50 Feet, 50 Rounds

Haven’t had too many opportunities to go shooting over the last couple of months, but I made it to the range today, and was rewarded with an epiphany.

I was shooting the Woodsman, deliberately trying to be deliberate about shooting; slowing everything down, not rushing my shots. The shaky hand was producing the usual wandering results, even so, each time I pulled the trigger....

And then, with the next shot, something happened. I did not pull the trigger. I squeezed it. Just slowly squeezed, let the firing happen when it happened rather than as a conscious act when the wavering aim intersected the bullseye.

And by damn if it didn’t go right where I wanted. WOOT!

I put up a new target and shot a couple dozen more rounds trying to recapture what I’d done. Not every shot was a squeeze rather than a pull, but by golly! I was getting the feel of it, and getting much better results.

I put the Woodsman away and took out the CZ Lux, ran the target out to 50 feet (beyond that I have trouble seeing it clearly – curse these aging eyes!), loaded the first five of 50 rounds, and with mindful deliberation sought the squeeze.

Again, not every shot was as pure a squeeze, as innocent of pull, as I wished; but I’d say the results speak for themselves, eh?

For Memorial Day

In remembrance of all those in all nations who sacrificed in service to what they held as a greater good:



And again, this time in honor too of those who defied a senseless act of vandalism, the smashing of a cross that had stood for 86 years before the war memorial in Fredericton, New Brunswick, and thronged to honor their dead on Remembrance Day in 2009:

The Ben/Commander Report, 5/10

Yep, add Commander to the medical roundup, because he’s had another flare-up of the laminitis. He and Ben are both doing very well, but both confined to quarters for the next ten days.

 Commander was doing so well, so sound, in fact, that his turnout on the paddock had expanded to all day, 6:00-ish a.m. to 7:00 or 8:00 p.m. We hadn’t had a lick of rain for three months and the grazed-down stubble he picked at did him no harm. Then we did get rain over the last couple of weeks, enough to kick-start the grass to greening up; Commander diligently worked the edges of the fencing, even kneeling to reach under the bottom strand of electric wire for that extra mouthful of the lush stuff just outside the paddock; and apparently that little bit of extra sugar was enough to trigger another flare-up.

It may have been brewing for a few days before, but it became apparent on Sunday afternoon, when I spotted him toe-pointing in front and breathing hard. Check front feet – warm! Way too much warmer than the hind. So in he went to his well-bedded stall. After consulting the on-call vet I started him on bute; by that evening his feet were back to cool and he was back to looking unfazed by foot pain.

Monday: cool feet, moving fine; bute at midday and evening. Tuesday: cool feet, moving normally, busting down the stall door to go out, so out he went for an hour to the run-in (no grassy paddock, grazed down or not) while his stall was cleaned. He looked so good at suppertime I withheld the bute.

Wednesday: cool feet, but no longer busting down the stall door, and when I tried leading him out he was subdued, not eager, so we turned back before we got halfway to the run-in. He went back on twice-daily bute, even though he looked fine at suppertime.

Today: Vet check for both boys, and Kelly said if you didn’t know Commander’s history you wouldn’t think anything was wrong with him. Still, to be safe, we’re keeping him on a schedule of gradually diminishing anti-inflammatories; keeping him on stall rest for ten more days (a week plus a few extra days to recover from getting reshod next Wednesday); then carefully calibrated turnout. All subject to change if he tells us so. But I’ve seen him much worse than this and bounce back.

Meanwhile, Ben stays sane, quiet, and slowly but surely healing his ligaments. Kelly’s assistant trotted him out for us and this time he looked within a whisker of normal. We can reduce his Previcox to half a tablet, up his handwalking some, and start graduated turnout when Commander’s starts. I expect we’ll dose him with Ace (horsey Valium, if you’re wondering) the first few times so he doesn’t boink himself into a setback.

Is that little black cloud over my head, that thickened so on Sunday, beginning to thin a wee bit?

 

The Ben Report, 4/30: The Joy of Placid

Ben is placid. Placid, placid, placid. Calm, quiet, laidback, easygoing, mild-mannered, relaxed. Placid.

Which is a darn good thing because he’s going to need every scrap of placidity to retain his and my sanity for the next couple of months.

He got vet-checked on Friday, and the assessment was good: Some pitting edema and heat still present, but coming along very well. Kelly had her assistant trot him a few steps in the driveway and you could see he wasn’t right, but he wasn’t blatantly wrong.

Now, Friday was viciously windy and not very warm. There’s Ben, being led out from long confinement by someone he doesn’t know well and asked to trot into and away from biting wind. A recipe for boinking bouncing joint-stressing capering disaster, right? Ben was blase through the whole thing. “Trot? Yeh, whatever. Stop? No problem. Stand here? Fine by me.”

 So, that’s the good news. The bad news? He still has to stay imprisoned for at least another month. Oh, his out of the slammer time has increased from a few minutes’ hand-grazing while I hose his fetlock to small amounts of hand-walking. Five whole minutes per day for the first week! Up to ten next week! Woo-hoo! Continue the Previcox, continue the Surpass, continue the cold hosing. Re-vet-check in four weeks, and if all systems are still go, then we can maybe think about allowing him some turnout at last, at long last!

 Turnout: Walking him down to the run-in and closing him into one of the stalls thereof, with Commander confined in the area in front of and beside the shed so he can’t get out of Ben’s sight, thus sending the big doofus into a frenzy of abandonment terror. Turnout in there for maybe an hour at first. Because, as calm, as easygoing, as placid as he is, when he’s finally let off the lead, even if it’s only into 20 feet by 30 of freedom, he’s gonna boink. I know him, and I know it. But at least he’ll get some fresh air, some time outside the barn, some mutual grooming and face-fighting good times with his good buddy Commander.

 In the meantime, we walk. Saturday and Sunday, the wind continued biting and Ben continued calm – eager to go, to look all around, to inhale the outside air, to stare greedily at the grass, but obediently earthbound. Our exciting routine is twice around the big bank barn, pause to cold-hose and gobble grass; once or twice more around the barn, pause to hose and gobble again; back inside. I plan to increase the circuits gradually till we hit the magic ten-minute mark, then check with the vet about enlarging the time if Ben tolerates it well.

 Ben clearly enjoys these limited outings, even when he isn’t inhaling greenery. When I turn him up the slope to enter the barn he stops dead, looks mournfully at me, looks all around at the wonderful world he’s being dragged away from; I break his feet loose by turning him aside, then lead my placidly resigned horse back into captivity.

 And so it goes. Placidly.

 

The Ben Report, 4/21

Good. Very good. Really truly very good indeed.

Over the last three days the swelling in the fetlock has gone down to minimal; the heat has reduced to mildly elevated; and Ben's weight-bearing comfort on that leg has been solid. He was turning up his nose at his bute-laced beet pulp and sweet feed mash, so we switched him to one Previcox tablet per day on the 19th. He eats it in a bit of sweet feed from my hand and is doing just fine on it.

I've been able to extend Commander's turnout to a full eight hours, from midday to around 8:00 p.m., without either of them having a meltdown over the separation. I was even able to take Commander out for a short ride along the edge of the hayfields today, yay!

Roxanne and the girls have come over on Wednesday and Friday to groom the boys, fuss over them, and stuff them with carrots, which I'm sure they both enjoyed greatly.

I expect this is still the end of Ben's career as a riding horse, but as long as he's paddock sound and happy, I'm fine with that.

The Ben Report, 4/18

Midday found the Benster bright-eyed, cheerful, and standing foursquare and at ease. There’s still some swelling in and above the right hind fetlock, firm and quite warm to the touch when I first checked him, but he moved without limping.

Ben got about a dozen minutes of cold hosing; I quit then because after standing patiently for it while he nibbled grass, at that point he began scrunching up his leg as if trying to get away from discomfort; it seemed smarter to stop then rather than provoke some dancing-about escape attempts. The hosing reduced the swelling, and a half-hour plus later the edema was still diminished and the area was near-normal cool.

Ben was so calm I took a chance and put Commander outside while I cleaned his stall. Other than screeching when he saw his buddy taken out, Ben stayed reasonably relaxed for that, at least while I was in the barn mucking. He got upset again when I left the barn to bring Cholla and Counterpoint their grain, so I brought Commander back in then rather than leave him out and risk sending the Benster into a meltdown.

Ben’s temperature was normal, his appetite was good (though he was a bit dubious at first about his bute-laced mash; but he did eat it), and he got his Surpass rubbed into the fetlock.

Tonight: another hosing, another dose of bute, and another chance to study how he’s moving when I put him in a spare stall for mucking.

Tomorrow: a morning vet check and perhaps recalibration of plans going forward, depending on how he’s doing.

The future: still uncertain, but looking a whole lot better than it did 24 hours ago.

Well, so much for that

You may recall that last spring I climbed aboard Ben for a ride, and climbed off in a funk that left me wondering whether I’d ever get on him again. Since then, I’ve ridden Commander a few times, but never worked up the courage to try my big beautiful Thoroughbred once more.

But I’ve been feeling mighty tempted lately. Last evening, in fact, I looked at the forecast for today – sunny, upper 70’s, light breezes – and thought, well, this might be a good day to give it a whirl. Certainly get on and walk around the ring. Try a trot, why not? If he booms forward, put him into a circle and keep him too occupied with my aids to get silly. If it goes well, well.... maybe even a short canter? Maybe?

Maybe? Worth a try, surely. Who knows? I went to bed on that thought.

And was yanked out of sleep at 6:00-ish a.m. with a call: “Your horse is three-legged lame.”

When I got to the barn I found Ben in the run-in, pointing his right hind toe and not wanting to move. Patiently, slowly, I got him hopping-hobbling up the driveway to his stall; soaked his presumably abscessed foot with the hot water I’d brought from home; and left him settled in with plenty of hay to go home and wait for the callback from the vet’s office on when they could come see him. No bute or Banamine till the vet has examined Ben.

An hour or so later I got a call: Ben’s pawing the barn down. Solution: bring Commander in to keep him company. A short time later: he’s still pawing the barn down. Must be pain, not absent-buddy angst. I called the vet’s and got approval to get some bute into him, fetched it, and went back to the barn to give Ben another soak and two grams of bute.

I found Ben lying down on his right side, which is where I administered the bute to him – well, whatever paste didn’t spew out with the hay quid he’d been holding, or smear along his face when he twisted his head away; but by golly he got at least two grams eventually. I was worried: Would Ben be able to get back to his feet, especially with the bad leg having to do a lot of the pushing? It was ugly, but he did it. Still toe-pointing. After a while the bute seemed to take hold and he began gingerly, occasionally easing the foot back toward flat, though never fully weight-bearing.

Ben let me pick his foot up and stick it into a bucket of hot water and Epsom salts, but as I did so I noticed that what had been barely discernable puffiness around his fetlock a few hours earlier was now frank edema from the joint up half a dozen inches on the back and sides of the cannon. Oh, crap. This isn’t looking like an abscess; this is looking like a tendon injury. I let the vet’s office know we had something potentially more serious facing us.

When the vet arrived she did several X- rays as well as palpating the area. Good news: No signs of a break in or near the joint. Bad news: Ben has “torqued his suspensory”. He’ll need to be on complete stall rest for at least five, probably ten or even more days; be on a regimen of bute; and apply a topical analgesic, Surpass, daily to the area (be sure to wear gloves!). Oh, and ice the area twice a day while I’m at it.

And, given how codependent he is with Commander, the mighty Morgan will have to join him in the barn to keep him calm, at least for the first several days. Great.

Oh, and the vet confirmed my fears that this injury most likely means the end of Ben’s riding career. Great. Not that I was planning anything strenuous for the future even if our ride today had gone well, but.... Crap.

At least, by the time I left the barn, Ben was feeling the combined effects of the bute and Surpass and was putting that right hind nearly or fully flat for encouraging amounts of time. Let's hope he recovers to paddock sound without difficulty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Update:

Just back from settling the boys for the night and here’s what I found when I looked in on Ben:

He was standing hipshot, his left hind toe-cocked.

His left hind. HIS LEFT HIND. He was letting his injured right hind take the weight.

When he moved, he moved with almost normal freedom. He was quietly perky and happy. He’d devoured every scrap of hay, sucked down two full buckets of water, since I’d left them around 2:00, and he was looking for more, please!

Okay, yes, okay, he’s got a metric buttload of bute aboard, plus that insanely effective topical analgesic. And the edema is still present – firm and smooth, not particularly warm to the touch.

But still! What a world of difference from the pathetic hobbling creature of this morning.

I begin to nourish hope.

Commander is a Star

The mighty Morgan got to play kid’s pony last Saturday, and he rocked. The ring at the barn is unfenced and has lots of yummy tempting grass growing up through the crushed clamshell surface, so we did the ride in the fenced and grassless paddock behind the run-in. Given Faith's small stature and limited riding experience, it seemed safer to start with Commander being led by Faith’s mother, Roxanne.



That went just fine, so we moved to the longe line with me. Commander obviously knows all about longe lines and did his part like the good doobie he is.



So far so good; and finally Faith soloed. Commander was on his best behavior throughout, and carried his tiny burden with polite pride.



We did try a short trot on the lead line but it was quickly clear that Faith couldn’t handle Commander’s trot (quite a step up from a schoolie pony trot, I’d imagine), so after that we stuck to the walk.

Both Ben and Commander got groomed before the ride, and both boys inhaled the attention.



Even with a mounting block Faith could barely reach Ben's topline.



Commander was much easier for her; it's amazing, the difference a mere hand of height makes.



A good horse is a treasure; a good kid's horse is a pearl beyond price.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so, today, Faith was back for more -- this time, not only with her mother in tow but with her older sister as well. Patrina is about two years older and maybe four, five inches taller, still a slender thing, like her little sister still more child than teenager. Patrina’s never ridden before except on pony-ride type little things, never been much interested in horses, but after the two girls had fun grooming Ben and Commander we saddled up the mighty Morgan and put Patrina up, with Faith leading them (and me walking with them till it was clear Commander would listen to Faith).

All three of them had a blast. The mighty Morgan led with unfailing politeness, Faith even got Commander to do some trotting, Patrina loved loved LOVED it all, and Commander was very proud of himself. By the time the older sister got off she was talking about starting riding lessons and definitely wants to come back to groom and ride again. Ha HA!! I do believe we’ve hooked another horse addict.

Then Faith mounted the long-suffering Morgan (Commander: “What? I thought we were done! Where’s my cookies? Oh, well, if you insist....”) and ambled about the paddock. She ventured a trot, I corrected her position and suggested she let the reins slip rather than using them to balance with, and by golly! She did a clearly better job of riding his trot today. And he clearly was more comfortable with her revised ride of his little jog (I know he can trot bigger than that, but it was just right for packing a kid in a small paddock). After some more walking and little jog-trots, it was time for them to go – but not until Commander (and Ben) got thank-you cookies plus hugs and kisses.

No, no photos; I didn’t have my camera along. Roxanne, the girls’ mother, took some of Patrina aboard with her phone but she’s not quite sure how to download them to her computer so I have no idea when I’ll ever get them. I’ll definitely bring the camera along next time, since there definitely will be another time -- likely a lot of other times.

Commander finished the visit visibly pleased with himself, and rightfully so. Both boys are really enjoying all this attention. It’s amusing, watching two small girls maneuvering the large Morgan and giant Thoroughbred around and the large/giant horses placidly complying. What a pearl beyond price a good horse is, huh? Can't say it enough -- Commander is a STAR.

Genesis of a Photographer

I love photography -- love to see it well done, love to try to do it well. At age 63 I'm getting reasonably good at it and continuing to learn to do it better. I'll never be in the same league as really gifted photographers, but I'm happy with the progress I've made.

How far back does the shutterbug go? Way, way back to my gawky awkward teens, when I found a battered old black and white camera in the attic. It was all manual, not a bit of auto this or that; there was a flaw in its innards that left streaks on the negatives and thus the images; I had to learn how to use a handheld light meter and dial in all the settings; but I persisted, and had fun.

Some time ago I was digging through some boxes on a dusty shelf and came across a collection of ancient photos. Among them were a handful of small prints from my first photographic forays. I looked through them, and.......

Well, by golly, the images weren't that bad. Not too shabby, at all. And the same sorts of things that intrigue me today -- the interplay of light and shadow, textures, geometric harmonies of the natural world, portraiture of our animal companions -- they were all there.

Like this, taken along the edge of the pond across the street from our house:



There was an old apple tree along that bit of shore, and I tried different angles on it:



You can clearly see the negative scratches across the tree trunk in this one:



I really like this one:



Light and dark, geometry, cats -- it was all there already, way back when:



Capturing the moment:



Capturing the soul:

Quick update on Commander

He's doing great! Had an off-and-on ouchy winter but now Commander’s bounced back and for the last several weeks has been thriving. His turnout has grown from a low of just an hour a day when he was sore in front, to a stretch from midday to 7:00 p.m., then expanding a couple of weeks ago to all day, 6:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.; and yesterday the vet okayed 24/7 turnout. So in the evening, instead of bringing the boys into their stalls for the night, they were fed supper outside and left there. I’ll be looking for any sign that this is too much, but the mighty mite’s been doing really well lately.

The boys have free access to the square paddock off the run-in all the time now and I plan to keep it that way as spring advances so that the grass never has a chance to get established, let alone lush; let them keep it nibbled down to pathetic nubbins and hopefully it will be safe for Commander while giving him and Ben the illusion of grazing. I’m resigned to their not going onto the fields at all this year; it’s just not worth the risk of another laminitis flareup, and they have plenty of room to putter about and be happy.

The boys also have a pet teenage girl now; a 13-year old from across the street (with supervising mother in tow) has begun visiting them on Sundays, to groom and pamper them. The vet has okayed riding Commander (within obvious limits, of course), so I’ll be puttering around a bit on him and letting Faith get on him also – on a leadline to begin with since she’s only been riding for a year, taking lessons at a nearby hunter/jumper barn on their schoolies.

Faith is a tiny little thing, still really a child rather than an adolescent, needs the mounting block to reach the boys’ backs when she grooms them, and no way would she be able to stop Mr. Test-The-Limits Smartypants from taking advantage of her, right? Especially given the ring at Alprilla has no fence around it, and the surface is crushed clamshells with much sprouting of grass scattered through it. So we will start her riding sessions with me leading Commander, and if I decide it’s safe to let her go solo I will probably put an overcheck on the mighty Morgan to prevent him from yanking the reins away from her when he decides to dive for grass. But we’ll see how that works out. Ben and Commander certainly have enjoyed their pampering sessions, and Faith adores them both.

Commander’s already almost shed out and all shiny and sassy. Ben's not far behind. Life is springtime good.

Spring Fever

It seems a bit odd to be burbling on about spring fever, after a winter so lacking in wintriness. Ever since the shocker snowstorm of October, we've been devoid of the white stuff here in coastal Massachusetts north of Boston. We finally had some pathetic few inches of the stuff last week, but even that got mostly rained away on the tail end of the storm. Shriveled scraps of dirty whiteness linger here and there in sheltered spots, but with temperatures climbing toward 60 in the next day or two, they're not long for this world.

And speaking of temperatures -- what's left to say? Unseasonably warm to barely chilly, a spot of real cold now and then, but mostly so mild that outdoor horse chores have been far from the usual frigid misery of our typical January and February. It's hard to get excited about SPRING!!!! when the winter's barely noticeable.

Well, it's hard for me. For the horses, however....

The horses know. The horses feel the sap of SPRING!! rushing through their great bodies to their brains. The itch of spring burrows into their plush winter coats. Itch... must shed... itch... must shed... ITCH... MUST ROLL!



And when they rise from an orgy of rolling in all that lovely glutinous mud? Then what?

Then it's party time!



Ben goes for the fat flabby Thoroughbred version of airs above the ground.



He and his little buddy Commander advance to the pas de deux.



Allemande left and away we go!



Ungroomed, shaggy, mud-caked -- and magnificent in their gleeful glory.



A quick break for a quick drink (and yes, Ben is licking Commander's butt)....



Then Ben gets the good times rolling again.



Faces of happy spring fever horses -- Commander:



And Ben:

My heart will go on

And, the cardiologist says, it appears it will go on going on just fine with the magic medicine aboard.

After my second episode of tachycardia in half a year, I saw a cardiologist who put me on atenolol, scheduled me for an echocardiogram, and whom I’ve just seen for a followup appointment. Verdict: the echo was “fantastic”, today’s EKG was utterly normal, and it would seem I’m among the roughly 50 percent of patients for whom a beta blocker works like a charm to regulate heart rhythm (including, for me, the premature ventricular contractions I’ve been annoyed by for many years). The beats are running at about 70 per minute, a pleasantly healthy rate. Even walking up stairs doesn't jack up the rate the way it had been doing. Nothing to worry about.

So: See him again in five months, keep taking my tiny miracle pill, and be on my happily healthy way.

Yay!

Oh, and speaking of things that do my heart good, the latest from the range: Working on a smooth trigger squeeze, so sticking to an easy 30/40 feet, iron sights on the CZ Lux, standing, 50 rounds:

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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?

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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 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.

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:



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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 of 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.