These boots may be working too well!

Why? Why on Earth would I say something like that? “Too well? You’re kidding, right?”

No, not kidding. Not when they’re working so well that yesterday Commander bolted when I was leading him, dragging me willy-nilly along on a Nantucket sleighride, dry land version.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me plod through the story preceding the wild climax, yes, at my usual length, but this time with pictures.

First, some photos of the boots themselves. Here’s a view of the outer side. You can see the opening along the side that lets air flow in to hold down the yuckiness buildup, and the rubber circlet that helps keep the Velcro end in place. There’s an inner strap that Velcros down forward onto the front flap; then the visible strap Velcros up over it. If the boots fit perfectly you wouldn’t be able to see any of the understrap.



And here’s a view of the inner side, helpfully without the S-R logo, so that one can be sure to put the right boot back on the right (or left, as the case may be) foot:



And here’s a view from the front. It’s hard to see in this picture, but the toe is rockered to make breakover easier.



What’s that you say? Is that my foundered horse with his face in grass? What’s up with that? Am I crazy?

What’s up with that is that I am giving Commander limited – and when I say “limited” I mean like maybe 45 minutes per day – turnout in the tiny-paddock-and-run-in area, which does have pathetic remnants of greenery along three sides. There isn’t much there to begin with, even reaching under the fence; it’s August and midday when the grass is most likely to be dormant, least likely to be churning out sugars; but yes, it does run the risk, however minuscule, of triggering another laminitic flareup.

And yet I have done it for the last few days and intend to continue doing it on nice days, hopefully even expanding his time out, so long as he’s comfortable. Why? Because he’s got to be able to go back into turnout. He can’t spend the rest of his life stuck in a stall. If he had to be locked away forever, never seeing sunshine and the outside world, never breathing fresh air, never chumming with Ben save through the bars of a stall front, it would be kinder to put him in the ground.

And so, starting Wednesday, I have been turning him out with Ben when I arrive for midday chores, and the two of them are loving it. The first day, they grazed at first, then interspersed that with fierce grooming sessions. After about half an hour I brought out their mashes and they spent the rest of the time in the run-in munching hay and schmoozing. Commander came back into the barn without fuss when chores were done and got tucked into his afternoon stall.

Thursday the routine repeated without incident. Friday I remembered to bring my camera along. Here are the boys, together and happy:



Ben tends to get nudgy about “Hey, let’s groom, okay? Wanna groom, huh?” while Commander is more single-minded about finding something green and good to eat.



Commander’s been thriving on his new liberty. Also quite comfortable despite the hardness of the surfaces he stands on out there: hardpacked stone dust, mat-covered concrete, and just plain concrete. He’s moving in the Soft-Ride boots with a freedom I hadn’t seen in quite a while. Even allowing for the lousy angle of this shot, you can see what big strides he’s taking:



What’s further heartening is that he’s picking up his knees in a normal stride now, rather than taking stiff straight-kneed steps. His whole body language in motion has changed.



He’s standing foursquare, not favoring one forefoot or the other.



Even standing downhill, so hard on a horse in pain from a rotated coffin bone, doesn’t faze Commander in the Soft-Ride boots:



Make that even standing downhill with one forefoot taking all the weight doesn’t faze Commander in the Soft-Ride boots!



But hey – *smacks forehead* -- I was supposed to be telling you about Commander bolting with me.

So, anyway, Friday things were different. For starters, Counterpoint, one of the pair of grays living in the other side of the run-in and fields complex, was three-legged lame from what turned out to be a stone bruise or abscess when I arrived at midday; after conferring by phone with his owners, I brought him hobbling and lurching into the barn. His buddy Cholla came in to keep him company (and to assuage my own worries at leaving the old guy out all alone and unsupervised for hours when his humans were away and I wasn’t there to keep an eye on him). That left Ben and Commander outside by themselves, which they were fine with at first. They grazed, schmoozed, snarfed their midday mashes, and hung out in the run-in as I worked in the barn.

But then something changed. Something caught their attention, seized it with disturbing force, away southward toward the next farm down the road. I learned later that farm was haying; perhaps that routed some animal(s) whose panicked flight my horses perceived. Whatever it was, it put them on high alert, and kept them there, drew them out of the run-in to stare that way, to circle back inside, to come out again and again, on guard.



Meanwhile, I was done with chores and needed to get both horses back into the barn – Commander because he’s still on limited time out, and Ben because he can’t handle being out solo. I waited a bit, hoping they’d settle down, but no. Still on alert.



It’s hard to say who was more keyed up: the timid Thoroughbred or the spirited Morgan, but There. Was. Something. There. and they couldn’t get their prey animal minds off it.



Oh, well, nothing for it but to do what must be done. I took Ben first, since he’s more inclined to have a meltdown over being left all alone and abandoned to the wolves. He came in nervous, staring and sidling a bit, but without too much trouble; turned free in his stall, he strode to the window to stare southwards at whatever the impending doom was still lurking over there.

I hurried back to fetch Commander, who was circling, anxious, taut with worry. Drat – the leadrope clipped on the halter I’d left hanging on the fence had a simple snap, not the chain shank I use under his chin to keep him from hauling me off course for grass. He’d been so polite lately, I’d gotten careless. Well, no time to run back into the barn for the other leadrope. I haltered him, got the gate open, pointed him through it....

Commander surged out, stared south, and bolted up the drive. Galloping? Just trotting way fast? I dunno; I was too busy flailing along with him at a stumbling run, desperately clinging to the last bit of the leadrope that he’d yanked through my hand, trying not to get slammed into the fence we were careening past.

Commander swerved left after the fence, onto the lush grass under the huge elm that shades the back of the farmhouse, and feverishly grabbed at it. I tried to haul his head up and barnward; got whipped around as he circled and plunged back to frantic grazing; hauled again on his head, slammed my shoulder into his and led, shoved, out-stubborned him the rest of the way into the barn. Got him into his stall, whipped the halter off, and bolted out, sliding the door shut in his face.

Then I went to the entrance and sat on the step till my heart rate dropped and the shakes wore off.

I’ll give those boots credit: Not only is he comfortable enough in them to run away with me, he’s so well cushioned that all that craziness didn’t hurt his feet at all, nor did the boots shift even a bit. Commander was moving just fine that night at bedcheck, and went out today looking equally good.

With the chain shank threaded onto his halter.

How to Outsmart a Morgan

The problem: He doesn’t like having his booted feet messed with. He’s been tied in the aisle with his mash bucket the last few times it’s been done. He knows this. He’s not fooled and not inclined to stand still for it any more.

What’s a poor human to do? The left boot needs removal, reaming out, replacement, this fine evening. What’s to be done?

Use guile. Guile and trickery. Guile and misdirection and trickery. Not to mention flattery and shameless sucking up to.

So the mighty Morgan, with Ben safely back in his stall for moral support, is led out, tied in the aisle (single tie facing his stall; on cross-ties he’s too likely to surge forward toward the exit), and allowed to sniff the grooming box sitting on the upended shavings bag nearby him. The wily human scratches his neck – just SO – then picks up a brush and begins going over him – just SO – and the mighty Morgan relaxes.

The wily human asks him quietly to pick up his right front, touches the boot lightly when he complies, and puts it back down. The MM is praised. The WH brushes her way down his side to his hindquarters. She quietly asks him to pick up his right hind, touches the hoof, and puts it back down, praising the MM. Around to the left hind; repeat. Brushing, brushing, brushing up to the left front. The WH brushes down his leg, quickly but calmly undoes the Velcro, then asks the MM to pick up his foot.

Success! The foot comes up briefly; the boot’s stripped off; the mass accumulation of shavings gets shaken and scrubbed out; the pad gets a dusting of Gold Bond powder. Then it’s time to get it back on the much-praised MM.

The return does not go as smoothly as the removal; it appears the MM finds it insufficiently comfortable to stand on one forefoot for very long, and communicates this fact by snatching his foot free and snapping it back onto the floor. It takes several swift but calm and careful attempts until – voila! – the foot’s inserted exactly where it should be and the hoof’s back flat on the mat. Quickly, quickly: Close the two understraps; praise softly; close the two overstraps; praise softly and wait while the MM frets about a bit, just a bit; then pull into place the rubber-band-like keepers over the strap ends, and it’s done.

The MM gets bountiful praise, enjoys a thorough face-brushing, and is put back into his stall to enjoy his supper. The WH tidies up and goes home to enjoy her own.

The MM can’t be bullied. But he can be bamboozled.

More Booty Goodness

The morning report:

Sigh.... As if this weren’t costing me enough already....

Just got off the phone with a very friendly, helpful rep for Soft-Ride, who spent almost half an hour cheerfully chatting with me about the boots – their care and fit primarily, although we wandered off topic more than once.

I asked about care: how often to remove for cleaning, how to care for, that sort of thing. Turns out the recommendation is initially, for the first week or so with a horse wearing them 24/7, to take them off twice a day for removing and rinsing off the pad, cleaning gunk out of the boots, and to check the heel bulbs for signs of chafing. Oh, and be sure to put the correct pad back into the same boot, and put the correct boot back on the same hoof. Oh, great. Let’s hope Commander gets blase about standing still for the whole thing real fast.

We turned to fit, since I thought the boots he’s wearing now might be a bit too small. Yep, the rep thought from my description that, while he was doing fine in them at the moment, as his hoof grew out we’d have problems. So I’ve ordered a new pair, the next size larger. Hey, I’ve already sunk more than a grand in vet bills into Commander during this episode; what’s another couple of hundred bucks? (sob) At least I can return the unused laminitis orthotics from the first pair for a credit.

Oh, hey – look at the time (11:40). I’d better head over to the barn for the midday chores, see how the mighty Morgan is doing after his first night in booties. More later.

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

More later:

Good and not-so-good news.

The good – all right, let’s just go ahead and say the GREAT news is that Commander is amazingly comfortable in those boots.

Walking out freely comfortable. Bending his knees like a regular horse when he walks comfortable.

So comfortable that, after hand-walking him in the driveway for several minutes and seeing how well he did, I actually put him out with Ben in the run-in and its adjoining dry lot for about 45 minutes while I did stalls. Where he picked at the scattered pathetic nubbins of grass available, groomed with Ben, puttered about looking as if nothing was wrong with him, and for the most of it hung out in the run-in alternating munching hay and Ben-grooming. He walked back in as comfortably as he walked out.

The not-so-good news: He’s still being a pig about having his feet handled. With his bucket of beet pulp mash hanging in the aisle to occupy him, I was able to get his right boot off, wiped down, cleaned out, Gold Bond powder dusted, and back on, but by the time I tried to take off the left he was escalating into antsy, too antsy to get it done.

Okay, so he had distractions: He’d just come in, leaving Ben behind, and Ben was bellowing for his lost love; a truck and horse trailer were parked outside the barn and a strange horse had just gotten hosed down out there; I slid the barn door shut but even so he could still hear Ben yelling; it was all too much and he would not stand still or let me handle his left foot. I gave it up after a few minutes and put him back in his afternoon stall.

I’ll try to do the left foot again tonight, when Ben’s in and things are quieter. This is a continuing nightmare in so many ways, but seeing him look so at ease, for the first time in ages, is making it worth all the cost and struggle.

Booted - yet another tediously longwinded recital

The Soft-Ride boots came yesterday and today they went on Commander.

What a simple little declaration. So straightforward. So easy-sounding. So matter-of-fact.

So far removed from the reality.

Oh, the boots came on schedule, and they look sturdy and well-constructed, with easy to understand and use fasteners – all hail Velcro! Just in time, too, since Commander’s left pad was inching out of position, creeping forward on his foot despite the entire roll of Elastikon securing it. So, with the vet scheduled to arrive around 11:00, it looked like we were in business.

Hitch the first: The vet had an emergency call, a fracture, and didn’t even make it to the barn till after 2:00.

Fine. Such is the nature of waiting for the vet. He’s there – “he” being Derek Cavatorta, a young fellow (at least from the perspective of my 63 years), recently joined the practice, who’d been riding along with Helen and seen Commander when she x-rayed him. Good tidings: He thought the mighty Morgan looked better today than when he’d last seen him. Bad tidings: Those lovely expensive laminitis orthotics I’d bought extra for the boots? Helen thinks they’re a bit too hard for Commander and wanted to use the same kind of pads he’s been on. Good tidings: the hockey pucks fit perfectly into the boots, and the Soft-Ride company is known for working with its customers so hopefully I can return the orthotics for a refund.

We took Commander out into the aisle and I held him while Derek, with some assistance from Vicky the vet tech, removed the left wrapped-on pad and

Whoa. Let’s rewind that.

Hitch the second: Derek began trying to get the pad off. He didn’t have bandage scissors with him; his regular scissors refused to cut easily; the ends he freed and pulled on ripped off in small segments; the Elastikon clung on like a demented limpet; it was struggle struggle struggle till at last the thing ripped free. Getting the boot on wasn’t too hard, and the mighty Morgan seemed comfortable in it.

The mighty annoyed and increasingly impatient Morgan seemed comfortable in it, all right – comfortable enough, and pissed off enough at the whole process that as soon as the thing was secured he surged forward, determined to charge out of the barn to freedom! Away from the hassle! Freedom! GRASS! The three of us just barely managed to wrestle him to a stop at the very edge of the exit.

We got him turned back and decided to do the other foot in his stall. By now Commander had decided that Derek was the Spawn of Satan and he wasn’t having any more of this jerk messing with his feet, hell no! We hadn’t given him a sedative to start with; we decided we’d better; the sharp-eyed needle-phobe spotted the dread implement in Derek’s hand, and hooeee, it was charge around the stall rodeo time. I love Commander, and I love his spirit, but dammit! When he decides he’s had enough, when he gets pissed off at being asked to do something, he turns into a monster of defiance. Even with a dose of sedative finally aboard, it took ages and some narrow escapes from the vet and myself being body-slammed through the stall walls before Derek got the second pad off.

By this point the somewhat woozy but still angrily defiant Morgan was standing with me holding his head in the corner, no longer hurling himself in circles around the stall but continuing the fight by pawing furiously whenever Derek approached his hoof, before and after the wrap-and-pad removal. “Put that second boot on me? Ha! No way in Hades!” I’ll give the vet credit: He’d already had a rough day before he got to me; he patiently and calmly kept trying to do what he had to do despite Commander’s best efforts to thwart him; but by this time he could have offered Commander a cookie and the Morgan would have flung it back in his face.

So I suggested that Vicky hold Commander while I tried to put the second boot on. I wasn’t too thrilled about putting my head and hands down into the thrashing-leg region of my horse, but it was clear this was our only hope at this point. So Vicky took the lead rope and schmoozed with Commander, who had yet to put her into the Spawn of Satan category, while I coaxed him into picking his foot up high enough to fit his hoof into the boot without triggering another bout of angry flailing.

Did it! And went to fasten it.

Hitch the whatever-it-is-by-now: The boot seemed a bit small. Oh, with a bit of tweaking I got it fastened; with a bit more tweaking I tightened it somewhat; Commander walked out on it in apparent comfort; it seemed securely in position for the half-hour or so afterwards I observed him; but we’ll see if it continues to work or whether I’ll need to get the next size up for that foot.

I’ll say this about those boots: If he could charge around the stall like that with one boot on his worse foot, they must be making him mighty comfortable all right. I just hope he behaves a lot better for me when I take them off for cleaning.

I also hope they’re still on and in proper position when I go back to the barn in a few hours for evening chores.

At least by now I’ve stopped shaking.

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

The evening update:

So far, so good.

At bedcheck Commander was still booted and still comfortable. I led him out onto the driveway and he moved in what seems to be the new normal mode for him: Stiff-kneed but long-strided and moving briskly, eager to keep going till the mosquitoes drove us back inside. He took one ouchy step on the right turn into his stall but other than that he did fine.

I had him out into the barn aisle again to undo and reset his right boot because I thought it originally went on just a skootch off-center. Distracted by his bucket of evening beet pulp hanging from the wall, he stood for me more or less quietly.

More or less, well, yeah; every time I picked up his foot he did flap it about, and it took several tries to get the hoof correctly back into the boot. But I did it, and got the flaps Velcroed back in place, without too much trouble. I must hope that, as we keep doing this over time, he’ll come to accept it as no more annoying than having his feet picked out, and stop the foot-flapping. Still, it was reassuring to be able to handle this alone.

Another Commander Update

So it’s been a while since my last update on the mighty Morgan and the mighty mountain of trouble he’s in. What’s up? How’s he doing?

He’s holding his own. He continues hobbled but undaunted, padding about stiffly on his pads but upheaded, greedy for goodies, and as smugly convinced of his own high worth as ever. His coat shines; his ears are pricked; he’s hugely interested in everything going on around him, at least if there’s not food in front of him to seize his attention.

On Wednesday, Commander got his feet trimmed and measured for his Soft-Ride boots, his last chance at getting comfortable enough to go on for whatever the long term turns out to be. He behaved like a perfect gentleman for my farrier through the whole thing, but then, Ken's very good with my horses, calm and gentle, and they like him and trust him. Ken wrapped the pads back on when we were done and I gave Commander a dose of Banamine even though he seemed unfazed by the whole thing.

I chose not to do any hand-walking at all, other than stall-shuttling, after the Wednesday work on him. I stuck to that through Friday, but yesterday and today I’ve taken him for tiny outside jaunts, and I mean like a few dozen yards outside the barn. He loves it, gets eager as soon as he’s turned that way, and despite it clearly being less comfortable for him on the hardpacked stonedust/gravel of the driveway, he relishes these small adventures – especially when he can yank my arm off and grab a mouthful of greenery. I hesitate to expand this till he’s in the boots, given how unforgiving the ground is.

Commander was perhaps slightly less comfortable overall on Thursday, with one or two ouchy steps as I led him between stalls, but truthfully, it’s hard to tell whether he’s really worse or better when I’m hovering over each step looking for Signs and Portents. Overall between midweek and today, Sunday, I’d say he’s maintaining at a baseline of stiff-legged but unhesitating to move when asked; more freedom of movement as he moves; and really really big strides when there’s FOOD! at the end of them. He can turn without much trouble in either direction as long as he’s free to choose the arc and pace of it. I can tell from the shavings on his coat and the stains on his flank that he does lie down, but he’s always on his feet when I arrive. I guess it was a good idea not to show him his x-rays, huh?

The boots and laminitis orthotics were ordered Wednesday evening. I hope to get them Monday and get Commander into them ASAP, allowing for the fact I’m going to want the vet there for the first fitting, to help me get the pads off, to make sure the fit is right, and – please, please not – to repad and rewrap Commander if the fit isn’t right and I have to exchange the Soft-Rides.

Meanwhile, Ben gets put out at midday and brought back in at dusk, and seems happy with the arrangement; Commander's fine with it too, and there's no more of the desolate hollering they indulged in the first few times I cruelly wrenched them apart. Ben has full freedom of the square paddock, with its well-eaten-down grass, and as of midweek the gate to the first field, ungrazed and unmowed all summer, has been open to him. He does go out there now and then, but the paddock appears to offer tastier grazing -- go figure! -- and besides, it's a much shorter distance from there to the shelter of the run-in, with its waiting well-stuffed haybag, when the flying pests get to be too much for the sensitive Thoroughbred.

I bring Ben over to Commander's stall when I lead him back in to let them sniff noses through the chainlink stallfront. I look forward to the time when I can turn them out together again. Oh, what a frenzy of mutual grooming there'll be then!

New x-rays. You don't want to look.

And you can't right now, because I haven't had jpegs of them emailed to me yet.

You won't like them when you do see them. I'll be updating this post later tonight with more details and hopefully the images themselves.

Boots and pads are the only hope left now, and it's a thin one, as thin as the sole between coffin bone and death. But Commander isn’t giving up yet, not near it, and so I will not give up on him.

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

Update, as promised:

Still haven’t received the x-rays to share, but the gist is this:

The tip of the coffin bone hasn’t gone through the sole but it is frighteningly close, and worse in the left foot.* The side walls of the hooves are pulling away, pushed farther out by any weight-bearing while offering no support forward of the quarters. Commander needs to have the unhinged part of the walls resected and the toes cut back; then we can measure him to get a proper fit for his boots and pads. Any kind of shoeing is useless at this point; there’s simply nothing there to nail to. In the meantime, he is surprisingly comfortable on his hockey pucks, greedy for food as ever, and full of his usual attitude.

The current story starts with Sunday midday, when I arrived to find Commander had pulled off his left taped-on pad. I tried to put it back on myself. Problem the first: the thing had been secured with an entire roll of Elastikon and I couldn’t, with a dull X-Acto knife and equally dull scissors, get all of the tape off the mashed-down (and stinky, hoo-boy stinky) pad. I finally hacked the sides away and tried to put it back in place with duct tape. Problem the second: Duct-tape it back? Expect it to stay snugly in place? Hahahahahahaha (sob).

So I called the vet and arranged for yet another Sunday emergency visit. Just as well; it took me, the vet, and the vet’s assistant to get the mighty – and mighty pissed off at all the examination, standing on one foot for hoof testing, fiddling with his feet and willya just leave me alone! – Morgan into new pads. Commander wound up getting a hit of dormosedan and blissing out enough for us to succeed. It was no fun, very much no fun, but it at least reassured me that I wasn’t entirely a loser for not being able to pad him up by myself.

Today’s vet was Helen Noble, instead of Commander’s usual vet, Kelly Butterworth. Kelly, alas, has been sidelined by an injury, to wit, a horse stomping on her hand and mashing a finger. Yeesh indeed. Helen absorbed what history I could give her, what observations she made; asked me to email her the x-rays from last weekend; and departed.

I sent her the x-rays last night and this morning heard back that Commander’s shoes had blocked a clear view of the coffin bone tips in last week’s x-rays; she wanted to do a fresh set now that he’s in nonradiopaque pads. So off to the barn we all went, and we had more fun with an annoyed Morgan, who saw no point in standing still with his feet up on wooden blocks just so; not until another little dose of dormosedan calmed him down. I got to wear the lead apron while holding his lead rope and be grateful that it wasn’t 90+ degrees and swampy humid. We took (well, they took and I stood there face to face with a muddled Morgan) both lateral and front-to-back x-rays.

When it was done and Commander was tucked away in his afternoon stall to come out of his drug haze and hoover some hay, we looked at the results.

Ugh. Maybe it’s just as well you don’t have to see what I saw.

I called my farrier – and actually got him, not his answering service, for a wonder – filled him in and handed the phone to Helen so she could tell him exactly what needs doing. He’ll be coming Wednesday morning to trim as required, measure Commander for the pads, then get him repadded. I have new pads and two rolls of Elastikon on hand, plus a ready-filled syringe of IM dormosedan, just in case. Commander’s a very good boy for farriery, but this foot-wrapping thing? Not so much.

Oh, helpful hint on Elastikon (probably applicable to any such tape): Before wrapping with it, find a person (like, say, the horse owner) willing to hold the outer edge of the roll firmly by the corners, then slowly back away, keeping the tape taut and straight as you unroll it. At the far end of the roll (we’re a good ten-plus feet apart in the barn aisle by now), begin loosely rolling the tape back up. This makes the subsequent wrap-wrap-wrap unrolling a helluva lot easier and quicker.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*Worse in his left foot? But it’s turning to the right that bothers him much more. What gives? Helen says it’s how the foot is weighted in a turn that explains it; the longer he has to have that right foot picked up, with all his weight swivelling on the left, the more it hurts, so he lurches through it.

Keep walking! he says

How’s Commander doing with short ventures outside?

Amazingly well. Today, twice at midday I walked him away from the barn and along the driveway half the length of the nearby red pole barn, probably 60 feet, and he marched along, head high, drinking it all in. At suppertime I led him its full length once, walking briskly, and if it weren’t for the mosquitoes annoying us both I think he’d have liked to keep going instead of turning back.

Commander moved well, long-strided, head up, clearly enjoying himself; again chose to step down every time onto his right foot; again had no trouble stepping back up into the barn; while still more straight-legged in his walking than I’d like (and perhaps some of that is due to maneuvering those thick salad-plate-size pads strapped to his feet), was moving with more vigor and freedom than one would have thought possible less than a week ago.

The mighty Morgan got to spend the entire afternoon in Counterpoint’s airy, bright (even on a cloudy day like today) and two-windowed stall, while Ben got to have the afternoon out, the first hour of it on the grassed paddock where he grazed the nubbins single-mindedly. When I brought Ben his midday beet-pulp mash I thought it best to lock him off the grass, let his system adjust to the greenery slowly, so for the rest of his time out he had to content himself with demolishing a well-stuffed haybag’s worth of hay.

Commander appears to like his afternoon stall very much. He spent some of his time arranging the place to his liking, trudging ruts in shavings here, establishing his toilet there, and mowing through an armload of hay; he also rubbernecked at both windows, the one overlooking his buddies in the run-in and the other looking out over the fields.

This is good. This new routine will be healthier physically and mentally for both boys, and I will try to expand the walking as long as Commander tolerates it.

Monday Commander gets his feet checked, his pads rewrapped, and measurements taken for the Soft-Ride boots. Will we be able to move him on to turnout? The hard surfaces of the run-in and environs remain a concern, but there are possibilities for fencing off most of the paddock while leaving a corridor to a soft-dirt-floored room in the back of the run-in structure; we’ll worry about doing that when it’s time.

I begin to nourish tiny buds of hope.

Thursday and Friday:

I may well be fooling myself, desperately seeing what I want to see, but I did think that Commander looked a little bit – a very little bit – better on Thursday, especially in the evening (and why not, since it was only six hours since his midday two grams of bute?) in terms of moving with less stiffness in front. Don’t even think about asking him to turn tightly to his right; but he can walk in a large leftward circle without much difficulty. In fact, if I have him out in the barn aisle and need to turn him in the other direction, I lead him into whatever stall he’s facing (huge stalls; 12x12 at least) and make a loop to get him reoriented in maximum comfort.

Thursday evening, I had Commander out in the aisle for a good grooming session, with him tied facing a Smartcart to work on the hay in it while I worked on him. He indulged in his usual Smartcart feeding frenzy: burrowing into the hay down to the bottom of the cart, viciously flinging aside anything that was less than the best, scattering hay, even whole flakes all over the aisle; I was torn between "Gah, will you STOP that, you greedy monster?!?" and gladness to see him his usual attitudinal self. When I was done, instead of trying to make the tight turn in the aisle to get him back in his stall, I led him outside for a wide loop in the driveway.

Be darned if he didn't move out eagerly toward daylight. There's a six-inch step down to get out. Commander examined it, chose which foot to put down (his left), and stepped out without much difficulty, made the large turning loop (leftward) with no trouble, and hurled his head down to the stubby grass on the upslope back to the barn. I let him have a few mouthfuls, then twitched the leadrope, and he came back into captivity without fuss and with a surprisingly free (though still stiff) stride, having no trouble at all stepping back up into the barn.

In a conversation on Thursday, my vet recommended the Soft-Ride boots for Commander. They sound very promising, but holy guacamole, they’re expensive! It would be around $300 to fit Commander with them, including their founder orthotic pad.

A number of posters on horse forums had good things to say about Cavallo boots – about half the cost of the Soft-Ride, but would they be as effective?

Of course, if Commander is no better in a couple of weeks, this may all be academic anyway.

I'll update this post after I see Commander today.

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

Update, Friday evening:

Yesterday I thought Commander looked slightly (sliiiiiightly) better but worried that I was fooling myself. Today I do think he is a bit (just a bit) improved. When he chooses to (when there’s something in it for him), he can take large forward strides. Just don’t ask him to turn to the right, at least not in anything other than a great shallow arc, certainly no tight turns, please. Arcing left is far more comfortable for him, and that’s how I bend him whenever possible.

I’ve had a lot of supportive and helpful conversations, messages, emails from friends, and I am deeply grateful. Lots of advice, too, of course; and I absorb it all and apply what seems to be helpful for this particular horse in this particular place. Trouble is, of course, if you ask ten people what to do about founder, you’ll get back a baker’s dozen different answers. Which makes sense, when you think about it, since the disease itself is still so poorly understood, emerges from a complex brew of factors, and responds (or not) to a confusing and sometimes contradictory slew of treatments.

One point that’s been made is the need to get the blood circulating in those hooves, to help the growth of new hoof wall and sole. I do have Commander on isoxsuprine, but exercise is the best blood pump for a horse’s feet. On the other hand, too much activity when the laminitis is hot risks damaging the already tenuous connections in there; in any case, asking a horse to move when every step is painful is just plain cruel. The mighty Morgan’s stall is huge, fortunately; deeply bedded in twice-daily-picked shavings; and he does putter around in it. Since he went onto stall rest I’ve restricted his exercise to walking across the barn aisle into a spare stall, parking him there for cleaning (and yes, he does putter around then too), and bringing him back.

Yesterday's big adventure outside the barn encouraged me to consider a cautious expansion of his exercise, ever mindful of the fact that the ground outside the barn is unforgivingly dry and hard. I decided last night, if he looked no worse for wear today, I'd at least continue the loop-de-loop outings.

Today I was unavoidably late for the midday visit, so Commander’s last dose of bute had been at least 17 hours before I arrived. How’d he look? As good as last night, which is to say, cruddy but not entirely dire. He spent most of the next hour in Counterpoint’s two-windowed stall, noshing on hay or looking out the windows, but twice I took him out of the barn for the same sort of loop as last evening; and I did the same with him at today’s evening visit. Every time, he stepped right out, eager for the adventure, and today chose to step down onto his right foot – with a bit of a wince upon landing but not nearly the flinch he’d have shown a few days ago. And it was his decision, too; I paused at the step and let him pick which foot to use.

Commander was happy, especially on the grassy bits adjoining the driveway; he about yanked my arm off diving for mouthfuls. I actually led him in a double loop a time or two, just to expand the exercise. Going back inside, he took big strides. Clearly he enjoyed it, and I think it loosened him up a bit.

I don’t want to overdo things and set him back, so I will watch him fiercely and enlarge his out time gingerly. He’s scheduled for a vet visit to have his feet checked and pads rewrapped on Monday; if the signs are “GO” we will measure him for the Soft-Ride boots, get him into them, and see if that improves him enough to start putting him out for careful increments of turnout. That, of course, presents its own set of difficulties: The run-in structure is concrete-floored with partial mat covering; the apron in front of it is concrete; and the area to the side of the apron is hardpacked dirt and stone dust, almost as hard as the concrete. The paddock off the run-in would be ideal, still firm ground but not as tough on his feet, but he will go to his knees to reach under the fence to get grass, and we can’t have that. Heck, I’m not sure he should even have the grazed-to-nubbins grass inside the paddock; that alone might be too much for his fragile system. Then, too, we’re also in bug-stomping season, when the boys tend to huddle together inside the run-in, not moving other than to swish tails, stomp feet, and groom each other.

So it may come down to hand-walking. Lots and lots of hand-walking. Oh, well, maybe I’ll shed a few pounds.

A Downward Spiral

Sunday, August 12:

When I got to the barn at midday, Commander was lying down. He’s NEVER lying down at midday in his stall; he’s always up to greet me and get a handful of treats. When he did get up he looked awful, gimping stiff-legged and favoring his right front. Still, he wanted his palmful of grain (plus Previcox), and when I left his door partway open while taking down his water buckets, he tried to sneak out behind my back. He was able to walk slowly across the aisle so I could park him in the opposite stall while I cleaned his, and he did eat there, and move about some to look out the windows. I have seen him worse, but not by much.

On the vet’s recommendation I gave him 2 grams of bute in his midday mash, went home to grab lunch and my CDs of Commander’s previous radiology studies, then returned to the barn for x-rays. Alas, they confirmed my fears: he’s had more rotation in both feet. The coffin bone in the 2011 films was in alignment or nearly so with the bones above in both feet; in today’s x-rays both feet show further downward tipping, out of alignment. The vet said it could have been one episode of rotation or a gradual process, there’s no way to tell, and we are where we are regardless.

Now what? Commander still has a thin amount of sole between coffin bone and doom; the vet said he was actually looking better clinically than his films would suggest; he’s still got spirit and appetite. I’ll consult with his regular vet this coming week to see what possible shoeing changes might help; in the short term we’ll probably pull his shoes and wrap in place the hockey-puck-like dense foam pads that gave him a lot of relief in his first (with me) founder episode; keep him on stall rest and bute; and see where we go from here.

I wish it were better news.


Here, by the way, are the x-rays; first from May of last year:



And the new ones:



Wednesday, August 15:

Commander looked very good when I saw him Monday evening, a couple of hours after the vet had changed him from shoes to the wrap-on pads: moving well, eager to move, and looking for treats.

Alas, he wasn’t as good on Tuesday as he was the night before. Presumably the Banamine or whatever she gave him when she put him into the foam pads had worn off by 10:30ish when I got there. He wasn’t as bad as before he got his hockey pucks, but he’d regressed somewhat in comfort. Still his attitudinal self, still with a greedy appetite, still eager to look out the windows of Counterpoint’s stall when I moved him in there for mucking his swamp, but you could tell that moving was uncomfortable.

As I’d discussed with his vet, I gave him one bute at lunch (around 11:30), to see how that would carry him till evening. At 7:30 p.m. he was about the same comfortwise, appetitewise, and attitudewise. He got two grams of bute in his evening mash and I left him greedily guzzling it down.

I plan to give him two grams for lunch as well as supper today, Wednesday, and we’ll see how he does with that.

Ben, meanwhile, got to go out while I was mucking and had a good half hour at least at midday, which he spent hanging out in the run-in chatting with the white boys. Commander handled the separation without too much distress. Ben went out again at 7:30. He spent about five minutes romping in the square paddock, then came back to the gate and started screaming to come in – mosquitoes, skeeters, flying ravening MONSTERS were attacking him. He really, really hates bugs, in fact at both midday and evening he didn’t want to leave the barn to begin with. So I don’t feel quite so bad about him being shut inside. Long term, of course, it’s a problem.

I’m looking into the pads/boots combination the vet mentioned to me. Online proponents of the system say it works wonders, but then, they would, wouldn’t they? Might be just what Commander needs; might be throwing my money away for nothing. I’m cautious because so far the boot-and-pad proponents I’ve found are also barefoot trim advocates, and there are some real fruitloops in that world. My vet’s not a fruitloop, though; she’s not likely to steer me towards some woowoo fad.

Here’s one true believer, for what it’s worth: http://myfineequine.com/peteramey.htm

So, we’ll see how Commander does, whether there’s anything else we can figure out to bring him back. But if he can’t become securely comfortable, I will not make him go on and on till he’s outright miserable. Better to let him out of this life while he’s still taking some joy in it, rather than wait till the spark leaves his eyes entirely.

And now, it’s time to go to the barn for the midday pillow-plumping and maw-stuffing. Let us hope it reveals an uptick in Commander’s wellbeing. Update when I return, or when I can bear to talk about it, depending.


Update, Wednesday evening:

No better. No worse. Leaving me to continue wrestling with the Decision.

Not-so-good news on Commander

Well, so much for getting my hopes up.

Commander looked good for maybe five days after his shoeing. Then he began to look ever so slightly not quite as good. Nothing dramatic, just a creeping stiffness of movement in front over the next few days.

Yesterday he was definitely stiffer and not all that eager to go out for the usual overnight turnout, though he was happy enough to spend his usual ten minutes or so on the grazed-to-nubbins paddock before being closed into the dry lot. Still chipper, though, and with his usual greedy appetite.

Today at midday he was worse – straight-legged moving in front when he had to turn, didn’t want to step outside the barn onto the graveled drive, with an occasional stumble on his right front. Still standing square, not in classic founder position, still no heat I could find in either foot, no bounding pulse, still bright-eyed and looking for food, but not wanting to move more than he had to.

I added a gram of bute to his midday dose of Previcox, bedded his stall thickly, and left, fingers crossed. Came back for evening chores, with no intention to put the boys out overnight even if Commander looked much improved; better to give those feet a few days and nights’ rest from standing on the hard outdoor surfaces, stomping at flies and mosquitoes on hardpacked dirt or matted concrete.

He looked worse when I arrived. Still no heat or elevated pulse, still standing square, not sweating or shaking, as I’ve seen him in the worst episodes of laminitis, but when I opened his stall door he didn’t even turn to come to me at first, just kept staring out his window – and this is a horse who, when he’s feeling great, will plow impatiently over you to get out of his stall for turnout.

I called and talked to the vet on duty, discussed what’s been going on and what I was seeing, and on her advice gave him another gram of bute. He tore into the beet-pulp mash laced with it, so his appetite is still keen; I’ll take that as a good sign. If he’s not looking a lot better tomorrow we’ll probably do x-rays to see what’s going on in there. In any case, he (and buddy Ben, poor boy) will be spending the next few days on strict stall rest.

I wish I had better news to report. It’s true, Commander has looked this bad before and bounced back, but this rollercoaster is heartbreaking. Still, as long as he’s bright-eyed and enjoying life, I’ll keep trying to keep him comfortable and happy.

Oh, and while he was parked over in Cholla’s vacant stall this evening, waiting for me to muck, re-hay, and re-water-bucket his own, he took the opportunity to scratch his butt on Cholla’s corner feed tub, a maneuver he loves to engage in whenever he gets the chance. If that’s high up on his priorities even now, that’s got to be a good sign, surely?

Good News on Commander

Commander’s been looking ouchy over the last week or so, increasingly uncomfortable in front, especially on the right, actually taking occasional stumbling steps on that hoof on the gravel drive. I was worried: Had he rotated or dropped more?

Yesterday Ken came to shoe the boys. Having told him what was up, I watched him do Commander. For both front feet, the mighty Morgan was completely unflinching (heck, half-mast-eyed, he was so relaxed) as Ken nipped and trimmed, no matter how much pressure was put on the foot. Commander stood comfortably square on bare feet waiting for the shoes to be put back on; in fact, at one point he even shifted his weight to his right front to dabble-paw with his left. Yup, he put his weight over onto the bad bare foot!

Ken said his feet looked good and he saw no signs of trouble brewing. He theorized that as the foot grew out between shoeings the buildup of the sole against the unyielding shoe and pad gradually put pressure on the foot – like us humans wearing shoes that fit fine when we put them on in the morning, but by day’s end, with swollen feet, we can’t wait to get them off. He said the founder shoeing requires a balancing act between giving the foot enough support and confining it too much.

Commander went back into his stall moving way better than he came out, pivoting on his forehand easily. He led out to turnout that evening moving freely, too. I’m eager to see how he looks when I go over there for the midday feeding.

The plan: Monitor how he does, see if there’s a pattern to his good and bad times, if it ties to his shoeing schedule. If so, we’ll cut him back to every five weeks instead of every six and see if that takes care of it.

This is so encouraging! If this is what’s going on, it means that Faith, the neighbor girl who sometimes comes to ride him, will be able to get on him again, once the greenheads are gone – heck, even I may be able to ride him again! And I’d thought that was never to be. Hurrah!

Ben's Rainy Day Corral

Gee, I haven’t posted anything for a while. Maybe because I had nothing of note to say? And you, yes, you over there, hush up about never having....

 Anyway, it’s time for another pointless but amusing (to me, anyway) photo essay. This one goes way-way back, back before the Serious Photographer/Serious Camera (stop snickering, dammit) to the point-and-shoot days.

Years ago, when I was boarding my Thoroughbred Ben at a riding stable rather than the farm where he now resides, I wanted to clean his stall, without him in it to get in my way. Normally I’d have turned him loose in the inside ring while I worked, but people were riding. I could always put him in a turnout paddock, of course, though it was raining and he’d get all muddy. Then inspiration struck.

There weren’t any grass paddocks for Ben to graze in at Seven Acres Farm, but there was a grassy area next to the main barn. Three sides were fenced in some way: the barn side, a paddock fence running off it, and a tree/brush-lined slope for a third barrier. The fourth side, though, was wide open. What, oh what could I use to keep Ben confined? I looked around, and spotted the solution:



That’s right, plastic lawn chairs, and one lonely bucket. I set up the Arc of Imprisonment, led Ben in, unhooked the lead line, put the entrance chair back in place, and stood back to see how he’d react. Would he freak out? Blast through the flimsy barrier? Ben’s a biddable boy, quietly content to obey whatever his humans require of him and keenly aware of his duty to stay inside anything fencelike, but....

 

Now and then Ben left off massacring the grass to gaze away into the woods, though he didn’t bother to tell me what he was hearing or smelling.

 

 Or he’d check out the hose to the sump pump for draining the swale in the paddock behind him.




But mostly he grazed happily on his rare green treat.

 

 Satisfied that he wasn’t going anywhere, I went back to his stall, breaking off from the mucking every few minutes to look over and assure myself Ben was still where I’d left him. Meanwhile, the light rain dwindled to a mist; the mosquitoes began emerging, and Ben began to be annoyed by them.



The grass was still good enough to keep him occupied while I finished the last bit of mucking, refilled his water buckets, and stuffed fresh hay into his stall.

 

 I went to retrieve the Benster – and just in time! A monster was stirring in the woods...



 ...and he turned to me to save him, save him!



And that was the end of Ben’s rainy day corral.

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.