Gentle Giants

"Gentle giants" -- that's a term commonly applied to draft horses. They are massive, true, though some breeds are no taller than many riding horses; but the largest among them are awesome, almost overpowering in their physical presence when you are close to them and can measure your own puny insignificance against their immense height and girth, their unimaginable strength. If they wished to, they could crush you like a bug.

And yet they don't. Though draft horses, like any other equine, can rebel against their human handlers, or panic and bolt (as a team did in Iowa during a July 4th parade, with tragic results), mostly they bear patiently with the small two-legs that buzz about them, commanding their obedience and ordering their lives.

It is fortunate for humanity that they are so biddable, and not just in terms of safe handling. For most of recorded history draft horses have pulled the plows and wagons of agriculture and transport, skidded logs out of the forest, hauled ore from the mineheads, mowed fields for the hay that fed them through the winter, dragged graders down dirt roads, and in multitudes of ways powered the human milieu that selectively bred them to their massive greatness.

Today, of course, draft horses are irrelevant to the functioning of society. The internal combustion engine put paid to their usefulness in almost every sphere. There are those who still use them for logging; folks like the Amish still use them for agriculture; but by and large, their day as the motive force for civilization is done.

Most people, if they think of them at all, think of the Budweiser Clydesdales. Though the best known of promotional hitches, they're not the only ones. I've seen up close and personal the Hallamore Hitch, a team of eight Clydesdales who pull a gigantic antique wagon at fairs, expositions and parades across the Northeast. I've stood in the stands at the Topsfield Fair, mere feet from the team as they trotted past, harness jingling, wagon wheels rumbling, feathers at their fetlocks floating, and felt the floor beneath me shudder with the seismic power of their thundering hooves.

It's at agricultural fairs and farm shows that you'll also find an old amusement of rural America still alive and thriving: horsepulling -- where a team of horses is hitched to a given weight and must pull it a given distance. It's uncommonly exciting:

The contest is run one of two ways: using a dynamometer, a machine used to measure horsepower, or with weights on a stone boat or sled. A horse pull is an elimination contest, with successful teams moving on to the next round until there are only two teams left. The winner of the last round is declared champion.

Horses must stay within the boundary lines drawn in the dirt or will be disqualified from the round. Hookers are assistants whose job it is to hook the horses to the sled or the dynamometer. Once they have done this they are required to stand back and not speak to the horses or drivers. It is against the rules to slap the horses with the lines or strike them in any way.

If you've never watched a horse pull you owe yourself the experience. To witness the power of these 2000-pound animals strain against the harness and pull thousands of pounds of dead weight twenty-seven and a half feet (the official distance) is an amazing sight.

Outside of such venues, though, one doesn't often see the gentle giants of the draft world. But there's a farm near where I live that boards horses, and last fall I had the privilege of photographing two massive buddies in their field.

The gelding is a Belgian, one of the more popular draft breeds; a friend of mine, in fact, for many years had a Belgian which she used for trail riding. I saw him standing out in the field, enjoying the mild autumn day.



With him was a mare, almost as large as her large protector.



What was the mare's breeding? Her mane and forelock were as long as a Friesian's but she did not look like a purebred.



They eyed me for a while, perhaps wondering what I wanted and what it might mean for them. Finally they decided to come investigate -- or rather, the gelding did, and his friend followed.



All the while I was observing them the mare, shy and wary, kept the gelding between us. Or perhaps it was the Belgian who made sure to stay between his companion and any possible threat.



Was she curious? Yes. Willing to approach the stranger? No. But still.... curious.



The Belgian clealry was most tenderly attached to his lady, and made frequent small gestures of affection.



I do not know, will never know, the mare's history; but at some point in her life, she was no more than a number to the human(s) who owned her and branded her number 35.



Whatever her past, her present was easy, comfortable, and happy. The eyes that watched me cautiously held no terror of the human, only a shy hesitancy.



Are draft horses' heads big and boxy? Yes; they're a far cry from the delicate elegance of, say, the Arabian. But they have their own majestic beauty.



And their eyes are as lovely as any equine's, anywhere.

Commander Updates

Update from June 16:

He's doing quite well. The wound is filling in nicely, and today we graduated from being wrapped to unwrapped, just spritzed with that silvery aluminum stuff. I'm to cold-hose it and re-spritz it every day, call the vet to update in a couple of days, and turn him out pretty much as usual starting tomorrow. He's still on Uniprim, will be for another few days.

Commander's had a lot of stall rest and limited turnout, which he has tolerated pretty well. He has had a couple of releases into his field, a liberation which was greeted with mighty bucks and gleeful galloping. Despite the hijinks, he managed to get the bandage displaced only once during the course of his treatment. But then, it was a very good job, done daily at first, then every other day:



Another view:



The one time he did dislodge it, the top half worked down below his hock but went no farther, and I was able to cut it off with him standing loose in the field, grazing busily while I carefully snipped it free.

Ben has been content with barn confinement to keep Commander company. As long as he has hay he's happy. He's equally happy to hang out with Commander when they're out, nudging him to go wherever Ben thinks they ought to be. In the field, the two are usually grazing within a few feet of each other.





Update from today, June 21:

Things are inching toward resolution. Over the weekend I became concerned since the wound site, while no longer open or weeping, became puffed out. The skin edges looked fine; the uncovered flesh was a healthy pink; but over the course of three or four days since the bandage's removal, the area slowly grew from slightly raised to undersized-walnut size. Okay, more like pecan-sized. Bigger, anyway.

No exudate appeared. The area was firm, and except for one day, Saturday, when he picked up that leg a few times, Commander didn't react when I palpated around and on the enlarged area. Even firm pushes were ignored. He was also unfazed by my hosing followed by towelling off the area before applying the wound spray.

Consulted the vet on Sunday. We decided it might well be excessive granulation rather than continued infection. Since Commander finished his last dose of Uniprim on Saturday, we've chosen to leave well enough alone for now. Continue cold hosing, continue applying the aluminum spray, and watch the area. If there's still an infection lurking within, it will announce itself shortly.

So far, so good. Today the area was no larger. Might even have been a wee bit smaller, or perhaps that's simply wishful thinking. Still firm, clean, and not the least bit tender to touch. The wound edge looks healthy and the open area might could be a smidgen nearer to closing. Commander throughout has been totally sound on that leg, so I think we can discard any lingering worries about the infection getting into the hock joint.

And now -- pony pix! From the 15th, when he still had his bandage on. It's amazing, how they can find anything to graze upon in their thoroughly eaten-down paddock, but when the field is closed off, they do.



Behold the noble Morgan, in all his graceful majesty!

Commander decides to meet the new vet

Well, I'm sure he didn't consciously set out to garner an introduction to Kelly Butterworth, the newest member of SRH Veterinary's practice, but meet her he did this evening.

A couple of days ago, I spotted a small wound on the inside of Commander's right thigh, about an inch long vertically and maybe a third of an inch at its widest, about four or five inches above the hock. It had bled but stopped by the time I found it. I cleaned it, Betadined it, and spritzed it with that silvery wound spray. The boy was completely sound and unfazed by having it touched, so I figured, all right, skin scraped by a hoof kicking at flies, no biggie. He continued perfectly sound and un-ouchy, nothing dramatic, wound looking like healing okay.

But today, when I groomed him to ride, the wound was open and outpouching at the top, and oozing a bit of watery pus. Oh-oh. He moved with no trace of a limp, so I went ahead with the ride -- a short one; he and I both decided the mosquitos were too annoying to stay out long. Being ridden didn't bother him, nor did being palpated around it, but the look of the wound bothered me, so I called the vet. That was midday, and the veterinary dance card was, as one might expect, quite full, so after finishing my chores I went home to await The Call.

Commander finally was seen around 7:30 this evening, and sure enough, he needed that medical attention; Kelly diagnosed a puncture wound. The darned things can look utterly innocent and superficial, they seal over and all looks well; then infection burrows in and blows out. And so it was with Commander. So the boy got a bit of chemical calmer; Kelly cleaned, debrided, and irrigated the wound; and we finished the evening's entertainment with a leg wrap, a jar of Uniprim antibiotic to start feeding him, a recommendation to keep him stalled at least overnight, and another visit by Kelly scheduled for tomorrow, to check his soundness, treat the wound again, and decide where we go from here. He'll probably need to have it irrigated for several days. Since I can't rely on anyone at the farm to help me every day, and there's no way I'm going to try to irrigate a hind-leg wound in an unsedated horse by myself, I'll probably have to have Kelly come back and do it for me till she pronounces it healed well enough not to need further irrigation. Sigh..........

As it happens, I'd already intended to bring Ben and Commander in overnight and keep them in next morning, since it's forecast to rain, be chilly, and continue so through much of tomorrow. Commander would have been fine staying out were it not for his injury, since he has sense enough to come in out of the rain and lurk in the run-in; but Ben, dear sweet not-so-bright Ben will stand out in the pouring rain and cold till he's soaked to the skin and shivering miserably. And if Ben goes in, Commander has to go with him, or great lamentation and brouhaha will ensue.

Commander gobbled the mini-mash I made for his first dose of Uniprim; I should have no trouble getting it all into him. If he has to be stalled for a few days, Ben will probably have to stay in also, since they are so bonded -- okay, co-dependent -- and if I put Ben out Commander will likely pitch a fit at being left behind. Given how merciless the mosquitos have become lately, and how much Ben likes being inside, a few days' restriction to his capacious stall won't unduly oppress him. Commander will be less content with confinement, but as long as he has his buddy Ben across the aisle from him, he'll be okay. They have, and will have, plenty of hay to keep them occupied.

Oh, one other note: Kelly Butterworth has just recently joined the SRH Vet practice. She's a native of the area, and in her teenage years was a barn rat at Seven Acres when I first boarded my late, great QH Nick there. Nicky the Pickle -- she remembered him! With great fondness. She sort of remembered me too -- as the owner of Nick; that was my claim to fame. Yes, indeed, the Magnificent Pickle made a lasting impression on all who knew him. Especially the barn rats.

I Have Drapes!

When I moved into my condo, must be over a dozen years ago, the previous owners left behind at my request the drapes for the slider to the little deck off the master bedroom. They were a heavy plain off-white material, hauled open and shut with a pull cord at one side. They didn't thrill me, but neither did they bother me enough to replace. They built up cat hair over time, and took on a somewhat dingy aura, but year after year, they served their purpose: Open. Close. Open. Close.

Until one day, a couple of months ago, when I tugged on the pull cord and that end of the rod pulled right out of the wall. Unrepairably so; I had to take the entire thing down. Can't say I was sorry to bundle the whole tired mess into the trash; but now what? Can't have that expanse of glass uncurtained, not when it faces east, into the rising sun (oh, the horror for a night-owl late riser!), and with a clear view-shot from Linebrook Road into my bedroom.

So I researched drapery online -- fabrics, styles, and local purveyors of such; and found a fabric that I liked very much on the website of Calico Corners, which has a local outpost in North Beverly. There followed in rapid succession a visit to the shop for an in-hand view of the fabric, a retreat home with a swatch to plunk down here and there about my bedroom, a return to pick out backing cloth and hardware and place a provisional order, a home visit by the installer to measure, and a finalizing of the order.

And then: the wait for the drapes to be made. Six to eight weeks, I was told; and it turned out to be about seven. But at last they came in; at last the installer came out to hang them yesterday; and I HAVE DRAPES! And I love them.

In fact, they are even more gorgeous, even more JUST RIGHT for my bedroom than I had hoped. Here, take a look and see what I mean:



The walls are a pale peachy-gold sponged onto a developer-vanilla base. I wanted the Southwestern color palette to go with the decor, but not a pattern per se, just the suggestion. Here, take a closer look:



Such a variety of ways there are to make drapes! I wound up going for the simple pinch pleat, which I think works well with the subtle design of the fabric:



Picking the hardware was another excursion into a multitude of choices, but when I saw the finial for what became my choice, I knew I had a winner:



The installer did a meticulous job, in the process hiding the broken wallboard where the old rod had pulled loose. The drapes are lighter-weight than what they replace and slide easily. Open or closed, they just look so fine!

Over time they will, of course, acquire cat hair and dust and the familiarity that breeds, not contempt, but unmindful taking for granted. But for now, for the moment, I HAVE DRAPES and they delight me.

I ride on Crane's Beach!

Yes! On Sunday I rode my Morgan Commander on Crane's Beach, Ipswich.



Yes, it was as chilly and blustery as it looks, and it was around 6:00 p.m. (low tide was 5:30), so the daylight was fading. But the beach closes to horses on April 1st, and there's a mighty storm rolling up the coast, arriving today and planning to sit over New England and drench us for the next three days, so this was my one shot at it, thanks to a kind acquaintance.

Here is Cherie on her Morgan Mica:



I left my good cameras at home and took along a little point and shoot, so the image quality ain't so hot, but still we got some good ones, passing the camera back and forth.

This one's my favorite:



That's an Australian stock saddle I'm in; as out of riding shape as I am, I was taking no chances. Commander was on fire! He's been to the beach many times with his previous owner and he knew just where he was when we unloaded. He was good about being mounted, and followed Mica politely, but you could tell he was pumped to be there.

Going out he walked politely, and jogged easily when I asked (I didn't ask much since he's as out of shape as I am), but when we turned to go back, well, I had myself a little jigging machine under me. And yet, it was no big problem. He'd jigjogjigjog to catch up to Mica -- who is a much bigger walker than Commander and would pull ahead; I'd check him back to a walk; he'd walk, slowly fall behind, and jigjogjigjog up again. If I'd merely hinted at it, he'd have broken into a canter (I know his previous owner would gallop him sometimes on the way back) but he obeyed when I refused to go along with the idea.

He's such a blast to ride. Cherie's going to take poor trailerless me this summer to ride with her in the local state park, Bradley Palmer, and back to the beach next fall. Woo-hooooo!

Commander gets jealous

Jealous of Ben, that is. Jealous of Ben being ridden, and he himself not.

Which is amusing, since Commander has a lazy streak and will cheerfully suck out of a diligent effort if you let him get away with it. But then, once he determines you aren't taking "nuh-uh" for an answer, he'll work as hard as you ask him to, and not complain. So I suspect the tests of his rider's intent are more a game for him than a real disinclination to earn his easy keep.

But jealousy, how did he reveal that side of his increasingly intriguing personality? Because Ben's pet teenager, Rebecca, has come to visit the boys over the last two days. She's groomed them both and fussed over them both, but only ridden Ben each time.

And Commander has not been pleased. After all, hadn't he joined Ben in greeting Rebecca enthusiastically? Hadn't he revelled in her industrious grooming of the mud crusted on his coat, in her scrubbing away at the itchy fur he's shedding? Why, then, oh, why wouldn't she ride him too? He could see Ben being tacked up, right in front of him, since Rebecca did that outside in the run-in; he could see them working in the ring next to the run-in; he was right there when Rebecca brought the big lug back and untacked him and made a fuss over him.

Why did she then ignore him? Why wasn't it his turn then? It wasn't fair!

No, really, Rebecca told me that both days, after she was done with Ben, Commander stood right at the gate, facing out, waiting for his turn to go to work. It couldn't have been plainer what he was thinking if he'd been wearing a neon sign flashing "What about me?!?" Today I got to the barn just as Rebecca was leaving, and I can attest that Commander was still waiting with muted indignation. I grabbed his bridle, a saddle pad, a helmet, and the crop (I never have to use it but it's an effective visual aid with this guy), trotted down to the paddock, and sure enough, there stood Commander at the gate, still waiting to take his due turn at serving the humans. Unlike previous times when I've come to ride him, this time he stood still for bridling instead of pulling his initial slow-motion duck-away. I swear, he seemed relieved that someone, finally, was going to do right by him.

He stood politely while I flicked the saddle pad over his back and hopped aboard from the mounting rock (I'm getting better at it; getting into the neighborhood of graceful, even). We had an enjoyable little putter around the ring and he moved right out, the most forward he's been since I started barebacking him over the last few weeks. Maybe he was determined to show the world (or at least any handy human) that he deserves every bit as much attention as Ben.

This jealousy thing could be quite useful, I suspect.

This guy is a hoot, and gets hootier every day.

Euthanasia

I've had to euthanize several cats, and while it's always heartbreaking, in every case I knew it was the right decision, at the right time, which made it somewhat easier to bear.

The worst euthanasia decision I ever had to make was for my horse Nick. He was 23 years old and still in excellent health; his age was just beginning to show. He was spending the summer at a friend's farm in New Hampshire, and I'd been up to see him earlier and enjoyed what proved to be our last ride together. I'd planned to bring him home at the end of August, but Anne suggested leaving him with her for another couple of weeks to enjoy grazing relatively fly-free now that summer was over.

A few days before Nick was to be trailered home, I got one of those calls that kick you in the gut: "Nick's been hurt. Hurt bad. You need to get up here fast." A frantic two hours' drive later, I saw my horse: scraped and bruised from his struggle to regain his feet after somehow sliding under the electric wire down a small slope and getting cast on his back in a shallow swale. (We never figured out how it happened; perhaps it was a small stroke?) But that was superficial and not of concern.

What froze my heart was Nick's loss of sensation in his hind legs. He could move them, clumsily, but he couldn't feel them -- he'd lost all proprioception beyond his croup. He could walk, but with each step he swayed terrifyingly close to falling.

Anne's vet did what she could. We decided to see if he would heal, and when I left at last I clung to some shreds of hope through the leaden misery of replaying again and again in my mind what I'd seen.

For the next few days I kept in close touch with Anne. One night came another frantic call: "Nick's down in his stall and he can't get up. I'm getting help. Be ready to come up. Be ready to decide." That evening we almost made the decision. I waited by the phone, unable to leave immediately, knotted up in helpless worry. But Anne's neighbors came over and her vet joined the fight to get him back up; Nick tried, rested, tried again; the human crew who refused to give up on him inched this 1,000-pound animal over to the outside door of the stall, got his front legs out, pushed and heaved him farther, farther -- and Nick slid out, got up on all fours, and tottered off looking for grass. Anne phoned me, exhausted, triumphant, with the good news, and to report that her neighbors had joined the big red goofball's fan club.

But the joy from that rescue was fleeting. A couple of days later I drove up to meet Anne's vet at her farm to discuss what next. I walked down to where Nick was hanging out under the bank barn with Anne's two horses, the vet by his side. And I knew.

He was glad to see me and he gobbled the doughnut and horse cookies I'd brought him and he wanted his belly scratched (oh, how he loved having his belly scratched! He'd follow you around the paddock slinging his flank at you, demanding more) but he was weaker, I could see that, since the Sunday before when I'd last seen him. He was tired, tired of fighting to go on, and so wobbly he almost fell just moving into position to get his belly scratched.

The vet was so kind. Donna told me she'd seen a much younger horse with the same injury who'd never recovered and that I was right to let him go. She showed me the place on his spine where she believed the injury was. We started to lead him -- just with a rope around his neck, Nick was always such a good guy -- we were taking him up the slight slope to where I'd chosen to bury him if it came to that. He tried to follow me but halfway up he lost his balance backwards and sagged down. He folded rather than slamming down, lay on his side with his feet higher, picked up his head and tried, started to try to get up. I knelt by his head and comforted him and told him he didn't have to try any more and told him I loved him and he laid his head back down and trusted me and I stroked his face while the vet gave him the needle and he went so softly so gently he never even drew the harsh agonal last breath. Just... gone.

Anne was at work, distraught because I think she knew what I would decide when I saw Nick. I called her when I made the decision and again afterwards. Donna comforted me as best she could, stayed with me for quite a while afterwards talking and helping me deal with it. We covered his body with a dropcloth and I cut off keepsake strands of his mane and tail. After Donna left I stood leaning on the fence for a while, staring at Nick's body, and cried. Finally I got his tack into the car and drove to Concord where Anne was working and we cried on each other for a bit. And then I drove home.

That was in September 2005. I'm crying now, reliving it. He's buried in Anne's front field. I have a picture of him happily grazing on the spot that became his grave. I look at it every day.

Filth!

Filth.

Wallowing in filth.

Wallowing in filth till its foul glutinous slime encrusts every inch of the wallower.

Filth.

In other words, it's mud season, and the horses are making the most of it.

Ben isn't quite so bad as Commander, but only because he's still in a winter blanket, so he has to make do with layering the muck onto his periphery.



Still, he does his best to get down and dirty. It takes some serious wallowing to get his inner ear hair all crusty with dried mud, after all.



But the ear hair isn't Ben's proudest achievement in muckification. Oh, no. No, I'd say it's the gigantic globs of mud crusted in his coat and tangled in his mane that truly impress (or horrify, depending on whether one had any foolish hope of grooming him). Like this:



You've got to admit, that's some serious filth there, eh? And yet, if you holler and screech about what an unholy mess he is, and how the devil can I ever get you clean, he looks back at you with such uncomprehending innocence:



That string of mire beads in his forelock is a nice touch, wouldn't you say?



And then there's Commander. Commander, the hardy little Morgan whose thick coat needs no blanketing.

Whose long, thick, fuzzy coat is one hideous mass of dried, semi-dried, and still glutinous MUD.



True, he hasn't daubed and smeared his head as thoroughly as Ben, but then, I've never seen another horse as impassioned as Ben is about grinding his head into the dirt whenever he rolls.



Whew, that near side of Commander is truly gross and disgusting, isn't it? Perhaps his off side might be....



Um, no. No, it's just as bad, with an extra heaping serving of muck right where the saddle would sit if one could excavate far enough down to find his back.



So, I'd say Ben gets the concentrated filth prize, but Commander wins the overall muckification honors.

Commander gets wise to me

Today was another soft warm day, so I decided to ride the little guy again. This time when I entered the run-in paddock, bridle in hand, Commander looked at me, looked at the bridle, and made a slow-motion escape attempt. Ha! He's figured me out. Since he had nowhere to go (the run-in paddock being rather small, and the fields beyond being shut off as too muddy to let the boys out onto), his half-hearted rebellion fizzled out fast, and he resigned himself to his dreadful fate.

I got him to stand on a lower patch of ground next to the mounting rock this time, so the boarding process was somewhat closer to graceful than the last time. We did a bit of ringputter, then I dared to take him out into the wilderness. Yes! Out into the great beyond!

We headed out from the ring, out along the farm lane, out across the culvert, out past the knoll to the rise of ground on its far side. By golly, I believe we travelled as far as 60, maybe even 80 yards away! Commander was dubious about this mad venture into the unknown, what with the narrowing of the lane over the culvert, the water puddled along it, and the evil-looking grubby swathes of snow flanking our path, but when I refused to accept any sucking back he bravely went on. In fact, by the time we turned around he seemed relaxed and even intrigued by the new stuff to look at. I'll give him his due: He didn't try to rush when we headed homeward into safe familiarity, just pattered along on a loose rein at his usual rate.

Commander's a bit of a lazy boy, and would rather not work, if you don't mind; but if you do mind, he says okay then, I'll do it, and does it. I love Ben dearly, but he's a lot more work, needs a saddle, needs a warmup, and needs effort to ride his big elastic gaits. Commander's a no frills, no effort quick spin. If you've only got a few minutes to spare for some riding fun, he's perfect for it.

He's also polite about taking his Meadow Mints from your hand afterwards.

Today I rode Commander

Yes! Today I rode my fiery Morgan -- well, my fresh, not-worked-for-months Morgan -- okay, my laidback, yeh-whatever Morgan. It was a mild soft day (for February, anyway), so I figured, what the heck, just pop on his bridle and hop on bareback.

Yup, bareback on a horse that hadn't been worked for at least a couple of months. Bareback by a mostly sedentary over-60 rider whose primary exercise comes from mucking and wheelbarrow pushing. Who hasn't been on a horse for at least a couple of months, and hadn't done all that much riding for ages before then.

This is, shall we say, not exactly the smartest move one could make, eh? Indeed, my knees were a bit weak as I got going on my folly.

Commander wasn't thrilled to be taken away from his hay but he submitted to being bridled with patient good humor. He led quietly to the mounting rock, stood quietly next to it as I slung my leg over his broad back, and stayed quietly still as I lunge-leaped the few inches required to heave my body far enough across said broad back to get aboard. He actually waited till I was more or less centered and upright, in fact, before moving off at a sedate walk. I tell ya, if he'd wanted to dump me he'd have had no trouble; if the rock had been an inch or two lower, or his back an inch or two higher, I'd never have made it, and I am very glad there was no one there to point and laugh during the mounting scramble.

So, off we went, me grinning with silly triumph, Commander no doubt wondering what he'd done to deserve this. We ambled up around the barn to say hello to Noah, farm-son (Maria, farm-wife, was out for the day; Peter, farm-husband, as it turned out was inside and watching with bemusement) and to let him know that he need no longer be alert for any screams for help or dull thud followed by appearance of riderless horse. Then we ambled down to the ring and puttered about for several minutes.

We trotted! Okay, we jogged. Short distances. Commander has the most wonderful tiny jog-trot; it pit-pit-pits under you while you just sit there gliding along. It makes a riding lawnmower look like a rank bronc. When I'd tired of ringwork (ha! more like ringputter) I rode back up around the barn, jogged a bit in the driveway, then ambled back to in front of the paddock and slid off, praising my magnificent steed mightily.

Said steed took it as his due. He cheerfully followed me back into the paddock, amiably stood for the removal of his bridle, then went back to his hay -- Well, no. No, actually he stood facing the gate, looking at me expectantly. Waiting. Beaming a simple steady message at me: "I worked for you, now you reward me." Apparently neck skritches and verbal praise don't qualify. Fortunately, I had a stash of what would qualify in the barn, and once he got his horse cookies (Meadow Mints, to be exact) he decided the deal was complete and went back to his hay.

This guy is a hoot.

Update: And here we are!

One reason why my cats stay indoors

It's an eternal, no doubt unresolvable debate: Cats -- indoors only or allowed to roam? Mine never go out, for several reasons. One winter night, not too long ago, I was forcibly reminded of one of them.

I was at the farm, having given the horses their late feeding, and was standing by the paddock gate, listening to the faint far night cries of coyotes, when suddenly, seemingly much closer (the nearest hayfield? locating sounds is chancy at night), there was a burst of excited coyote yapping, two terrible shrieks of a cat -- then silence.

I yelled something after the first shriek, something really useful, like maybe "Hey!" which I daresay wasn't even heard by the predators, then walked out past the little pond and around the knoll in the moonlight, looking for -- what? The mangled remains of one of the barn cats, I suppose. Found nothing. All three of the barn cats were there the next day, and there are feral cats eking out an existence in the farm's fields. A walk in the next day's light around the knoll revealed no trace of whatever had happened the night before.

I still feel sad and a little sick whenever I think of it, and I think of it most nights when I do late feeding.

Roll out the barrel

Will be what I'll do tomorrow when I turn Ben out.

The weather was horrid today (as those of you who live near me are all too well aware), warmer than usual but lashed by high winds and driving rain starting around midday. After a few hours of huddling in the run-in, Ben, Commander, Counterpoint and Cholla were all glad in late afternoon to go into the barn and their warm dry hay-stocked stalls for the night. I'd put rain sheets on both Ben and Commander in the morning, in anticipation of the crappy weather, and when they came in I left the sheets on so they could dry on the backs of their four-legged clothes racks.

Tonight I whipped off Ben's rain sheet and thought "Hmmmmmmmmmm........ looking a bit rotund, are we?" Then instead of putting him back in the blue winter blanket he's been wearing for the bitter-cold weather, I grabbed his lighter-weight plaid blanket from the tack room, flung it over the mighty bay back, and began to do up the straps.

I had to let out the belly cross-straps and the leg straps. The boy's tubbed out. I'm sure there are ribs in there somewhere, but darned if I could find them when I ran my hands over his sides.

Sigh............ No more evening grain, just the morning's with the supplements, and I'll be cutting back even that small amount. It was only about three cups' worth at each meal, but down it goes to two, maybe one and a half. For both of the bay boys, since Commander has also gained weight since I got him. He's not a lardass like his big buddy, but it's best not to let him get any plumper.

Oddly enough, neither seemed to notice that they got only hay at tonight's late feeding, and not the usual grain ("Candy! Horsey crack cocaine!") in their bucket. One can only hope they continue to be bought off so easily.

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.