Pictures of an Introduction

November 5 was the day Commander came to live with Ben at Alprilla Farm. A 19-year-old Morgan gelding, he was a "free to good home" adoption.

We introduced them with halters and lead ropes on at first, Rick -- Commander's then-owner -- holding Commander and me holding Ben. Commander did the squeal-strike a couple of times, which didn't seem to faze Ben at all; but mostly both horses were much more interested in the hay piles scattered liberally around the paddock. So after a bit we took their halters off and left them to their own devices.

Left to their own devices, they ate hay. Commander puttered about a bit, sampled what grass there was, and decided the hay was better. Ben ate hay. They migrated from pile to pile, and when one happened to pass near the other, there was mutual surveying before both went back to the important business of eating hay.



They didn't seem tense, just curious. Both boys are mid to late teens and both have been around the block a few times.



Sometimes they got quite close, and seemed quite relaxed about the whole thing. Curious, but relaxed.



They actually did eat from the same hay pile once or twice, though mostly they stuck to separate tables.



Rick and his girlfriend Carol stayed for quite a while, making sure all would be well and enjoying the sight of their good old buddy settling into his new life. Finally, Rick said goodbye.



When the truck and trailer pulled out to the road and drove away, Commander galloped to the corner of the paddock nearest to the road and neighed, then watched till the rig was out of sight.

Then he returned to eating hay.

So how well did the two boys get along as the day progressed? Observe Ben thoughtfully, experimentally come up behind Commander and thoughtfully, experimentally chomp down on Commander's tailhead:



Can you believe it? Ben, what are you thinking?!? Here, let's zoom in for a closeup of this madness:



So what happened?!?

Commander flicked his ears back as I yelled at Ben.



Then..................................

Commander, never letting go of his mouthful of hay, walked away.



Meanwhile, the white boys were watching this with undisguised fascination. Whenever Commander went near the fence Counterpoint (a/k/a Herd King) especially was eager to sniff noses, never forgetting to be as studly as possible. Cholla hung back a bit, as befits his lower social status, but wanted to get acquainted too.



Have you noticed that every picture of Commander so far, he's got hay hanging out of his mouth?



"Wonder what they're saying about me?"



In fact, the toughest part for Commander of this whole introduction thing turned out to be trying to get a drink of water -- Counterpoint seized the opportunity to get some nose-to-nose contact, kept blocking poor Commander's access to the water, till finally I climbed into the white boys' side and distracted Counterpoint long enough for the new guy to get his drink.









Eventually Ben and Commander went into the run-in.



We'd wondered whether there'd be competition, dog-in-the-mangering, conflict.

Nope. Other than Commander moving away if Ben moved toward him, they hung out and ate peaceably.



So life goes on at Alprilla Farm, with one happily settled in newcomer, who knows the value of a good mouthful of hay.

The joys of colonoscopy prep

It's changed somewhat in the eight years between my previous one and this evening's reaming out.

Eight years ago I had to choke down two little bottles of the single most nauseatingly vile stuff I have ever encountered. This time I've had to mix an entire bottle of a powdered laxative into 96 ounces of Gatorade (anything but red), which is far more

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palatable than the other stuff. Of course, I now associate Gatorade with colonoscopy prep, but fortunately it's not a drink I was a fan of before, so developing a distasteful association is no

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big deal. So here I am, quaffing my way through two 32-ounce jugs of the stuff, one eight-ounce glassful every 15 minutes, with the happy prospect of getting up at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow morning in

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order to gulp my way, at the same 15-minute intervals, through the last jugful. Then I get to wait till almost noon for the deed itself to be done. Which is probably the least unpleasant part of the whole process, since they knock you out for it and you don't remember a thing. I recall from last time, I was chatting with the nurse as she got me positioned, then I was asking her "So when does it start?" and she laughed and

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said, "It's already done." So if you can get through the prep, the procedure itself is a breeze.

Of course, I am not allowed to have any solid food today, and for several days preceding Prep Day it's recommended one avoid anything but low-residue foods. While the instruction sheet doesn't say this, it's a damned good idea NOT to try to load up with sustenance the day before no-food day because you WILL have to clear all that out, and the more

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that's in your system, the more that has to be flushed from your piping. I've been on a low-residue diet for weeks now because of my gastric problems and have had to do liquid fast days now and then, so it wasn't all that difficult to simply dial my

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intake back a bit farther. Yesterday, in fact, was a ratcheting-down day of egg whites in broth, yogurt, and jello, all in small quantities, so today's colonic cleansing isn't too dreadful. Too bad I didn't

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know these things for my first colonoscopy! That prep was miserable for more than just the disgusting

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vile nasty stuff I had to drink -- and no, mixing it into apple juice, as one well-meaning friend suggested, didn't help one bit! So all in all, this isn't so bad.

At least it's better than

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a sharp stick in the eye.

Riders on Crane's Beach

Whatever the gait, the going on Crane's Beach in Horse Season (October 1st through March 31st) is mighty fine, and the region's riders make the most of it.

People hack out alone:



They ride out in pairs -- oh, what fun it is to ride the beach with a friend!





And they ride out in groups.





It's fun for the whole family (if the whole family rides):





Here are some favorite images from my photography forays. I love this pair -- the pony is such a sturdy, steady fellow.



Simultaneous nose-itches:



(This next one is now my horse! Given to me as a good home):



A pair who obviously trust each other very much:



Some of the horses find the water fascinating:



Synchronicity:





And finally, the gallop -- oh, yes, you've been waiting for the gallop, haven't you?

An odd thought while pushing a wheelbarrow

It was, I think, the third, perhaps fourth wheelbarrow load I'd pushed out from the barn to the manure pile. I was nearly there when a thought popped into my head:

"I feel better."

Just that: "I feel better."

I've been suffering from digestive problems for several months now. Stretches of decent health have alternated with stretches of more or less considerable misery. A colonoscopy is scheduled for mid-January to see what the heck is going on in there. In the last week the misery has ratcheted up and expanded its repertoire. Going once again from solid food to clear liquids , yogurt and jello, and starting a new course of ciprofloxacin has done little to relieve the current discomfort.

So the sudden irruption in my mind of "I feel better" was surprising. I thought about that thought as I dumped the wheelbarrow, returned to the barn and continued mucking. Given that the belly discomfort was still niggling at me, it seemed an odd thought. And yet, it felt right. I realized that, for the first time in a couple of days, I wasn't tending (or fighting the tendency) to hunch over protectively. Wasn't wholly wrapped in a dull fog of inward focus.

Now, some several hours later, I continue to feel as if a measure of misery has dissipated. Oh, there's still enough of it bubbling in my gut to tell me things are not right, but incremental progress is better than none, eh?

Ponies in the snow! Having fun!

A few days ago we here in Massachusetts had our first real snow of the winter, and when I put Ben (Thoroughbred in blanket) and Commander (Morgan) out the next day, they wasted no time in enjoying the fluffy white stuff. Ben waded about, nosing through the unblemished powder:



"What is this stuff?" (You'd think he'd know by now, having lived through 17 winters, but he's not the brightest bulb on the tree.) "How does it taste?"



Commander, having paused by the run-in to grab his usual mouthful of hay, headed out to see what all the excitement was.



Ignoring the silly Thoroughbred boinking about, he headed past...



...till he'd found just the right spot to drop...



... and roll, and wallow, and roll:



Ben decided that was a great idea.



Wheeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



Wallow wallow wallow:



Wheeeeeeeee me too! Said Ben.



Shake it up, baby!



Feeling mighty fine!



"Hey, Ben -- you coming?"



"Comin' at ya!"



Yeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!



Shake it, baby!



Hey there, how ya doin?



There's something about playing in the snow that brings out the ATTITUDE in even the mildest-mannered of horses.



And so I leave you with one last ponypic, and wish you a happy holiday and an even happier new year.

The Pied Piper of Alprilla Farm

That would be me.

This afternoon I found Counterpoint and Cholla lazing about the run-in while Ben pecked at the triage paddock. After completing my chores and bug-spraying Ben I led him out to his field, unhaltered him, and watched him set to on the grass near the ring. The C-boys trickled out to the lane, where they nibbled at the overgrazed, table-flat grass nubbins.

I noticed that, while the near-house field and the far field at the end of the lane were closed off, it appeared that the left-turn alley at the end of the lane, leading to the farthest field, was open. Why didn't the grayboys go out there? Was it because they were staying near Ben? I resolved to do something about it.

Interlude: For those of you unfamiliar with the landscape of which I speak, herewith a visual aid, taken back in May, when Ben was in with the other two. To Counterpoint's left is Ben's little triage paddock; directly above him is the gate to Ben's field. Above that, across the field, you can see a gap in the far fence; that is the gateway which leads to the farthest field, when it's open to Ben's side of the complex. Toward the top right, at the end of the lane, rightward of where that solitary large bush sits, is the gateway to the C-boys' farther field, and the left-hand turn into the fenced-in alley leading to the farthest field. That alley can be gated shut near the Benside gate.

Got that? Good; then scroll below the photo and on with my tale.


So I went into the lane, halter and leadrope over my shoulder in case I had to persuade them to move along, and walked up to and past first Cholla, then Counterpoint, offering a greeting and a face rub as I passed; then, a length or two beyond the Herd King, I turned back, beckoned, and said "Come on."

Counterpoint came on. Cholla followed.

We three continued down the lane, me - a length; Counterpoint - a length; Cholla. I turned the corner out of the lane, wondering how long they'd stay with me. They kept coming. I walked the length of the alley, with them close behind. I walked out a few yards into the farthest field. They followed, with an expression of "Hey, look at all this tall grass! Who'da thunk?" and dropped their heads to gobble.

Ben, meanwhile, was horrified that we were all leaving him behind. He rushed up to the closed gate between his field and the farthest field, a look of "What? Wait! Where are you going?!?" on his face. Reassured by the sight of the C-boys grazing just beyond the fence, he dropped his head into a part of his field he had heretofore left ungrazed and set to mowing.

By the time I left some several minutes later, Cholla had grazed his way toward the center of the fresh field; Counterpoint was working his way along the edge of the ditch on the outer edge; and Ben's muzzle was buried in grass up close to the boundary.

Oh, by the way, here's a look at that same area in late July, after yet another of this dour summer's flooding rains:

My (not so) Little Pony's Spring Fling

There's a guy in my life I'm a devoted slave to. I serve his every need, fulfill his every whim, and gladly support his idle butt.

A very handsome butt, I might add, the culmination of 16.1 hands of beautiful bay Thoroughbred. He's aging (but then, so am I), not as spry as he used to be (ditto), and content to putter where once he galloped (ditto ditto). He's been my boy, my responsibility, my pride and joy, for eight years now. I board him at a friend's farm near my home and do the daily chores that horses demand. It's a lot of work, an unending commitment, and entails a fair amount of heavy lifting, but I wouldn't give it up for the world.

Besides the physical exercise, the mental refreshment is essential for my wellbeing. Taking time out from a deskbound occupation as a proofreader of often dry, dense, and tedious material to shovel real instead of metaphorical manure is a tonic for the soul. Mucking out a stall has multiple benefits: it leaves the mind free to ponder, in undistracted quiet, whatever that mind may wander to; it offers physical activity that tones the body without overwhelming an aging and creaky frame; and when it's done and the once-swamplike stall is clean and neat and Just. So. -- well, there's real satisfaction in that.

One of the pleasures of owning horses is watching them at liberty. Their behavior, as individuals and as part of a herd, is endlessly fascinating. Horses do not dissemble; once you can read their body language, you know what they're thinking, how they're feeling. Their wants and needs are simple, and easily met: Give them amicable companions, clean fresh water, a safe open space to move about, and good stuff to eat, and they are content. The transition from a winter diet of hay to the succulent new shoots of spring grass is a special treat for them, one which must be sparingly doled out at first lest they overindulge and make themselves sick. So when, this past spring, my Ben and his two companions had their first day out on grass, it was a joyous occasion.

The horses weren't let out into the fields themselves, as the new grass was still just poking its way up and could be ruined by too much traffic, to soon grazing. So the boys went out into what we call the lane, their access to the adjoining fields oncstraied by electric tape gates. Somehow, they managed to slake their hunger for GRASS!!!!



Ben, the bay, found plenty to occupy himself devouring. His grubby companion, Cholla (who never met a mud puddle he didn't like for rolling, wallowing, and generally filthifying himself) also dug in. Life was good.



The birds were happy to have the horses out on the grass, stirring up insects which our avian friends could gobble up. And yes, I have indeed seen birds perching on the horses' backs now and then.



There was just one teensy little problem in Paradise: Counterpoint, the Herd King, who considers it his duty to keep Ben and Cholla apart -- why, I don't know, since they got along fine when Himself isn't around -- felt compelled to rush over to break them up.



Ben, being no fool, fled.



Now, it's embarrassing enough to get rousted; but to have it happen in front of a snickering barn cat -- oh, the humiliation!



Nutmeg, the barn cat, proceeded to ROFLHAO.



Counterpoint, satisfied that Order Had Been Restored, turned away from his pursuit.



And so everyone got back to the business at hand: Eating. Eating GRASS.



Too soon, too soon, it was time to bring the horses in off the grass, to wait till tomorrow for their next feast. Was Ben wistful as he looked out over the once and again forbidden Paradise?