Friday, October 21, 2005, 20:05
Hoofing It
I feel drained. Worn out. Like I've been dragged through a knothole backwards. I guess that's what happens when you end up chasing a horse around the pasture for part of the morning when it's 40 degrees and cloudy and damp and misty.
The whole thing started the last week in August when I called the farrier out to trim Isabelle's feet. It was then that I discovered Isabelle was only 2 and that she'd never had her feet trimmed before (we were told she was a greenbroke 4-year-old). She didn't do anything bad. Didn't rear up. Didn't kick. Didn't bite. Didn't strike. She simply didn't know what the farrier wanted. And he lost his temper with her.
It was unfair. And unwarranted. How would he like it if someone roughed him up simply because he didn't know which door to use -- or where to hang his coat -- or which seat to sit on in a bus?
I decided right then and there that I should look for a different farrier. I do not want Isabelle to get the idea that having her feet trimmed is a bad thing. The horse is 2 -- and she could potentially be with me for the next 25 or 30 years. I would rather not have trimming her feet turn into an ordeal every time she needs them trimmed -- especially because somebody couldn't bother to be patient for a few moments with a youngster who, only a few days earlier, had never even had flyspray put on her.
One of the techs at the vet clinic saw this farrier's business card at a gas station, knew I was looking for another farrier, and picked up a card for me. So, I gave him a call yesterday, and he came out this morning.
I decided we would start with my 24-year-old gelding, Kajun. He's had his feet trimmed more than a hundred times in his lifetime and is so used to it that I don't even hardly have to hold his halter. He just stands there holding his foot up until the job is done and the farrier moves onto the next foot.
Right.
For whatever reason, this morning, Kajun decided he was terrified of the farrier. We managed to get his front feet done. Then he jerked away from me and took off out into his pasture.
Do you suppose the old fool would let me catch him?
Nope. No-way. No-how.
It was embarrassing.
Here's a horse who has had his feet trimmed so many times, and now he's acting like a complete idiot?
"Tell you what," I said. "Let's let him go for a while and do Isabelle's feet. I don't want him to get her all wound up, too."
In the meantime, Isabelle had been standing in her pasture, watching the proceedings with great interest. Horses are herd animals. And they take a lot of their cues for behavior from other members of the herd.
So, we went into Isabelle's pasture. The farrier petted her and talked to her for a few minutes. Then he picked up her front foot and went to work.
Isabelle stood there as patient as could be. When he finished with one front foot, he went on to the other front foot. She remained calm and serene.
When he picked up the first back foot, she was a little more unsure of what was going on, and in fact, she put her foot down when he had the nippers buried in her hoof, trying to nip it off. She put her foot down, realized she was standing on the nippers, then decided not to let it bother her. He picked up her foot, retrieved his nippers and finished the first hind foot.
Isabelle, bless her little heart, did not make the same mistake with the other hind foot but simply stood there, waiting for him to finish.
"Is this what she did with the other farrier?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "The only thing she did was try to pull her foot up when he started trimming her hind foot. And that's when he lost his temper."
"Amazing," the farrier said. "I'd hate to see what he'd do to a horse who was truly misbehaving."
I can't begin to tell you how proud I am of Isabelle. This is just the second time she's ever had her feet trimmed. And she was so good about it. The only thing she did when he started with the first foot was to reach forward and grab my coat sleeve and hold it in her teeth. It was almost like she was holding onto a security blanket. And once she realized it wasn't going to be any big deal, she let go of my sleeve.
By the time we finished Isabelle's feet, my old gelding had calmed down, and I figured we'd be able to get his hind feet done.
Right.
He was calm as long as we were in with Isabelle. As soon as we returned to his pasture, he lost his marbles again and started tearing around as if the devil himself were after him, head up, ears perked, nostrils flared, snorting in terror.
Ten minutes later we finally corned him in the barn.
"Maybe you'd better just try to pet him and let him calm down and leave it at that," I said. "I don't want this to end on a terrifying note for him."
The farrier agreed and spent the next 15 minutes petting Kajun and talking to him. The horse finally calmed down. I reached into my pocket for a couple of pieces of dog food. I always carry dog food in my pocket as treats for Charlie and Pixie, but Kajun likes it, too. He ate a couple of pieces from me. Then I gave a couple of pieces to the farrier. He ate it from the farrier's hand, too.
And what was Isabelle doing while all of this was going on? She apparently decided that Kajun was being a royal idiot, that it wasn't worth watching, and that she might just as well eat her hay.
Good. Chasing one horse around this morning was more than enough.
LeAnn R. Ralph
Thursday, October 20, 2005, 19:31
A Daring Escape
Wednesday morning I was sitting by the table with a cup of coffee when I looked out the window and saw my black tom kitty cat, Rocky, coming out of the brush at the edge of the yard, carrying something in his mouth.
Our Springer Spaniel, Charlie, saw Rocky, too.
I opened the door and went outside.
"What have you got Rocky?" I asked.
Rocky, who was one of the kittens I raised from newborns last year, dropped what he had in his mouth and looked up at me.
What Rocky had in his mouth -- as it turned out -- was a Junco.
The Juncoes have come up to the yard now that winter is approaching. Some people call them "snow birds" because they stay out in the fields when the weather is nice but when the snow flies, they spend the winter around yards. The Juncoes will stay around our yard until early May. Lately, I have been hearing them twittering in the brush. Sometimes a flock of them will descend on the lawn, hopping around, pecking, looking for what they can find to eat.
The little slate gray bird that Rocky had been holding in his mouth seized the opportunity of being let go from the jaws of a cat and flew underneath my pickup truck.
Of course, Rocky went right under there after him. Charlie, who on more than one occasion has taken mice away from the cats, circled around to the other side of the truck, just in case the junco should happen to fly out.
A moment later, Rocky came out carrying the Junco again.
I had no choice.
I threw up my arms and ran across the yard.
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGG!" I shouted.
Rocky took one look at me, dropped the Junco and ran. Charlie jumped back out of the way, as well.
Seizing another opportunity to save his own life, the Junco flew up into a tree and perched on a branch.
For the next 10 minutes, Charlie and Rocky circled around the truck, looking all over the place for that poor little Junco.
"He's up in a tree, safe and sound," I said to the dog and the cat. At least I hoped the Junco was safe and sound and not sitting up in the tree, having a heart attack.
Years ago, I read an article written by an animal researcher claiming that cats who are not taught by their mothers to hunt will never hunt. But that's not true. All cats will hunt. It's just that because Rocky did not have it drilled into his head from Day 1 that he is supposed to deliver the killing bite immediately upon catching his prey, he has a tendency to carry it around for a while first. Although, to tell you the truth, this was the first time I have ever seen Rocky with a bird in his mouth.
Later in the evening when I told Randy about the incident, he was impressed.
"I'm going to have take Rocky with me grouse hunting, seeing as he's got such a soft mouth," Randy said.
Can't you just see it? A small black cat going out with Randy, obediently trotting next to him, wearing one of those little orange vests people put on their bird-hunting dogs?
A few years ago, Randy rebuilt the platform bird feeders, and then we put them up on much higher posts so it would be more difficult for the cats to get up into the bird feeders. And it has worked well, too. I rarely find bird feathers around yard the anymore.
I hope the Junco learned a lesson from all of this: to be extremely vigilant when he is hopping around on the ground in the brush.
LeAnn R. Ralph