my feet enough to feel safe doing that. And, good grief, suppose I slipped and went ass over teacups into the water, or worse, landed on a rock? My aging bones would not handle it well.
But cowardice has nothing to do with it. Rather, simple mature acceptance that I have passed the point in my life where I can prudently take those physical risks. I have neither the physical prowess for it any longer, and, just as important, my nervous system can’t handle such “excitement” anymore.
This is all a part of aging gracefully, something I hope to do. I don’t intend to curtail all activities; just the ones I am no longer comfortable doing. Nor will I let myself slide into idle senescence. But I will decline to do what is no longer comfortable for me to do. (In 2006, I won the NCRA Speed Contest for the sixth time. A great day! But I announced my retirement that day from speed contests. I knew it was time to quit.)
So please accept the changes in you that come with aging, Laura. Don’t lacerate yourself over this presentiment of mortality. You’re in good health, you’ve got your mind intact – not everyone does! – and so you can savor the wisdom and experiences you have accumulated, and go on enjoying the things you love, like horses, and taking care of them and loving them, and riding them if you choose to – or not.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Plan C for Commander -- It Works!
When last we left our plucky Morgan and his big doofus buddy, I was wondering how the heck to get Ben onto the paddock grass while providing bug-shelter for him, yet keep Commander off the tasty but perilous green stuff. I had a Plan C, but had to run it by the farm owners.
Ran it by; got approval; did it – and it works just fine. How? Here’s how: The run-in structure has two stalls on the right and on the left, divided by a hay/tool storage aisle. In back of the right-hand stalls, a few feet lower, are a small room that can store hay, and a larger room, once a stall called the Mackie House (for its former inhabitant) and currently used for hay storage. The MH has a door on either end and can open to either side of the complex; on my side it opens into the paddock.
So: move the hay bales and the pallets they’ve been resting on from the MH into the old hay storage room; clean out the accumulated cruddy moldy waste hay (four wheelbarrow loads; a task I’d been meaning to get around to sometime in any case), hang water buckets, stock the MH with several flakes of hay, secure the Dutch doors to the MH on my side open, and voila! A bug refuge and watering hole for Ben. And when Commander’s inside the run-in he can see Ben in the MH.
I was going to insert photos in this post to illustrate the new setup, but there were just too many. Here’s a link to my Webshots album showing the whole thing. I’ve put captions as well as titles on each shot to explain what they show.
All the prep work got done yesterday; all was ready to go when I arrived at the barn today. I distracted Commander with a handful of grain (laced with his morning dose of isoxsuprine) while I brought Ben out of the barn first and got him settled in his new digs. I’d worried that my timid TB would be wary of going into the dark recess of the MH, but he walked in with only a slight hesitation, and clearly approved of the joint. With the electric tape gate to the paddock hooked safely in place, I brought Commander out of the barn and into the run-in to see Ben inside the MH. He looked, said “All right then” and dove into his hay. Phew!
Originally I’d left the upper Dutch door between the MH and the hay aisle open so the bay boys could see each other easily. Alas! Ben couldn’t resist reaching in to steal hay – even hay that was just the same, in fact from the same darn bale, as what he had in his new stall; and the upper door had to be shut and latched against his thievery. Commander was unfazed by this new barrier to seeing his buddy, so that was all right then.
I had them out in the new configuration from noon to around 7:00 p.m. – and yes, it was safe to let Ben have paddock access for so long even though I’d taken both boys off the grass three weeks ago when the laminitis struck. Why? Partly because the bugs are annoying enough that he spent far more of his time inside eating hay and schmoozing with Counterpoint than he did outside grazing; partly because for the last week I have been giving him a daily bucketful of grass hand-reaped by me (scissors work surprisingly well; certainly better than a dull scythe, I’ve found), so his belly is well primed for the greenery.
Oddly enough, the diciest moment today was getting Ben off the paddock to bring the boys in for the night. His white friends were out on their field grazing and he got mildly hysterical (abandonment terror? eagerness for supper?) when he saw me enter the run-in apron and approach Commander, started running and bucking. So I haltered Commander and, much to the grass-deprived Morgan’s disgust, held him back from charging into the paddock while I opened the gate. Ben bolted through, still wired. I resecured the tapes; took Commander’s halter off; and let them indulge in a frantic session of grooming until they’d calmed down enough to lead in.
So, success! I’ll continue bringing them in overnight, at least until Ben’s got the paddock grazed down to dry nubbins. Then it should be safe to let the boys stay out 24/7, perhaps even to let Commander out into the paddock for a few hours if not all the time. Of course, by then we’ll probably be getting into greenhead season, when B&C will have to huddle inside during daylight or be eaten alive.
And the field? We’ll see.
Ran it by; got approval; did it – and it works just fine. How? Here’s how: The run-in structure has two stalls on the right and on the left, divided by a hay/tool storage aisle. In back of the right-hand stalls, a few feet lower, are a small room that can store hay, and a larger room, once a stall called the Mackie House (for its former inhabitant) and currently used for hay storage. The MH has a door on either end and can open to either side of the complex; on my side it opens into the paddock.
So: move the hay bales and the pallets they’ve been resting on from the MH into the old hay storage room; clean out the accumulated cruddy moldy waste hay (four wheelbarrow loads; a task I’d been meaning to get around to sometime in any case), hang water buckets, stock the MH with several flakes of hay, secure the Dutch doors to the MH on my side open, and voila! A bug refuge and watering hole for Ben. And when Commander’s inside the run-in he can see Ben in the MH.
I was going to insert photos in this post to illustrate the new setup, but there were just too many. Here’s a link to my Webshots album showing the whole thing. I’ve put captions as well as titles on each shot to explain what they show.
All the prep work got done yesterday; all was ready to go when I arrived at the barn today. I distracted Commander with a handful of grain (laced with his morning dose of isoxsuprine) while I brought Ben out of the barn first and got him settled in his new digs. I’d worried that my timid TB would be wary of going into the dark recess of the MH, but he walked in with only a slight hesitation, and clearly approved of the joint. With the electric tape gate to the paddock hooked safely in place, I brought Commander out of the barn and into the run-in to see Ben inside the MH. He looked, said “All right then” and dove into his hay. Phew!
Originally I’d left the upper Dutch door between the MH and the hay aisle open so the bay boys could see each other easily. Alas! Ben couldn’t resist reaching in to steal hay – even hay that was just the same, in fact from the same darn bale, as what he had in his new stall; and the upper door had to be shut and latched against his thievery. Commander was unfazed by this new barrier to seeing his buddy, so that was all right then.
I had them out in the new configuration from noon to around 7:00 p.m. – and yes, it was safe to let Ben have paddock access for so long even though I’d taken both boys off the grass three weeks ago when the laminitis struck. Why? Partly because the bugs are annoying enough that he spent far more of his time inside eating hay and schmoozing with Counterpoint than he did outside grazing; partly because for the last week I have been giving him a daily bucketful of grass hand-reaped by me (scissors work surprisingly well; certainly better than a dull scythe, I’ve found), so his belly is well primed for the greenery.
Oddly enough, the diciest moment today was getting Ben off the paddock to bring the boys in for the night. His white friends were out on their field grazing and he got mildly hysterical (abandonment terror? eagerness for supper?) when he saw me enter the run-in apron and approach Commander, started running and bucking. So I haltered Commander and, much to the grass-deprived Morgan’s disgust, held him back from charging into the paddock while I opened the gate. Ben bolted through, still wired. I resecured the tapes; took Commander’s halter off; and let them indulge in a frantic session of grooming until they’d calmed down enough to lead in.
So, success! I’ll continue bringing them in overnight, at least until Ben’s got the paddock grazed down to dry nubbins. Then it should be safe to let the boys stay out 24/7, perhaps even to let Commander out into the paddock for a few hours if not all the time. Of course, by then we’ll probably be getting into greenhead season, when B&C will have to huddle inside during daylight or be eaten alive.
And the field? We’ll see.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
So Much for the Grazing Muzzle
I tried putting the grazing muzzle on Commander today, to deter him from picking at the stubble along the fence line and to see how he’d react to it. He wasn’t happy but he didn’t throw a fit. He didn’t like trying to groom Ben with it, that’s for sure.
After I’d observed him for a while I went back to stall-cleaning and he and Ben hung out in the run-in. Looking out the window now and then, it appeared that they were playing some form of face-fight/halter tag. When I went out at last to fetch them I discovered that the entire bottom of the muzzle was broken right off the woven web around the nose and lying discarded in the run-in.
When it was safe for Commander to do more than a sedate walk, I’d planned to let them start going into the paddock, Ben free to graze and Commander muzzled to forestall his getting more than tiny tidbits of grass. Looks like it’s time for Plan B, except that my Plan B has problems: I could put Ben in the paddock, with the electric tape gate closed to keep Commander in the run-in, and with a hay bag hung on the run-in wall so he could eat and see Ben at the same time. But if it’s buggy, and it is buggy now, Ben would want to flee into the run-in. So that won’t work.
Hmmmmmmm............... There might be a Plan C, but that would require some changes in run-in configuration and hay management for the four horses. Will have to ponder, and consult with the farm owner.
After I’d observed him for a while I went back to stall-cleaning and he and Ben hung out in the run-in. Looking out the window now and then, it appeared that they were playing some form of face-fight/halter tag. When I went out at last to fetch them I discovered that the entire bottom of the muzzle was broken right off the woven web around the nose and lying discarded in the run-in.
When it was safe for Commander to do more than a sedate walk, I’d planned to let them start going into the paddock, Ben free to graze and Commander muzzled to forestall his getting more than tiny tidbits of grass. Looks like it’s time for Plan B, except that my Plan B has problems: I could put Ben in the paddock, with the electric tape gate closed to keep Commander in the run-in, and with a hay bag hung on the run-in wall so he could eat and see Ben at the same time. But if it’s buggy, and it is buggy now, Ben would want to flee into the run-in. So that won’t work.
Hmmmmmmm............... There might be a Plan C, but that would require some changes in run-in configuration and hay management for the four horses. Will have to ponder, and consult with the farm owner.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Commander: No News Is Good News
Which is why I didn't post a Commander update yesterday. He’s doing very well, very comfortable on his heartbars. He was never really off his feed during all this, but I think his appetite has picked up a bit since the shoeing. He’s bright-eyed, shiny-coated, and eager to go out! Now!
Well, of course he can’t have lots of turnout; he’s not supposed to have any until he’s on one bute per day, in fact, which I’m starting today: lunch bute as usual, but none for supper tonight. I have cheated a bit, put him and Ben out yesterday and today for the half hour or so it takes me to clean their stalls, and he’s been a good boy, not gotten silly and rambunctious.
What he has done is spend the vast bulk of his time outside in vigorous grooming sessions with Ben, way more than they’d been doing, in fact, before the heartbars went on. Is it a consequence of his feet feeling better, that he can spare a thought now for itchy withers? Or is it the hot humid weather that makes the boys’ coats call out for a good tooth-scrubbing? He and Ben both have rubbed tails, despite their being on continuous wormer, and they’ll be getting ivermectin tonight or tomorrow to deal with that, but as for the rest of their bodies’ need to be scratched? I dunno why; I just know they derive deep satisfaction from their grooming sessions, whether outside or inside their run-in stalls.
More inside, actually, today; the biting bugs have sprung from nowhere into pesky annoyance. Yesterday and today I’ve brought Commander in first, turning him loose on his mini-mash, then running back out to release Ben into the now-lush paddock, to gobble the greenery until Commander came to notice his abandonment and started yelling. Yesterday, oh joy, the Morgan seemed not to realize his buddy wasn’t present across the aisle; his hay was enticing enough, once the mash was devoured, to keep him happily oblivious of his solitary state. The temptation was strong to leave Ben outside, but I couldn’t take a chance on Commander deciding to freak out over his absence, so in Ben came, despite his reluctance to leave all that wonderful grass. Today, though, was a different story. Today a bug-bugged Ben fled the paddock for the shelter of the run-in even before I went to collect him; today he was positively pleased to be going back to his stall.
So there you have it: early days, not out of the woods yet, don’t get cocky, etc. etc., but things are looking good; and unless something dramatic happens, unless some major milestone is passed (or unless I feel an overwhelming need to blather again), I think the Commander updates can go on hiatus.
Well, of course he can’t have lots of turnout; he’s not supposed to have any until he’s on one bute per day, in fact, which I’m starting today: lunch bute as usual, but none for supper tonight. I have cheated a bit, put him and Ben out yesterday and today for the half hour or so it takes me to clean their stalls, and he’s been a good boy, not gotten silly and rambunctious.
What he has done is spend the vast bulk of his time outside in vigorous grooming sessions with Ben, way more than they’d been doing, in fact, before the heartbars went on. Is it a consequence of his feet feeling better, that he can spare a thought now for itchy withers? Or is it the hot humid weather that makes the boys’ coats call out for a good tooth-scrubbing? He and Ben both have rubbed tails, despite their being on continuous wormer, and they’ll be getting ivermectin tonight or tomorrow to deal with that, but as for the rest of their bodies’ need to be scratched? I dunno why; I just know they derive deep satisfaction from their grooming sessions, whether outside or inside their run-in stalls.
More inside, actually, today; the biting bugs have sprung from nowhere into pesky annoyance. Yesterday and today I’ve brought Commander in first, turning him loose on his mini-mash, then running back out to release Ben into the now-lush paddock, to gobble the greenery until Commander came to notice his abandonment and started yelling. Yesterday, oh joy, the Morgan seemed not to realize his buddy wasn’t present across the aisle; his hay was enticing enough, once the mash was devoured, to keep him happily oblivious of his solitary state. The temptation was strong to leave Ben outside, but I couldn’t take a chance on Commander deciding to freak out over his absence, so in Ben came, despite his reluctance to leave all that wonderful grass. Today, though, was a different story. Today a bug-bugged Ben fled the paddock for the shelter of the run-in even before I went to collect him; today he was positively pleased to be going back to his stall.
So there you have it: early days, not out of the woods yet, don’t get cocky, etc. etc., but things are looking good; and unless something dramatic happens, unless some major milestone is passed (or unless I feel an overwhelming need to blather again), I think the Commander updates can go on hiatus.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Toot, Toot, Tootsies: Goodbye to Pain
Commander got his heartbars today, and he approved. Yea, verily did he approve.
I had to zip up to the vet’s office to pick up a CD of the x-rays and tote my laptop to the barn so Ken, my farrier, could study the current rotational state of the hooves. Once he’d seen what he needed to there, and checked out the old set of heartbars from Commander’s 2006 bout of founder, kindly loaned to me by the boy’s previous owner, Ken got to work and I got out of his way, back to my car to work on paper while he worked on steel.
And did he ever work! Ken took plenty of meticulous time over getting the heartbars just right, then on they went, along with Equi-Pak padding – neat stuff! It sets up quickly and provides a cushion elastic enough to offer comfort, yet strong enough to provide support and not compress to uselessness over time. Plus, it’s an attractive sky-blue color, adding a dash of drama to Commander’s stride. It’s also easy stuff to cut a hole into for drainage if Commander should happen to develop an abscess, which Ken warned me could happen, though he thought it unlikely.
So the old Morgan got his new shoes. And off walked Commander as if the laminitis had never happened. Yay!
Now, we still need to be cautious, not let the boy get wild and crazy and overdo things while the inflammation runs its course, dies down and dwindles away. So his turnout will increase gradually, carefully confined to the small space at the run-in; he’ll stay on bute for its anti-inflammatory benefit, for some time to come; but I am convinced we’re on the upswing and all will be well.
I had to zip up to the vet’s office to pick up a CD of the x-rays and tote my laptop to the barn so Ken, my farrier, could study the current rotational state of the hooves. Once he’d seen what he needed to there, and checked out the old set of heartbars from Commander’s 2006 bout of founder, kindly loaned to me by the boy’s previous owner, Ken got to work and I got out of his way, back to my car to work on paper while he worked on steel.
And did he ever work! Ken took plenty of meticulous time over getting the heartbars just right, then on they went, along with Equi-Pak padding – neat stuff! It sets up quickly and provides a cushion elastic enough to offer comfort, yet strong enough to provide support and not compress to uselessness over time. Plus, it’s an attractive sky-blue color, adding a dash of drama to Commander’s stride. It’s also easy stuff to cut a hole into for drainage if Commander should happen to develop an abscess, which Ken warned me could happen, though he thought it unlikely.
So the old Morgan got his new shoes. And off walked Commander as if the laminitis had never happened. Yay!
Now, we still need to be cautious, not let the boy get wild and crazy and overdo things while the inflammation runs its course, dies down and dwindles away. So his turnout will increase gradually, carefully confined to the small space at the run-in; he’ll stay on bute for its anti-inflammatory benefit, for some time to come; but I am convinced we’re on the upswing and all will be well.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Commander Post-X-rays Update
And the news is cautiously good!
Commander does have some added rotation since his 2006 x-rays, but it is only a bit, and he still has enough sole to do fine once he’s over the acute phase. He’ll be going into heartbars on Wednesday. That’s the shoeing that worked for his previous founder, and my vet and farrier agree it’s the way to go at this point. His previous owner tells me that with heartbar shoeing Commander went from “Is it time to put him down?” to riding sound in six weeks.
With no bute in him since Saturday midday, you could see he was less comfortable, not moving quite as freely as yesterday; but Commander was and is still bright-eyed, eating and drinking well, sucking up to any human who’ll scratch his proud neck, and very willing to follow me out of his stall – heck, whenever we were pointed toward the exit he tried to drag me outside. He stood calmly with his front hooves up on wooden blocks for the x-rays; behaved like a perfect gentleman, in fact, for the whole process of examination and treatment. The x-ray machine hooked into the vet’s laptop and we could see his rads within seconds of them being taken. Not only that, but Kelly will be emailing them to me, and I can email them in turn to my farrier to have when he comes to put the new shoes on in two days. How cool is that?
My buteless Commander was even able to stand (with an occasional bit of fussing and hoof tugging) on a single forefoot to have each front shoe pulled, which the vet did gently, nail by careful nail, to give him some recovery time between the pulling of the old shoes and the nailing on of the new. Once they were off she showed me by the impressions on the pads inside how the rim of the plain shoes he’d been wearing weren’t offering him any real interior hoof structure support; how the frog was doing a lot of the work of weight-bearing against the protective pad. Then she put new pads and wraps on to keep him comfortable until Wednesday. Once everything was done he got a shot of Banamine, and you could see within minutes he felt just fine, thank you! That stuff is a miracle.
Plan for now: Bute, one tonight, one tomorrow, two on shoeing day and for a day or two afterwards, then taper to one for a few days, always with an eye to how comfortable he is, adjusting accordingly. Stall rest: Pretty much for tomorrow and shoeing day, and for a day or two afterwards, then judicious turnout, always with the goal of quiet light self-exercise that doesn’t stress the fragile tissues. Until he can go out he should get some short easy sessions of hand-walking, a prescription my farrier is strongly in favor of.
I dragged Kelly down to the paddock to look at the grass nubbins along the fence line. Verdict: Too short to harm him; if he wants to entertain himself picking at them, he should be okay. I will need to weed-whack the longer grass outside the fence that he could reach if he knelt down and snaked his head under the lower electric wire.
So, all in all, encouraging, I would say.
Commander does have some added rotation since his 2006 x-rays, but it is only a bit, and he still has enough sole to do fine once he’s over the acute phase. He’ll be going into heartbars on Wednesday. That’s the shoeing that worked for his previous founder, and my vet and farrier agree it’s the way to go at this point. His previous owner tells me that with heartbar shoeing Commander went from “Is it time to put him down?” to riding sound in six weeks.
With no bute in him since Saturday midday, you could see he was less comfortable, not moving quite as freely as yesterday; but Commander was and is still bright-eyed, eating and drinking well, sucking up to any human who’ll scratch his proud neck, and very willing to follow me out of his stall – heck, whenever we were pointed toward the exit he tried to drag me outside. He stood calmly with his front hooves up on wooden blocks for the x-rays; behaved like a perfect gentleman, in fact, for the whole process of examination and treatment. The x-ray machine hooked into the vet’s laptop and we could see his rads within seconds of them being taken. Not only that, but Kelly will be emailing them to me, and I can email them in turn to my farrier to have when he comes to put the new shoes on in two days. How cool is that?
My buteless Commander was even able to stand (with an occasional bit of fussing and hoof tugging) on a single forefoot to have each front shoe pulled, which the vet did gently, nail by careful nail, to give him some recovery time between the pulling of the old shoes and the nailing on of the new. Once they were off she showed me by the impressions on the pads inside how the rim of the plain shoes he’d been wearing weren’t offering him any real interior hoof structure support; how the frog was doing a lot of the work of weight-bearing against the protective pad. Then she put new pads and wraps on to keep him comfortable until Wednesday. Once everything was done he got a shot of Banamine, and you could see within minutes he felt just fine, thank you! That stuff is a miracle.
Plan for now: Bute, one tonight, one tomorrow, two on shoeing day and for a day or two afterwards, then taper to one for a few days, always with an eye to how comfortable he is, adjusting accordingly. Stall rest: Pretty much for tomorrow and shoeing day, and for a day or two afterwards, then judicious turnout, always with the goal of quiet light self-exercise that doesn’t stress the fragile tissues. Until he can go out he should get some short easy sessions of hand-walking, a prescription my farrier is strongly in favor of.
I dragged Kelly down to the paddock to look at the grass nubbins along the fence line. Verdict: Too short to harm him; if he wants to entertain himself picking at them, he should be okay. I will need to weed-whack the longer grass outside the fence that he could reach if he knelt down and snaked his head under the lower electric wire.
So, all in all, encouraging, I would say.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Sunday: Taking the Next Step With Commander
With trepidation, today I withheld the bute from Commander’s midday meal. His last dose was about 1:30 or so on Saturday, and he looked good; in fact the step down from the barn to the driveway seemed not to faze him at all today. He was moving just fine on his limited turnout.
Very limited turnout today, only 15 minutes or so, because he would not stop picking at the grass nubbins along the fence line, as he has on previous outings. Nubbins they may be, but apparently there was enough there to keep him working on them, and I did not dare let him keep at it.
Which set up another test for Commander: Could he be inside without Ben? The Morgan came back to fresh hay and his midday mini-mash of Speedi-Beet, bran, regular supplements, and medications (yum! no grain at all now), which kept him occupied as I worked on Ben’s stall across the aisle, ever alert for any sign of a separation-anxiety meltdown. Other than occasional trips to gaze out his window, he was fine. When Ben’s stall was ready I went out to collect the big lug, and let him hand-graze for a bit after we left the run-in. So Commander was all alone; no Ben, not even a second-best human, to keep him company; peace reigned as Ben grazed....
“NEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Okay, Commander had noticed his abandonment. I hustled Ben inside, let the boys sniff noses through Commander’s stallfront chainlink mesh, then put the Thoroughbred back into his stall, grained him, and that was that.
Which points to a strategy for giving Ben more time on turnout: Take Commander out first, to forestall any abandonment freakout; leave them out as long as it’s safe for Commander; then bring him back to the distractions of food and let Ben stay out until the Morgan starts getting upset about it. Which of course will require me to be on hand, ready to reel in Ben at the first sign of Commander losing it, sigh.
I’ll be checking on Commander in about two hours, and again around 10:00 p.m., and if he’s in significant distress I will bute him, vet visit Monday morning regardless.
Fingers crossed!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update:
Checked Commander around 5:30. He looked just as good as he did at midday. Left him unbuted, just gave him his evening mash with the isoxsuprine and U-7. Left late evening and breakfast hay flake-piles out for the farm owner to give him, and for once I am going to have an early night, not need to do late-P.M. bedcheck, hurrah!
If you had told me a week ago things would be looking so good so fast I would not have believed it possible. Let’s hope his trajectory continues in its present course.
Very limited turnout today, only 15 minutes or so, because he would not stop picking at the grass nubbins along the fence line, as he has on previous outings. Nubbins they may be, but apparently there was enough there to keep him working on them, and I did not dare let him keep at it.
Which set up another test for Commander: Could he be inside without Ben? The Morgan came back to fresh hay and his midday mini-mash of Speedi-Beet, bran, regular supplements, and medications (yum! no grain at all now), which kept him occupied as I worked on Ben’s stall across the aisle, ever alert for any sign of a separation-anxiety meltdown. Other than occasional trips to gaze out his window, he was fine. When Ben’s stall was ready I went out to collect the big lug, and let him hand-graze for a bit after we left the run-in. So Commander was all alone; no Ben, not even a second-best human, to keep him company; peace reigned as Ben grazed....
“NEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Okay, Commander had noticed his abandonment. I hustled Ben inside, let the boys sniff noses through Commander’s stallfront chainlink mesh, then put the Thoroughbred back into his stall, grained him, and that was that.
Which points to a strategy for giving Ben more time on turnout: Take Commander out first, to forestall any abandonment freakout; leave them out as long as it’s safe for Commander; then bring him back to the distractions of food and let Ben stay out until the Morgan starts getting upset about it. Which of course will require me to be on hand, ready to reel in Ben at the first sign of Commander losing it, sigh.
I’ll be checking on Commander in about two hours, and again around 10:00 p.m., and if he’s in significant distress I will bute him, vet visit Monday morning regardless.
Fingers crossed!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update:
Checked Commander around 5:30. He looked just as good as he did at midday. Left him unbuted, just gave him his evening mash with the isoxsuprine and U-7. Left late evening and breakfast hay flake-piles out for the farm owner to give him, and for once I am going to have an early night, not need to do late-P.M. bedcheck, hurrah!
If you had told me a week ago things would be looking so good so fast I would not have believed it possible. Let’s hope his trajectory continues in its present course.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Commander: Second Day on One Bute
He’s doing well. Remarkably well, given how painful he was just one week ago. If there was a hint of tentative discomfort in front today, it was so minuscule that it didn’t stop me from letting him go out. He was cautious about taking the 6-inch step down from the barn to the driveway; moved off his landing foot quickly; but other than that he walked free and easy, and handled the hardness of the run-in apron with no problem, though after a while he did prefer to stay on the mats inside.
It was good for him and Ben both, to get them out for about 45 minutes. They spent a lot of the time grooming each other. I was tempted to leave them out when their stalls were done, on this lovely warm sunny day after a week’s worth of chilly rain and drizzle, while I drove over to the co-op to buy shavings, but caution overruled impulse. That would have added around another hour to their turnout time; too much, too soon, to risk a setback for Commander’s wellbeing.
There was a farrier at the barn shoeing another boarder’s horse, and I visited with him for a while. I mentioned one friend’s suggestion of putting shoes on backwards. He said it can be helpful, as can other kinds of therapeutic shoeing; what approach one takes depends on each individual horse. When I mentioned my farrier’s name, the prompt response was “Ken Brown! I know Ken; he’s a great farrier!” And other comments indicating that I in fact have a damn fine farrier. You can imagine how reassuring that was to hear.
Anyway, if Commander is looking as good tomorrow as he was today, I will be tempted to withhold his midday bute dose, so that Kelly can assess him completely clear of the drug on Monday morning. If he seems clearly ouchier than today, I will give him the bute.
I spent some time with him after getting back from the co-op run, just neck-hugging and skritching him. He loved it, and when I stopped looked to me for more. He was first dubious, then appreciative when I took a damp paper towel to his eyes to clean away their perennial watery discharge and eye-corner crud. I think we’re developing a closer relationship over the course of his convalescence.
It was good for him and Ben both, to get them out for about 45 minutes. They spent a lot of the time grooming each other. I was tempted to leave them out when their stalls were done, on this lovely warm sunny day after a week’s worth of chilly rain and drizzle, while I drove over to the co-op to buy shavings, but caution overruled impulse. That would have added around another hour to their turnout time; too much, too soon, to risk a setback for Commander’s wellbeing.
There was a farrier at the barn shoeing another boarder’s horse, and I visited with him for a while. I mentioned one friend’s suggestion of putting shoes on backwards. He said it can be helpful, as can other kinds of therapeutic shoeing; what approach one takes depends on each individual horse. When I mentioned my farrier’s name, the prompt response was “Ken Brown! I know Ken; he’s a great farrier!” And other comments indicating that I in fact have a damn fine farrier. You can imagine how reassuring that was to hear.
Anyway, if Commander is looking as good tomorrow as he was today, I will be tempted to withhold his midday bute dose, so that Kelly can assess him completely clear of the drug on Monday morning. If he seems clearly ouchier than today, I will give him the bute.
I spent some time with him after getting back from the co-op run, just neck-hugging and skritching him. He loved it, and when I stopped looked to me for more. He was first dubious, then appreciative when I took a damp paper towel to his eyes to clean away their perennial watery discharge and eye-corner crud. I think we’re developing a closer relationship over the course of his convalescence.
Friday Commander Update
So, 24+ hours after his last dose of bute, how did Commander look at midday on Friday?
No, no, he didn’t go out, the ground is just too wet for that; that picture’s from last spring; but that’s about how good he and I are both feeling right now!
His wraps are still holding up amazingly well, but the sole over the pad is wearing thin, so I wrapped right over them with Coflex. He had a harder time holding up his left foot, all his weight on his right, during that process, but that’s the hoof that’s always been the more sensitive ever since his previous bout with founder, according to his previous owner. All in all, he is looking remarkably good.
So, he's done very well indeed with just one gram of bute in 24 hours; if he’s as free-moving Saturday as he was on Friday, he’ll get one dose at midday, then none on Sunday, as long as he continues to be comfortable; and we’ll see how he looks on Monday morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bedcheck update: Looking good!
No, no, he didn’t go out, the ground is just too wet for that; that picture’s from last spring; but that’s about how good he and I are both feeling right now!
His wraps are still holding up amazingly well, but the sole over the pad is wearing thin, so I wrapped right over them with Coflex. He had a harder time holding up his left foot, all his weight on his right, during that process, but that’s the hoof that’s always been the more sensitive ever since his previous bout with founder, according to his previous owner. All in all, he is looking remarkably good.
So, he's done very well indeed with just one gram of bute in 24 hours; if he’s as free-moving Saturday as he was on Friday, he’ll get one dose at midday, then none on Sunday, as long as he continues to be comfortable; and we’ll see how he looks on Monday morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bedcheck update: Looking good!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Thursday: Commander is One Smart Cookie
Midday report: On two bute per day, Commander looks very good indeed. I will probably withhold tonight’s dose and see how he looks tomorrow after 24 hours since his last dose. If at all possible he needs to be at least 24 and hopefully 48 hours since his last dose by the time he’s seen by the vet on Monday morning.
I’ve added Finish Line’s U-7 gastric aid supplement to his diet to protect against bute-induced ulcers. If he’s going to need to be on it for a considerable time, I’d like to get his stomach buffered before any ulcers begin to blossom.
Weather permitting, he gets a short time outside, and today the weather permitted. If I hadn’t watched him like the proverbial hawk and shut him down at the first hint of exuberance, our trip down the driveway would have been quite a spectacle of explosive Morgan caracoles. But he knows what the chain under his chin means, and all it took were swift light tweaks on the lead line to remind him “Behave!” and he walked politely.
But that’s not why I call him one smart cookie; no, it’s what he did once he was set free. After trying to graze on the already depleted nubbins he could reach along the fence line (sorry, Commander; there’s nothing there worth contorting yourself for), he started face-fighting with Counterpoint, first in the middle of the concrete run-in apron, but very quickly he moved to a much more comfortable position:
Yup, that’s right, he went into the run-in, onto the rubber mats, and reached around the corner to play. That beige bar you see at the top of the photo is the bottom edge of the swing-up window in Counterpoint’s stall; I had to shoot the boys from up there in the barn because any time I came outside the white boys rushed the fence to beg for food or release onto their field.
Here’s a clearer look at just how Commander positioned himself:
It’s amazing these guys don’t actually do any damage to each other given how ferociously they go at it:
So Ben and Commander had their 30 to 45 minutes outside, and walked back in a fair bit calmer than they went out. Hopefully I’ll be able to get them out every day, hopefully for longer stretches at a time if Commander isn’t set back by short intervals on ground less forgiving than his well-bedded, wood-floored stall.
Tomorrow is another day.
I’ve added Finish Line’s U-7 gastric aid supplement to his diet to protect against bute-induced ulcers. If he’s going to need to be on it for a considerable time, I’d like to get his stomach buffered before any ulcers begin to blossom.
Weather permitting, he gets a short time outside, and today the weather permitted. If I hadn’t watched him like the proverbial hawk and shut him down at the first hint of exuberance, our trip down the driveway would have been quite a spectacle of explosive Morgan caracoles. But he knows what the chain under his chin means, and all it took were swift light tweaks on the lead line to remind him “Behave!” and he walked politely.
But that’s not why I call him one smart cookie; no, it’s what he did once he was set free. After trying to graze on the already depleted nubbins he could reach along the fence line (sorry, Commander; there’s nothing there worth contorting yourself for), he started face-fighting with Counterpoint, first in the middle of the concrete run-in apron, but very quickly he moved to a much more comfortable position:
Yup, that’s right, he went into the run-in, onto the rubber mats, and reached around the corner to play. That beige bar you see at the top of the photo is the bottom edge of the swing-up window in Counterpoint’s stall; I had to shoot the boys from up there in the barn because any time I came outside the white boys rushed the fence to beg for food or release onto their field.
Here’s a clearer look at just how Commander positioned himself:
It’s amazing these guys don’t actually do any damage to each other given how ferociously they go at it:
So Ben and Commander had their 30 to 45 minutes outside, and walked back in a fair bit calmer than they went out. Hopefully I’ll be able to get them out every day, hopefully for longer stretches at a time if Commander isn’t set back by short intervals on ground less forgiving than his well-bedded, wood-floored stall.
Tomorrow is another day.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Commander Update: A Bridge Too Far?
Commander didn’t get a dose of bute at bedcheck last night, so when I saw him at midday today his last one had been about 24 hours ago, and it showed.
Oh, he wasn’t anywhere near the kind of distress I’d seen on Saturday; he was standing foursquare, taking good-sized steps, and not reluctant to move; but he was clearly feeling enough of an increase in discomfort to be stiffer in walking and turning on his forehand than yesterday. I hadn’t planned to put him out today in any case, given how wet it is; but for darn sure he wasn’t going to go out on a gravel drive and concrete run-in apron looking like that.
So off he went to an empty stall across the aisle, which he puttered around in between bouts of hay-munching; back to his stall, where the absentminded human realized it’s a lot easier to add a new bag of shavings to a mucked-out stall before you put the horse back in; over to the empty stall again; finally back home, where he dove into his hay. It seemed to me that he was moving somewhat better, in fact clearly better, by the fourth trip across the barn aisle, so perhaps some of his stiffness comes from being an older horse on stall confinement in damp, chilly weather; and I’ve noticed over the last few days that he also looks stiffer when he first gets up from lying down, so who knows how much of a role mere inactivity plays? – but that’s not the entire cause. The laminitis ain’t done with him yet.
Sigh. I suppose such setbacks are only to be expected. Hopefully when I see him tonight he’ll be back to looking “Just fine, thank you!” with the bute back in him. He’ll get a bedcheck dose; two doses again on Wednesday; then we’ll try again to cut back to one. I’ll also do a bit of handwalking in the barn to get the juices cautiously flowing on gentle footing.
The continued good news is that Commander’s bright-eyed, cheerful, eating and drinking well, sucking up his meds without a problem, in good weight, and shiny-coated. Ben is also handling his companion captivity pretty well; other than screaming for attention when I arrive, looking longingly at the exit when I move him between stalls, and walking manure-churning circles in his bedding, he’s not a problem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bedcheck update:
Commander was lying down when I arrived. He got up and looked horribly stiff. I let him move about, loosen up some, as he chose for a couple of minutes, then walked him across the aisle to the spare stall, circled it to turn, walked back, turned again and went back across the aisle, and he was moving waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay better when I took the halter off and let him go free over there – just needed to work out of the lying-down stiffness. He didn’t hesitate to follow me when I first asked him to move, either. It’s rainy, chilly, penetrating-damp weather around these parts, been so for the last few days, and I really do think that’s affecting the old man. He might could be a bit tentative still in his front feet, but he’s markedly better than at the midday check. Darn close to what had me feeling good Sunday and Monday.
Tomorrow is another day.
Oh, he wasn’t anywhere near the kind of distress I’d seen on Saturday; he was standing foursquare, taking good-sized steps, and not reluctant to move; but he was clearly feeling enough of an increase in discomfort to be stiffer in walking and turning on his forehand than yesterday. I hadn’t planned to put him out today in any case, given how wet it is; but for darn sure he wasn’t going to go out on a gravel drive and concrete run-in apron looking like that.
So off he went to an empty stall across the aisle, which he puttered around in between bouts of hay-munching; back to his stall, where the absentminded human realized it’s a lot easier to add a new bag of shavings to a mucked-out stall before you put the horse back in; over to the empty stall again; finally back home, where he dove into his hay. It seemed to me that he was moving somewhat better, in fact clearly better, by the fourth trip across the barn aisle, so perhaps some of his stiffness comes from being an older horse on stall confinement in damp, chilly weather; and I’ve noticed over the last few days that he also looks stiffer when he first gets up from lying down, so who knows how much of a role mere inactivity plays? – but that’s not the entire cause. The laminitis ain’t done with him yet.
Sigh. I suppose such setbacks are only to be expected. Hopefully when I see him tonight he’ll be back to looking “Just fine, thank you!” with the bute back in him. He’ll get a bedcheck dose; two doses again on Wednesday; then we’ll try again to cut back to one. I’ll also do a bit of handwalking in the barn to get the juices cautiously flowing on gentle footing.
The continued good news is that Commander’s bright-eyed, cheerful, eating and drinking well, sucking up his meds without a problem, in good weight, and shiny-coated. Ben is also handling his companion captivity pretty well; other than screaming for attention when I arrive, looking longingly at the exit when I move him between stalls, and walking manure-churning circles in his bedding, he’s not a problem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bedcheck update:
Commander was lying down when I arrived. He got up and looked horribly stiff. I let him move about, loosen up some, as he chose for a couple of minutes, then walked him across the aisle to the spare stall, circled it to turn, walked back, turned again and went back across the aisle, and he was moving waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay better when I took the halter off and let him go free over there – just needed to work out of the lying-down stiffness. He didn’t hesitate to follow me when I first asked him to move, either. It’s rainy, chilly, penetrating-damp weather around these parts, been so for the last few days, and I really do think that’s affecting the old man. He might could be a bit tentative still in his front feet, but he’s markedly better than at the midday check. Darn close to what had me feeling good Sunday and Monday.
Tomorrow is another day.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Monday Commander update
So what’s the report for today?
Last bute: 13 hours before.
Quality of movement: Free and easy.
Spirits: High.
He did get to go out for half an hour while I cleaned the stalls, and there were a couple of times on the walk down the drive that if it weren’t for the chain shank I think he’d have gone all boinky on me:
Horse: Head high, neck starting to snake, eyeing the human – “Ima feel good! Ima gonna...”
Human: “GrrrrrrrrrrNO!” *shank-twitch*
Horse: Subsiding – “Oh, well, if you put it like that. Say, there’s some grass over there! Howzabout we – Oh. You sure? Oh. Well, if you insist...”
Once he was there he settled down and alternated between eating hay in the run-in (standing on shavings-covered rubber mats) and face-fighting with Counterpoint. If he’s hyper about heading out tomorrow I won’t take a chance on him getting rambunctious but will turn right around and put him in an empty stall while cleaning his, rather than take a chance on his overdoing it while things are still fragile. Hopefully, if he keeps going the way he’s going, we can get back to dry-lot turnout as soon as the pads come off.
He got his midday bute and as usual inhaled it along with his pittance cup of grain. On his delighted vet’s advice, based on yesterday’s report, I will NOT be buting him tonight but instead will switch to once a day dosing, two days ahead of schedule, and we will see what we will see, but all in all I’m feeling:
Last bute: 13 hours before.
Quality of movement: Free and easy.
Spirits: High.
He did get to go out for half an hour while I cleaned the stalls, and there were a couple of times on the walk down the drive that if it weren’t for the chain shank I think he’d have gone all boinky on me:
Horse: Head high, neck starting to snake, eyeing the human – “Ima feel good! Ima gonna...”
Human: “GrrrrrrrrrrNO!” *shank-twitch*
Horse: Subsiding – “Oh, well, if you put it like that. Say, there’s some grass over there! Howzabout we – Oh. You sure? Oh. Well, if you insist...”
Once he was there he settled down and alternated between eating hay in the run-in (standing on shavings-covered rubber mats) and face-fighting with Counterpoint. If he’s hyper about heading out tomorrow I won’t take a chance on him getting rambunctious but will turn right around and put him in an empty stall while cleaning his, rather than take a chance on his overdoing it while things are still fragile. Hopefully, if he keeps going the way he’s going, we can get back to dry-lot turnout as soon as the pads come off.
He got his midday bute and as usual inhaled it along with his pittance cup of grain. On his delighted vet’s advice, based on yesterday’s report, I will NOT be buting him tonight but instead will switch to once a day dosing, two days ahead of schedule, and we will see what we will see, but all in all I’m feeling:
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