During "night stables", Gregg found this little visitor above Hobbes' stall. I've been wondering where all the mice were this winter. Now, I think I know.
Our property, located on the city-county line, is an urban island for wildlife. The last appearance was by a mountain lion, but we have hosted a little of everything. Click here to visit our stable's page of encounters with wild- and not-so-civilized life.
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Learn more about western screech owls: http://www.owlpages.com/owls.php?genus=Megascops&species=kennicottii
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By Kaija Scheuerman
"There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man."
~ Winston Churchill
“Come on boy, come on.” I whispered into Magic’s ear, which was twitching with eagerness. I laid a hand on the Thoroughbred’s glossy neck. I had to force myself not to get distracted by all the things around me, and my job was very hard. The calm breeze toying with the branches, the light pounding of Magic’s hooves on the sandy ground, the heavy breathing that was pushing in and out of my mouth. Magic’s silky and sweaty fur felt smooth under my body, I felt like I was almost about to slip off, but I found enough to grip to that I was just staying on, the feeling was amazing. I was riding Magic bareback round and round the arena, and everything was perfect, I felt like I was flying, just me and Magic, one with each other and one with air.
“Sit the trot!” my trainer shouted. Oh great, I thought crossly, sitting the trot was my sore spot, and it was just the thing to ruin this perfect feeling. Oh well, I thought, just keep your heels down, sit up straight, and stay calm, it’ll be fine. As soon as I stopped posting, I bounced around like a bag of jelly beans. I must have done something wrong, which is what I usually did, because I wasn’t that good of a rider yet. Magic suddenly started cantering! As I struggled to slow him down and make him stop, I also struggled to hold on. I felt my confident moment of just flying around the arena slip away, and when I fell, I hoped, really hoped, that I could just get back up as if nothing happened at all.
Blackness, dark, inky blackness. Everything was blurry, like the water color painting I made in preschool, the one that I added WAY too much water to. My trainer ran faster than a horse in the Kentucky Derby; when she reached my crumple body, she bent over me in concern. I stood up slowly and as I did, I felt a fiery pain in my right arm, I struggle not to cry, everything about this was pain, extreme
Continue reading "The fall: ‘All the reasons why I would never get back on again’" »
On Easter Sunday, Gregg and I took another shot at getting Hobbes to go solo in our two-horse, straight-load, bumper-pull trailer. Hobbes is fine in our three-horse-slant gooseneck -- when he is with his friend, my Morgan gelding, Dell, but you can forget the two-horse trailer alone.
Contrary to Hobbes, I believe every horse should learn to travel solo in whatever carrier you choose. They might need to make an emergency run to the vet, go to a horse show alone, or live life without their friend.
It took hours of “friend” Dell loading by example, “friend” Dell standing nearby for moral support, the two of us reviewing Hobbes’ halter drills, backing, pivoting, giving any part of the body to pressure, and a turf-ownership review in the round pen. We punctuated the halter drills with attempted load-ups that promised grain at the end of the tunnel. Whenever Hobbes did something naughty his way, we assigned him another job our way. Hobbes reacts violently to the presence of whips, so force is not an option.
Hobbes’ real name is Sixes Daredevil, which as the story goes, he earned after jumping off a loading dock as a weanling. I wonder if this had something to do with his attitude toward the two-horse trailer, but we will never know.
As the sun began to pass overhead, Hobbes crept into the trailer. He “whoa’d” for our prescribed amounts of time, and backed out on command. Ten seconds, 20 seconds, 30 seconds: When Hobbes could load and whoa for at least a minute, we shut the back gate, started the truck, and took him for a spin – a nice, slow, peaceful spin.
“You know, working with horses,” said Gregg as we drove home, “it’s like, different than owning a cat.”
Speaking of cats, we found our cat dead under the bed on Good Friday. No kidding. Spanky didn’t like to travel solo, either.
I cannot remember a barn cat before this little gray tabby, who wandered in to our workshop one February day more than 15 years ago. She was all ribs and had a blind, milky left eye. A client veterinarian blamed the eye on a fight. I could imagine other animals picking on this fistful of fur.
Spanky aced her barn cat job and dispatched many a mouse, but the next winter, she again pulled the pitiful card on a single-digit February day, and moved into our house. Spanky would still visit the barn as a volunteer, but preferred to spend her time as bed-lounger, confidant to my daughter, and oh yes, queen of the dogs.
As I said, Spanky didn’t like to travel either, and she outdid Hobbes in this department. Spanky would turn into a crazed maniac if you tried to put her in a carrier. Even if you wore gloves, you were in mortal danger because Spanky could wiggle out of any wrapped towel, knew exactly where to look for exposed skin, and didn’t care if it was your face or your neck. We learned to bring the vet and meds to her.
Spanky now rests under a rose bush. One little life passes, and another steps into the future.
Oh, and on working horses v. owning cats:
Farewell, Spanky. Good job, Hobbes.
(Like this? Try 'Memo to boarders: Blood, sirens hay' -- This blog is available on the Kindle.)
This is an alert regarding “Frankenstein-horse”, new arrivals, sirens, fire trucks in the driveway, and the bizarre hay pile by the barn.
It started when our church changed service times. Normally I wouldn’t care, but the other guitarist had played with us for only two weeks. I felt responsible. I had to be on time.
At 7:40 a.m. Sunday, the phone rang. This found me staggering around in my attractive fuzzy pink bathrobe and coordinating flannel jammies, groggy after the yesterday’s goat-pen moving, hay moving, and 4-H mounted meeting. I needed something clean from the closet or semi-clean from the dirty laundry pile. I picked up the phone.
“Uh, yeah, this is Hank. I’m out here by the black Suburban. (The car at the house in front of ours.) Where do I go?”
“Hank?”
“Yeah, Hank the (new) hay guy.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking fast. “Uh. OK. I’ll be right there.”
I tried to wrap my head around the fact that Hank wasn’t due until 10:15 that morning. Throwing on jeans and slip-on muckers, I went outside to meet Hank, a nice Colorado State
On a road trip to McClelland’s Beach, Iowa, I made a sudden left at Oakland, Nebraska. The turn was enough of a surprise to leave Gregg grabbing at the hand grip above his door.
In my defense, Gregg did say he wanted to stretch his legs, and personally, I think serendipity was at work.
We turned again at a little park, and there in the middle of farm country, which rarely wastes space on horses, we found a woman, two horses, a dog, a trail-riding saddle, and a pack saddle. The little group was on a grazing break from their ride, which started in Austin, Texas. You read that right, Austin, Texas, 913 miles away.
Meet Bernice Ende, lady long rider.
To be technical about it, Bernice started in Montana, many years ago. This is her fourth loop around the country with her horses and dog, Claire.
A classical ballet teacher who also rides, Bernice came to a turning point in 2005, and decided if not now, when? She saddled up and headed out, leaving everything behind. Well, OK, except for the website dedicated to her efforts, www.endeofthetrail.com.
Bernice is not alone in this kind of quest. Check out the Long Riders’ Guild, www.thelongridersguild.com, a group of “equestrian explorers”.
Putting in 20 or so miles a day, you do get a chance to see the country in a way you’ll never experience by car. “I take as many back roads as I possibly can, a lot of power line roads, railroad-track roads, forest service roads,” says Bernice.
Claire, and Essie Pearl, the Norwegian Fjord pack horse, have been with Bernice for 15,000 miles. Don't worry about Claire’s poor little dog pads. Claire did most of those 15,000 miles riding in a box on top of Essie Pearl’s pack.
Bernice pays special attention to the horses’ feet, too. They are shod with cleats that give them special traction and make their shoes last a long time. When the horses need a trim, Bernice pulls the shoes and resets them herself.
Bugs are the worst problem, and Bernice fights back with custom-cut bed sheets, customized fly masks, as well as garlic juice and Bag Balm “lathered all over their legs”. Personally, Bernice allows herself the luxury of the Tucker saddle, provided by the company, which she says has done a great job.
The Ende team suffered a heart-rending setback several months ago in Austin when penned together, Essie Pearl kicked Bernice’s veteran mount, a Thoroughbred mare, and broke the horse’s leg. The Thoroughbred had to be put down. Well-wishers stepped forward to offer Bernice many mounts, and she picked Hart, the big Paint. Hart is green, but says Bernice, “by the time I get back to Montana, Hart’ll be broke.”
Riding tens of thousands of miles requires hands-on horsemanship skills, and Bernice credits 4-H with teaching her the important stuff.
“4-H is not just an organization. It is an American tradition. It takes the study of something and makes it applicable,” said Bernice. “It was instrumental in giving me the wherewithal to know how to do this.”
Bernice is in it for the long ride, and the lessons from the road. If she ever wrote a book (“I’ll get around to that some day.”), it would be about the “lessons of devotion and lessons of respect”, she learned through the special bond with her horses. “Respect yourself, and they will respect you,” says Bernice. “They’ll only trust you as much as you can trust yourself.”
The horses will occasionally lie down next to Bernice. Once, the Thoroughbred mare protected her from two hostile dogs. “She put her ears up and her head down, and just circled around me,” said Bernice.
Bernice dedicates all her rides to her mother, Cornelia Ende, who taught her daughter, “Live your life to inspire others, and you too shall be inspired.”"L
The people Bernice meets prove the truth of her mother’s words. “I just meet really good, kind people,” says Bernice. “If there’s a message in all this, it’s the goodness in our country. It’s an absolute miracle.”
If she happens to be in your town, Bernice does talks for pass-the-hat donations. You can check her website, mentioned above, for updates, or contact her at endehomebase@yahoo.com.
(Special thanks to Gregg Doster, who took the photos for this story.)
(Karin Livingston is a career 4-H horse leader. Winning Bet is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble online, IndieBound.org stores, on the Kindle/iPad (use the Kindle store), and to librarians and retailers through the Ingram Book Group.)
“Mom! Duke reared and he’s not getting up!”
I put down my hairbrush late Sunday afternoon, about half an hour before we were due to sing in church. My daughter’s words sent a chill down my spine. I ran down the stairs from my attic rooms, pulled on my MuckBoots, and dashed out the back door to the group turnouts. My daughter followed.
“What happened?” I tossed the question out as we ran.
“I was putting Billy away, and Duke was prancing around, and he reared and fell over,” she said. I wondered if Duke had somehow slipped in the snow in the next pen and knocked the wind out of himself.
We arrived at the gate and opened it. Duke, an almost black Thoroughbred gelding, lay on his right side. Two of the other horses stood around him, nudging him with their noses. A back leg quivered.
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I met two young people a few days ago who reminded me why I do this volunteer stuff, anyway.
Much like Pony Club or the Scouts, Colorado’s 4-H Horse Project offers an achievement program in which members demonstrate higher and higher levels of skill. In this case, we are talking about horse knowledge and riding skills.
As an “expert”, my job is to go out and test youngsters. The first brave soul, a young lady, age eight, was as young as you can be and still get into the 4-H horse program.
At the early levels, rules say young or small riders may ask for adult help with things like saddling, bridling, or picking up hooves, as long as they can tell the adult what to do.
This child dragged a three-step mounting block around for the “tall” work, and refused help with the saddle, even when offered.
It took a little longer, and her uncle jumped in when we thought the saddle would land on her head, but she insisted, “I can do it myself!”
And she did do it herself, with flying colors.
My second youngster tested a higher level.
I like to talk with the riders while we test. They tell great stories and the conversation builds their ability to describe why they are doing what they are doing, a requirement at the higher levels.
Not so usual in today’s text-messaging culture, this boy used clear, complete sentences, and words like “encouragement”, “proper”, and “ma’am”.
I looked at his test sheet. It said age 17. I wondered whether this was in fact, a very small 17-year-old. I was afraid to ask though, and cause the family embarrassment. The high vocabulary continued through a brushing demonstration.
Next, the boy asked his gelding to pick up a hoof. He struggled a bit with the pressure point on the fetlock. Finally the horse picked up its foot, and the boy said, “Thank you.” He thanked the horse many more times during the test.
I gave in to curiosity and asked, “How old are you?”
“Nine,” he said.
His mother had accidentally filled in his horse’s age, 17, for the boy’s age on the test form.
“I have known few nine-year-olds that use the words you use,” I said, scratching out the “17” on his age line. “Why do you always thank your horse?”
“Because we all like to be thanked,” he said.
Just a few days ago I rediscovered two of life’s important lessons from two of the real experts in 4-H.
((Karin Livingston was a career 4-H leader specializing in horses, and is the author of the young-adult horse novel, Winning Bet.)
