Schooner and Pumpkin Bask After Breakfast

Schooner and Pumpkin were enjoying an after-breakfast sunning by the second-floor slider this morning when I decided to do some soul-capturing. Below, my picks of the litter.

We'll start with Schooner, who had the best spot, snug in the sunshine next to the hot air floor vent.



Of course, when he spotted me he had to start clowning for the camera.



When this didn't produce the desired belly rub, he ratcheted up the cuteness.



Meanwhile, Pumpkin humbly waited for his turn to be noticed.



Pumpkin's massively affectionate and pathetically grateful for attention but, other than chirping hopefully whenever he sees me, doesn't push things the way Schooner does.



So he was content to hold his pose while I zoomed in closer.



And closer.



While Schooner, bereft of attention for the moment, pondered the cruelties of his hardhearted human.



Then they got up and swarmed me, ending the photo session.

Report from the Recovery Ward

And the news is good, for both Ben and Commander.

Commander’s been getting four to six hours of turnout each day, including access to the large paddock in back of the run-in for most if not all of the time, and he’s been thriving on it. He thinks he’s grazing as he works at the tiny dead nubbins of what once was grass. His spirits are better and he’s moving well, for him. Over the last couple of days, however, he’s had access to that paddock for only half an hour, then been confined to the run-in’s small dry lot. Why?

Because Ben is out! He healed well and quickly from his suspensory re-injury, and yesterday noon got his first taste of freedom since late December. He stayed on the ground as I walked him down from the barn and turned him loose, got the boinking and bucking and neck-snaking silliness out of him without rupturing any tender tissue, and came back in some three hours later looking fine. At bedcheck, still fine. At midday today, still fine.

So Ben got taken out again today, this time with a bit of Ace aboard (long story short: yesterday’s supposed oral dose was mere air), he settled in without the airs slightly above the ground of yesterday, and I let both boys stay out till 6:30, whereupon they came back in looking none the worse for their extended turnout.

If they boys continue to do well, I’ll keep them on the noon to evening schedule, perhaps enlarging its start to midmorning. I’d like to get both of them full-time free to the larger paddock, but that must await (a) Ben being ho-hum with turnout rather than thrilled into energetic enthusiasm, and (b) the top-thawed ground refreezing so that they don’t tear the turf up and slide into disaster on the slimy ground below.

Amusing to me: In Ben’s absence Commander has crowned himself king of the run-in, bay boys side. Especially yesterday, whenever Ben approached the fence between my guys and the white guys, where Counterpoint was eagerly observing Ben’s return, Commander would pin his ears and body-block Ben’s access. The Mighty Morgan even uglied the poor Benster off the water tub. He also made it plain that the marginally larger run-in stall is now HIS and no TB need apply. So far Ben hasn’t tried to regain his throne.

The best of friends

That's what Peanut and Squash are. Best buddies, boon companions, BFF, devoted to each other, whatever you call it, that be them. They hang out together in the living room all the time, waking and (most of the time) sleeping.

This evening I photographed them in typical PeanutandSquash mode:



The hugging amid the tangle is typical.



Now and then one or the other will get up and maneuver into a different position, or simply roll enough to rearrange the sprawl.



That's Peanut on the left, and yes, he is just as dorky as he looks.



Doesn't it make you feel all warm and snug just to look at them? Works that way for me!

Commander gets out for a bit

After checking the footing from the barn to the run-in, I decided to try taking Commander out today. I put Ben into Counterpoint’s stall so he could look out the window and see everyone, then led the Mighty Morgan out.

He checked out the surface before him when we paused at the step down from the barn floor, then walked deliberately down to the gate. Once inside and unhaltered, he puttered around for a bit, dropped for a good thorough roll in the thin snow, and headed into the run-in to see what there was to eat.

Ben bellowed a bit, from the sound of it did a couple of stall spins as I was releasing his buddy, then settled down to alternating between eating hay and checking on the others at the window.

Commander got to stay outside for the hour-plus it took to do chores, then I brought him back inside rather than leave him till evening’s return for bedcheck. He looked fine, and also looked enthusiastic about going back into his stall. Perhaps that was because he spotted the mash bucket hanging ready for him as he entered.

If conditions warrant, I’ll keep doing this in the days ahead, maybe see if I can leave him out for longer with no ill effects.

The Commander conundrum

Today’s report on the bay boys: They’re both doing very well. Ben’s moving freely, and Commander’s got his spark back; he’s stepping briskly when I lead him across the aisle to park him in Cholla’s stall while I clean his, and having no trouble spinning and plunging about his stall when he knows his mash is coming. It would seem that a few days completely off the frigid hard damp ground outside has done wonders for his comfort levels.

Which leads to the conundrum: What to do about future turnout? Right now, with Ben laid up, it makes sense to keep Commander confined for his company, but at some point they’ll both have to get out again. It sure doesn’t help that last night’s storm, after lashing us with heavy rain for several hours, finished with a thin sticky layer of snow amid plummeting temperatures and rampaging winds. The paddock behind the boys’ run-in has become mostly ice sheets more or less skimmed with snow; the apron of the structure itself is snowy right now, but who knows what slickness lurks underneath? With the next several days’ forecast of frigid temps and harsh winds, I can’t see the footing improving; if anything, it’s likely to get worse as the meager melt of thin daytime sunlight refreezes overnight.

So: I have one horse with a bum ankle, who’s going to be boinky-Thoroughbred nutty when he finally gets to go out; and another who doesn’t do well on cold damp hard ground, and who’s wearing boots in front that, while they do have treads molded into them, for damn sure don’t provide the traction that winter studs in horseshoes would, and who’s also likely to be feeling boinky when he finally gets out.

About the only thing I can look forward to at this point is ordering more shavings. Lots and lots more shavings.

Update on Ben, and then some

Friday morning I found Ben looking much better; still preferring to point the right hind, but able to move just about normally on it when I asked him to walk across the aisle so I could clean his swamp. I checked in with Derek, and the plan is for a week’s stall confinement, daily Surpass application, bute, and, if I can, cold hosings.

Cold hosings. In January, what’s forecast to be a bitterly frigid to start with January. Yeh, right.

I put Commander out for a few hours yesterday, and put Ben in his stall so the TB could gaze out the window at his buddies below, a plan which seemed to keep everyone content after the first half hour of intermittent pathetic bellows of grief at their separation. But I’m planning to keep Commander in for the next few days, other than perhaps brief sessions outside while I clean his stall.

It’s not just to keep Ben company; it’s also because Commander has seemed less bright lately, and isn’t moving as well. Occasionally, in fact, he’ll point his left front foot. He used to stride right up to the fence when I’d come to fetch them in for the night, but recently he’s been hanging back, staying on the edge of the mat inside the run-in. I’m worried that having him stand around for hours in the raw cold on frozen stone dust and concrete, even mat-covered as it is in the run-in, isn’t doing him any good. And it’s not like he gets much exercise when he’s out, since he appears to spend all his time parked inside the run-in rather than puttering around.

Commander’s not done yet, not nearly done; he’s still got plenty of attitude; but he isn’t doing as well as he was in the fall. So I’ll try a short course of being inside for him and see if that helps. Certainly, given the frigid forecast for the next week, it’s as good a time as any for the experiment.

It's deja vu all over again

Remember last spring, when Ben came up three-legged lame on turnout? With what turned out to be a torqued suspensory?

Looks like he’s managed to torque it again – same right hind fetlock attachment – in the comfort of his own stall, on this dark and stormy night.

Derek Cavatorta, lucky fellow, had emergency coverage this evening and came through the spitting snow to check out the horrifyingly immobile TB I found at bedcheck. After history and exam, throughout which Ben was his usual sweetly placid self, we settled on the suspensory as the likely culprit. Not good, but better than a broken pelvis or severed spinal nerve. So Ben got a shot of Banamine and a good rub of Surpass, and I finally got to creep home through the whipping snow.

I’ll be heading over to the barn in midmorning to check on Ben and update Derek. Assuming the diagnosis isn’t altered by what I find, he’ll give me my instructions for the convalescence. So I can look forward to another course of stall rest (with Commander confined to keep him company, no doubt), Surpass, bute, and tincture of time – but I hope Ben won’t require cold hosings this time! Not in January, please please, not in January....

 

Holiday Greetings

When you're ringing out the old year and ringing in the new,

Be it hanging out with old friends



Or snug inside, just two



Let your spirits lift, be merry; let nothing you dismay

'Cause life will see to that, no doubt

So while you can, make hay!

Dogs! On the Beach!

Oh, joy! Oh, bliss! Oh, happy happy day, when a dog may romp and run free, unfettered by leash or law! Poor dogs; they were made to run – well, most of them; I daresay a bulldog would beg to disagree; but for most canines in modern times, time off the leash, unfenced, unfettered, is hard to come by. A free-roaming dog can be a nuisance, occasionally a menace, sometimes, sadly, a pathetic heap in the road. We confine and circumscribe them for their good and our own, and mostly they adapt and cope. But do they not, now and then, pine for freedom to run?

 In my town of Ipswich, there is a time and a place for such glorious liberty. The vast sandflat sweep of Crane Beach is thrown open to Canine Americans and their attendant humans every year, from October 1 through March 31, and while part of the beach still requires the four-legs to be leashed (though there are always owners who ignore such strictures), one end of the beach is officially a leash-free zone.

The day after Thanksgiving, brilliantly blue-skyed, tolerably warm, light-breezy pleasant, I went for a walk there, and had a ball watching the dogs have a ball.

 The first reaction once the dog realizes the leash has been unclipped is usually a gleeful bolt, flat-out, all the pent-up RUN! exploding across the vast inviting sand.



It’s true some of the more sedate fellows will take off in a stroll rather than a cavalry charge, especially with a newfound buddy along.

 

 And some dogs, well, they’re just not built for ballistics.



But running running running – well, that’s the whole point of a no-leash zone, isn’t it? The dogs certainly think so.



They make new friends, too.

 

And so the solitary dog, packless at home save for its human, gets to play with a packmate, to romp and run with a temporary soulmate.








 Some dogs find the beach itself fascinating – the strange new textures underfoot, the strange new smells assailing the nose.

 

And then there’s The Tennis Ball of Bliss.



 The Object of Desire hurled by their human – Chase it!

 

Don’t let it escape!

 

 Capture it!

 

 Bring it back and do it again!
 
 

There was a boxer on the beach who was passionate about the fetch game, utterly obsessed with the ratty old frisbee his human flung for him.

 

And I do mean ratty.

 

 He locked onto each toss like an outfielder running down a high fly ball.



He timed his leaps perfectly.

 

Even another dog racing to intercept couldn’t throw him off his laser-precise aim.



 No way he was letting an intruder have his toy, nossirree.



 No, that ratty old thing was HIS ratty old thing, and the boxer was proud of it.



 Matter of fact, every dog playing fetch was joyfully into the game, from the pursuit...
 


 ...to the capture...



 ...to the triumphant return.

 

Yep, it’s a dog’s life on the beach, and it’s a damn fine life for a dog.

Today I rode Ben

Four simple words: Today I rode Ben.

But what a mess of emotions lie beneath them: Fear, uncertainty, doubt; resignation to reality; stubborn refusal to capitulate; shaky determination; tiny but satisfying triumph.

It was June of 2011 when I wrote this:

 I’m afraid.

I’m afraid to ride my lovely, sweet, well-trained, well-mannered Thoroughbred.

 I may never get on him again. If I do, I may never again take him out of a walk. 

And from then until today, I did not try again. Oh, I’d think about it, now and then; I’d toy with the thought, but always there was some excuse, some reason why “Not today.” I might have tried it last spring, I was so close to doing it -- but Ben blew his suspensory and that, it seemed, was that. Never mind that Ben healed just fine from it; still there always, always was some reason not to try. If Commander had been ridable, I’d have been happy to get aboard him; but Ben? Too big, too strong, too quick when he spooks; not today, anyway.

Today, though, became The Day: The day I put up or shut up; did or did not; pushed past fear or forever surrendered to it. Finished with chores, I was looking out the barn window at Ben and Commander below, and thinking about getting on Ben, maybe, might, possibly. The weather was conducive; the bugs were gone; he’d had his lunch so he wouldn’t be thinking about it; nothing was going on that might spook him.... And the thought came oozing in: “Now or never. This is your last chance. Ride today or give up.”

 So I went to the tackroom, brushed the dust and the cobwebs from Ben’s gear, carried it down to the run-in; led my mildly surprised horse to the fence, did a quick grooming, and tacked him up. Ben was (as my rational self knew he’d be) unfazed by the whole thing. So what if more than a year had gone by since last he’d had all this done to him? No big deal. I led him out, led him up and down the drive for a few minutes to let his back adjust to its unaccustomed burden, then brought him to the mounting block and swung aboard.

 It felt strange and utterly familiar.  It felt mildly scary and quietly satisfying and precarious yet secure. My body remembered and did what it knew how to do. Ben yielded to light cues as easily as if he’d been in daily work for the last decade. We walked around the ring, up and down its length, Ben stumbling a bit at first on its uneven surface, then settling into a relaxed walk. He didn’t seem unsettled by the tension coiled within me, and the tension gradually uncoiled and trickled away.

When we’d walked a few circuits of the ring, I made my next choice: I closed my legs on Ben’s sides. He broke into a little jog, unworthy of the word “trot”, and I sat to it for several strides, then seat-shifted him back to walk and told him what a wonderful fellow he was. After a few more circuits, we did it again, walked a bit more, then I rode him out of the ring, slid off onto shaky legs, and told him again what a marvelous horse he was. The whole grand adventure couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes – if that.

So, that’s my triumph today. It’s such a small thing, such a foolishly unremarkable thing – but it was big enough for me.

Will I ride Ben again? We’ll see. But the odds of it happening have gone way up.  And who knows? Maybe I'll even get as brave as I was in 2006:

Commander meets his master

Why is Commandser still walking?  And not only walking, but moving with reasonable comfort on his Soft-Ride boots (and 3 grams of bute/day)?

 

Why, in light of these x-rays from August 20, is he still with us?

 

Commander was seen by the vet today. It was time for fall shots for my two and the white boys, but Helen recommended not giving Commander the vaccinations; they offered a risk of laminitis flareup, and given his isolated life he’s at little risk of falling ill to begin with. So while the others got their shots, he was spared.

 

He did not spare us a tantrum in return.

 

Helen asked to have him taken out so she could watch him walk. When he re-entered the barn, he spotted the veterinary cases and freaked out – “Needle demon! NOOOOOO!” I got the ballistic boy into his stall and he started into his patented defiant-fury stall-spinning resistance to letting Helen get near him so she could check his pulses, dragging me around to his left, then trying to duck away rightward and yank the rope out of my hands. Since this time I had the chain shank running from the off side upper ring to lower ring, under his chin and out the lower near ring, and wasn’t letting him sling his body weight into me, he couldn’t manage to do it.

 

Helen wasn’t having any of that nonsense. And without once raising her voice or bullying the Mighty Morgan, Helen got his escalation de-escalated in a few minutes.

 

How? Patience, quiet firmness, and a second lead rope. 

 

After Commander had hauled me around the stall a few times, Helen handed me a lead rope as we whipped past the door, and I was able between his surges to get it clipped to the off side of his halter. Helen took hold of it, we triangulated our pulls and got him halted facing the door, and then we out-stubborned him (Helen leading, me following her example).

 

When he tried to lunge forward or sideways, we quick stopped him before he could get any momentum going. When he stood still, wound up and stiff with outrage, we talked quietly to him and scratched his neck. When, after a minute or two, he relaxed a bit, he got a carrot. It took a few rounds of this before he gave up all defiance and accepted his fate, but then I was able to take his boots off, Helen was able to pick up his feet and check him, and I was able to reboot him, with just one person holding the ropes while he stood reasonably quietly. When we were done and I took his halter off, a calm Commander metaphorically shrugged and went back to his hay.

 

It was a small but definitive horse-handling master class.

Catching up

First, the latest on Commander: He's thriving in the boots. He gets six or so hours of turnout every day, and is handling it well. I do need to maintain him on a gram of bute at midday and two in the evening; I tried cutting back somewhat and it didn't work. Oh, he wasn't in frank pain, but his bright-eyed vigor was dulled a bit, and what the hell -- as a friend put it: "The founder will get him long before the ulcers." Blunt but true. So I went back to what I had been doing and Commander went back to the paddock-sound-enough baseline of the boots.

The left boot does look toed-in a bit. I've tried resetting it square and within a few hours it's back to slightly canted. Oh, well, as long as he's comfortable in it, that's all that matters.

What else has occupied me? Well, there's this:

I’ve added a third gun to my little collection, a Colt Officer’s Target .38 Special. It was made in 1950, so it’s one year younger than me. Here’s a picture of the revolver I found online – my own isn’t as bright and shiny as this like-new one, but it’s in very good shooting condition.



I haven’t had time and/or favorable weather to get to the range much over the last few months, and it shows in my shooting. Not that I'd ever give Annie Oakley a run for her money, but I was doing better when I was doing it more often. I got out today for the first time in a several weeks, and only the second time shooting the .38.

I started today (as is my regular habit of rotation) with the Colt Woodsman, at 30 feet:



Yep, I do need to get out and practice more. But my shot pattern formerly tended to fall high and left. Now it appears I’ve gotten better at locking onto the center of the target, at least horizontally; I just need to narrow down the vertical dispersion. That’ll be apparent in the other two targets as well.

Second target: shooting the .38. I’m still getting used to it being louder and having a bigger kick than the Woodsman. Also, by then I had gun oil on my right hand, since I make it a habit to do a quick clean-and-oil on each weapon after shooting and before putting it back into its carrier – not a breakdown, but a Q-tip scrub at every surface I can reach, then running the snake through the barrel, followed by a drop of oil Q-tipped all over on the sliding surfaces and then a rub of the outside with a lightly oil-impregnated cloth. Got a few drops on my hand and there it was, all slick and impossible to get completely dry.

So, anyway, with my excuses all in line, here’s how I did with the .38 at 25 feet, standing, modified Weaver (my left hand cupping the butt rather than wrapped around the grip and my right hand, as I do with the Woodsman):



Yes, I shot 12; one shot went wild when the thing let loose while I was still lining up the sights after cocking the hammer. This is a double-action revolver and I always cock before firing; the one time I tried shooting single-action, the stroke was so hard I wound up going way off target. I'm finding I have to be careful between the cocking and the shooting because the cocked trigger has a very light pull.

So, still sorting out how to shoot the .38 most effectively; still working out what's right for me for this gun, as I've done with the other two. I need to practice more, of course. The cool dry fall weather should help to encourage that.

All right, then; after cleaning and putting away the .38, I finished today's range session, as I always do, with the CZ Lux, today at 45 to 50 feet. The results? Looks a lot like the Woodsman, but even tighter on the horizontal spread, about the same on vertical dispersion, and with more hits in the sweet spot:



Okay, well, so I had one wildish stray with the Lux. Wouldn’t want to offend the gods by being too excellent, right?