It turns out I wasn't as lucky as I'd thought when I invented the Superman dismount.
I cracked/broke an eyetooth that's part of a three point bridge - with a front tooth.
It happened that I'd been at the periodontist that morning, and was seeing the dentist two days later: I'm in the early stages of getting an implant for ANOTHER broken cap.
I'm pretty hard on my teeth.
I mentioned to the dentist that the bridge seemed a bit loose. He agreed, but hoped I'd just jarred the tooth a bit loose and that it would get better with time. However, he had his doubts and called the periodontist; I was back in seeing him a few days later.
He saw the crack, and sent me yet again back to the dentist... who agreed there's a crack, but can't tell how bad it is. Now I have an appointment next week where he'll attempt to remove the bridge to assess the damage, while trying not to do any further damage to either of the anchor teeth (the other one is loose, probably not being helped by being moved when the broken side moves).
He doesn't think it is going to go well. Sigh.
I'm looking forward to a few weeks of being a complete hillbilly hermit. Oh boy.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Dusty, ex-show horse
In Groton, there were apple orchards nearby where he could run, and trails to explore through woods dappled with sunlight. In the fall, the orchard owners let us take the "drops". There were two or three apple varieties planted: Macintosh, Delicious, maybe Cortland - I'm not too well-versed in apples. We would take empty bags over and as we were picking up the less bruised ones (for the horses - honest!) he and the other horses would be grazing in the treasure-laden grass, their steady chewing interrupted by occasional KERRRR-UNCHes as they found the half-hidden, juicy fruit.
One time we saw a deer in the orchard, standing at the top of one of the rows. Or at least I saw it - Dusty was giving the grass a loving glance. The deer saw us about the same time I saw her, stock-still, head high; the wind shifted and I think Dusty smelled the deer before he saw her. His head came up and he stared, mesmerized. I didn't know what to expect.
The deer turned and leaped away, and the next thing I knew Dusty was after her. I don't know if he wanted to say "hi" or if it was some long-latent cow-horse herding instinct kicking in, but it was exhilarating and fun and funny all at the same time. I hated to stop him, but the deer was far into the woods and whatever his reason for giving chase, it would have been fruitless. He obeyed, but kept looking back towards the spot he'd last seen her until we topped the next hill.
Dusty had become engaged with life; he cared that you groomed him, he loved his carrots and apples, he nickered at me when I came to see him. He'd calmed down and blossomed into the really sweet, trusting and loving horse he is to this day. The Lunatic Horse had morphed into a sweet and kind, loving and gentle good boy. I don't think it had been S's intention, but kicking us out had been the best thing she could do for Dusty.
Dusty at his barn in Groton:
Dusty on a trail ride. The trail had flooded:
In a postscript: S kept Bonnie for about 2 months, then sold her. After being unceremoniously shown the door for no good reason, and then hearing that she'd sold Bonnie when she had said she wouldn't, I stopped speaking with S for about 5 years. I learned Bonnie's fate later, when we were again on speaking terms.
The woman who bought her was well-intentioned but a newbie owner. She boarded her, and Bonnie had been turned out in a field where they had electric heated water troughs. The one in her turnout went dry and shorted out. She got shocked and then refused to drink for a number of days, but no one realized it until she had a bad colic. She never really fully recovered.
S eventually took her back after a few years, I'm not really sure why. When she got her back, Bonnie's hooves and feet - and Bonnie had had GREAT feet - were a complete mess.
We eventually spoke again (S admitting what a complete bitch she'd been went a long way towards reconciliation; she'd got her indoor ring and new barn in the meantime) and that was when I heard about Bonnie's situation. I visited with her, and she seemed to remember me - or at least the carrots I brought.
She'd been my first horse who would do the "Kiss for Carrots" trick (Dusty knows it too), and my face was covered with orange slobber by the time I ran out of them. I brushed her; she'd always had the most beautiful shiny blood bay coat. Even when she was filthy, that coat shone. She made all the appreciative faces I remembered as I found the "right spots". It was good to see her again. She seemed to be doing pretty well all in all, and I was glad S had got her back.
One day S told me that Bonnie was just in too much pain, that just standing was hard - she'd lost the spark in her eye and her interest in food. S was going to have her put down. Bonnie was 16 years old. She and Dusty were almost exactly the same age - 10 days separated their births. Was it really nine years ago? My gosh.
I got to say goodbye and overload her with carrots a few days before - for carrots, she roused herself. S wouldn't tell me the exact day it would happen, she didn't want me to be there crying, making her cry. She called me when it was done.
Soon after, I moved Dusty back with S, and we were there until I was thrown out again. :) Well, she decided she didn't want to be involved with horses any more, they wanted to sell their place, so Dusty and I had to move along.
One time we saw a deer in the orchard, standing at the top of one of the rows. Or at least I saw it - Dusty was giving the grass a loving glance. The deer saw us about the same time I saw her, stock-still, head high; the wind shifted and I think Dusty smelled the deer before he saw her. His head came up and he stared, mesmerized. I didn't know what to expect.
The deer turned and leaped away, and the next thing I knew Dusty was after her. I don't know if he wanted to say "hi" or if it was some long-latent cow-horse herding instinct kicking in, but it was exhilarating and fun and funny all at the same time. I hated to stop him, but the deer was far into the woods and whatever his reason for giving chase, it would have been fruitless. He obeyed, but kept looking back towards the spot he'd last seen her until we topped the next hill.
Dusty had become engaged with life; he cared that you groomed him, he loved his carrots and apples, he nickered at me when I came to see him. He'd calmed down and blossomed into the really sweet, trusting and loving horse he is to this day. The Lunatic Horse had morphed into a sweet and kind, loving and gentle good boy. I don't think it had been S's intention, but kicking us out had been the best thing she could do for Dusty.
Dusty at his barn in Groton:
Dusty on a trail ride. The trail had flooded:
In a postscript: S kept Bonnie for about 2 months, then sold her. After being unceremoniously shown the door for no good reason, and then hearing that she'd sold Bonnie when she had said she wouldn't, I stopped speaking with S for about 5 years. I learned Bonnie's fate later, when we were again on speaking terms.
The woman who bought her was well-intentioned but a newbie owner. She boarded her, and Bonnie had been turned out in a field where they had electric heated water troughs. The one in her turnout went dry and shorted out. She got shocked and then refused to drink for a number of days, but no one realized it until she had a bad colic. She never really fully recovered.
S eventually took her back after a few years, I'm not really sure why. When she got her back, Bonnie's hooves and feet - and Bonnie had had GREAT feet - were a complete mess.
We eventually spoke again (S admitting what a complete bitch she'd been went a long way towards reconciliation; she'd got her indoor ring and new barn in the meantime) and that was when I heard about Bonnie's situation. I visited with her, and she seemed to remember me - or at least the carrots I brought.
She'd been my first horse who would do the "Kiss for Carrots" trick (Dusty knows it too), and my face was covered with orange slobber by the time I ran out of them. I brushed her; she'd always had the most beautiful shiny blood bay coat. Even when she was filthy, that coat shone. She made all the appreciative faces I remembered as I found the "right spots". It was good to see her again. She seemed to be doing pretty well all in all, and I was glad S had got her back.
One day S told me that Bonnie was just in too much pain, that just standing was hard - she'd lost the spark in her eye and her interest in food. S was going to have her put down. Bonnie was 16 years old. She and Dusty were almost exactly the same age - 10 days separated their births. Was it really nine years ago? My gosh.
I got to say goodbye and overload her with carrots a few days before - for carrots, she roused herself. S wouldn't tell me the exact day it would happen, she didn't want me to be there crying, making her cry. She called me when it was done.
Soon after, I moved Dusty back with S, and we were there until I was thrown out again. :) Well, she decided she didn't want to be involved with horses any more, they wanted to sell their place, so Dusty and I had to move along.
Dusty, more history, Part Deux
Truthfully, I was enjoying riding him even though the shows were stressful, and though he could be flaky - my nickname for him at the time was "The Lunatic Horse". I was only allowed to ride him a day or so before a show - S would "tune us up". So there was no real "getting to know you" time, but still I could appreciate his level of training and his wonderful naturally collected gaits. And given how clueless I could be, he was a pretty forgiving horse - which I appreciated as well.
He didn't sell that year. And he was still having lameness problems. I'm not positive, it was a long time ago, but I believe she had his hocks injected again.
The following year our show career together didn't begin well. It was a blustery April morning, and just as we entered the ring the wind came up and the three flags on the entry booth, which was right next to the ring, snapped. It sounded like guns going off.
Our entrance was spectacular; I think we covered the entire circumference of that ring in about two seconds. I finally got Dusty down to a close approximation of a walk-jog; he was on his tiptoes with his eyes bugging out. He was definitely not the epitome of "push button".
They closed the gate, and the class started. I think it was "Palomino Pleasure".
"Trot or Jog, please."
As soon as the announcer uttered those words, we took off at a gallop again.
I realized that our pinning in this class was not to be, and when I managed to bring him back to a more controlled gait we moved into the center of the ring to get out of the way of the saner horses... where Dusty proceeded to rear and hop around about four feet from the judge. I don't think the judge was happy - he kept glancing over his shoulder, which no doubt made it difficult to judge the class.
In the interest of safety - the judge's in particular, and everyone else's in general, the ring steward let me out of the ring as quickly as they could.
Luckily for me, S had her own dramas going on with her baby, Tuffy. She'd put Halter Class makeup on his face and he'd proceeded to wipe it on her beige Stetson. She was NOT amused, but since I was on Dusty, her all-suffering husband took the brunt of the abuse.
Happily enough, the judge we nearly squashed, despite his brush with death, actually liked Dusty. He pinned us in the rest of our classes - though to be fair Dusty *had* settled down and was being his usual pretty-moving self, so it wasn't completely surprising.
Dusty and I muddled through that season, and we endured a little less abuse because S was showing Tuffy so didn't have the time to obsess about what I was doing wrong. About half-way through it, she made me an offer: she'd trade Dusty for Bonnie Scamp plus money. I didn't think I could do it at first; but she said Bonnie would have a forever home, I'd see her every day.
So I bought Dusty. And though we finished out the season and won Year End awards for Palomino Pleasure and Quarter Horse Hunter Under Saddle that year, he never showed again - and I'm pretty sure he didn't miss it. He was 13.
While all this was going on, around 1993 or so S and her husband had sold their place and bought a place with more land, further north and west in Massachusetts. She was supposed to get an indoor but they weren't able to afford it right away.
The horses were cozy enough in a temporary barn building, but that wasn't *her dream*, and she was making every one in her general vicinity miserable about it. I'm almost positive a lot of her behavior at horse shows and in private was due to her deep disappointment about not having her indoor and attached barn, and I'm truly surprised her husband didn't divorce her back then.
Anyway, in another fit of pique, she kicked Dusty and I out of her barn soon after I bought him, and I moved him to a place in Groton where he learned to be a regular horse. Though our first trail ride was less than auspicious, it was soon obvious he loved his new life.
Part Trois, to follow...
He didn't sell that year. And he was still having lameness problems. I'm not positive, it was a long time ago, but I believe she had his hocks injected again.
The following year our show career together didn't begin well. It was a blustery April morning, and just as we entered the ring the wind came up and the three flags on the entry booth, which was right next to the ring, snapped. It sounded like guns going off.
Our entrance was spectacular; I think we covered the entire circumference of that ring in about two seconds. I finally got Dusty down to a close approximation of a walk-jog; he was on his tiptoes with his eyes bugging out. He was definitely not the epitome of "push button".
They closed the gate, and the class started. I think it was "Palomino Pleasure".
"Trot or Jog, please."
As soon as the announcer uttered those words, we took off at a gallop again.
I realized that our pinning in this class was not to be, and when I managed to bring him back to a more controlled gait we moved into the center of the ring to get out of the way of the saner horses... where Dusty proceeded to rear and hop around about four feet from the judge. I don't think the judge was happy - he kept glancing over his shoulder, which no doubt made it difficult to judge the class.
In the interest of safety - the judge's in particular, and everyone else's in general, the ring steward let me out of the ring as quickly as they could.
Luckily for me, S had her own dramas going on with her baby, Tuffy. She'd put Halter Class makeup on his face and he'd proceeded to wipe it on her beige Stetson. She was NOT amused, but since I was on Dusty, her all-suffering husband took the brunt of the abuse.
Happily enough, the judge we nearly squashed, despite his brush with death, actually liked Dusty. He pinned us in the rest of our classes - though to be fair Dusty *had* settled down and was being his usual pretty-moving self, so it wasn't completely surprising.
Dusty and I muddled through that season, and we endured a little less abuse because S was showing Tuffy so didn't have the time to obsess about what I was doing wrong. About half-way through it, she made me an offer: she'd trade Dusty for Bonnie Scamp plus money. I didn't think I could do it at first; but she said Bonnie would have a forever home, I'd see her every day.
So I bought Dusty. And though we finished out the season and won Year End awards for Palomino Pleasure and Quarter Horse Hunter Under Saddle that year, he never showed again - and I'm pretty sure he didn't miss it. He was 13.
While all this was going on, around 1993 or so S and her husband had sold their place and bought a place with more land, further north and west in Massachusetts. She was supposed to get an indoor but they weren't able to afford it right away.
The horses were cozy enough in a temporary barn building, but that wasn't *her dream*, and she was making every one in her general vicinity miserable about it. I'm almost positive a lot of her behavior at horse shows and in private was due to her deep disappointment about not having her indoor and attached barn, and I'm truly surprised her husband didn't divorce her back then.
Anyway, in another fit of pique, she kicked Dusty and I out of her barn soon after I bought him, and I moved him to a place in Groton where he learned to be a regular horse. Though our first trail ride was less than auspicious, it was soon obvious he loved his new life.
Part Trois, to follow...
Dusty, more history
The first year S had Dusty, he was everything she hoped he'd be: they won class after class, and took home championships and year-end awards in AA rated shows, Massachusetts and New England. The following year was pretty much the same.
Dusty in Massachusetts, now owned by S:
Then Dusty started having lameness problems. These frustrated S, and she started to get irritable. At shows, she'd have temper tantrums by the trailer if anyone, human or animal, annoyed her in any way. One time, it was the night before a show, she was in his stall banding his mane. She had given him a flake of hay to keep him occupied and quiet.I was there in the stall with them, she and I chatting and Dusty quietly eating. It was a very pleasant evening; until Dusty, in quest of a more delectable bit of hay and in his own world, moved his foot... and stepped on hers.
The screech scared ME. The sheer volume hurt my ears. I think poor Dusty nearly had a heart attack, and he didn't know what had happened. He cowered in the corner, wild-eyed.
I've been stepped on before. Yes, it hurts. But good god almighty, that was simply uncalled for.
Her sudden outbursts were taking a toll on him. He started getting jumpy, and she started to not like him - he wasn't "push button" any more. She'd had his hocks injected in the off-season and he was still getting ribbons, but he always seemed tense, not sure when the next outburst would happen.
Then at one show he bucked her off outside the gate. I was at that show but not present for the wild west exhibition; she said he did it on purpose and she couldn't trust him anymore.
Oh, please. I truly believe he was stung or startled by something. He has never been mean, even when he was scared.
So that was pretty much the end of Dusty for her, even though she had him for a couple of years more. She rode him to the end of that show season, but her temper was always at the boil, and he was always on tenterhooks - as we all were - around her.
The following year she got herself a Palomino baby to show in hand, and she asked me to show Dusty for her, towards getting him sold. I did, but I've never been much into showing - Bonnie hated it and it was a lot of effort for... a lot of effort. And with S so focused on getting Dusty a buyer, if I wasn't doing what she expected of me she would scream at me from the rails, which was embarrassing. I only rode hunt-seat at the time, so the rest of Western Pleasure King Dusty's show career was English, not Western.
We still managed to pull in a couple of year-end awards, but with more reds than blues in total - and that was a disappointment to S as well.
I've decided to break this one up into pieces. Part 2 to follow...
Dusty in Massachusetts, now owned by S:
Then Dusty started having lameness problems. These frustrated S, and she started to get irritable. At shows, she'd have temper tantrums by the trailer if anyone, human or animal, annoyed her in any way. One time, it was the night before a show, she was in his stall banding his mane. She had given him a flake of hay to keep him occupied and quiet.I was there in the stall with them, she and I chatting and Dusty quietly eating. It was a very pleasant evening; until Dusty, in quest of a more delectable bit of hay and in his own world, moved his foot... and stepped on hers.
The screech scared ME. The sheer volume hurt my ears. I think poor Dusty nearly had a heart attack, and he didn't know what had happened. He cowered in the corner, wild-eyed.
I've been stepped on before. Yes, it hurts. But good god almighty, that was simply uncalled for.
Her sudden outbursts were taking a toll on him. He started getting jumpy, and she started to not like him - he wasn't "push button" any more. She'd had his hocks injected in the off-season and he was still getting ribbons, but he always seemed tense, not sure when the next outburst would happen.
Then at one show he bucked her off outside the gate. I was at that show but not present for the wild west exhibition; she said he did it on purpose and she couldn't trust him anymore.
Oh, please. I truly believe he was stung or startled by something. He has never been mean, even when he was scared.
So that was pretty much the end of Dusty for her, even though she had him for a couple of years more. She rode him to the end of that show season, but her temper was always at the boil, and he was always on tenterhooks - as we all were - around her.
The following year she got herself a Palomino baby to show in hand, and she asked me to show Dusty for her, towards getting him sold. I did, but I've never been much into showing - Bonnie hated it and it was a lot of effort for... a lot of effort. And with S so focused on getting Dusty a buyer, if I wasn't doing what she expected of me she would scream at me from the rails, which was embarrassing. I only rode hunt-seat at the time, so the rest of Western Pleasure King Dusty's show career was English, not Western.
We still managed to pull in a couple of year-end awards, but with more reds than blues in total - and that was a disappointment to S as well.
I've decided to break this one up into pieces. Part 2 to follow...
A bit about Dusty
Dusty is a double-registered Palomino Quarter Horse, registered name "Ima Cute Lad". He's 25 years old now; I met him when he was seven. S, the woman I was taking riding lessons with, and at that time leasing Bonnie Scamp from, bought him. She'd been showing in Palomino and Quarter Horse shows but not winning, and S didn't like not winning.
S was told about Dusty by the daughter of a friend of hers. The girl, K, was working at an Appaloosa show barn in Virginia as an apprentice trainer. K had worked with Dusty and liked him, and knew he was for sale.
This was Dusty with his former owner, before S:
S was desperate for a "winning" horse, and all she heard about Dusty made her think this was the horse for her. She was very excited about seeing him, and she and her husband drove down to Virginia - a huge thing, she *hates* to travel.
She didn't expect his color.
Dusty is not the flashiest of Palominos. He's sort of beige. In the winter, he's a uniform beige, mane, tail and coat; in the summer he gets a bit of a pink gold tinge to him so his mane and tail stand out a bit more.
S almost didn't buy Dusty because of his color. It was Virginia and hot, and his coat was almost completely bleached out from the sun. He didn't look like anything special, and certainly not like something that would catch a judge's eye.
But then she rode him.
Dusty *floated*. He was Western Pleasure trained, but this was 1990 so he didn't move in the abominable broken-legged-spider gaits that became "standard" a few years later. His poll was level, his nose wasn't dragging on the ground; he naturally collected and he just always looked happy: ears forward, long tail wagging. His tail dragged on the ground back then.
He was the "push-button" horse she'd always dreamt about. She even took him out of the indoor ring and out for a trail ride; he was willing and happy. She found out later that no one had ever ridden him for a trail ride around the property before.
He was even then a very sweet guy, and they used him as "Uncle Dusty" for the newly weaned babies. He'd take care of them but not take any guff from any of them. He helped them cope with being separated from their mommies and then, without hurting them, taught them the rules of the herd.
He was sweet, but he was reserved, aloof. S didn't want a personality though, she wanted "fresh blood", a horse she could show up with at the shows and knock their socks off.
So Dusty came home to Massachusetts.
I met him soon afterwards. I wasn't impressed at first: he was skinny and small and built like a thoroughbred and didn't look as flashy and chunky as her other Palomino had been, Mister Bid Hancock. I was shocked that she'd sell Bid (to a trail riding owner who absolutely loved him, so he ended up finding his niche) in order to buy *this* horse.
And Dusty was so tuned out - he seemed to not want any attention, Even more shocking to me: he apparently had never seen a carrot. Or an apple. Or any kind of treat.
Well, this was totally unnatural.
I had my Bonnie Scamp (I'd bought her) to give treats to, but I felt awful for this little beige guy who didn't even know he was missing an experience other horses completely prostitute themselves for. I'd offer him carrots; he'd sniff a bit suspiciously, and turn his head away. S and I would laugh about how this horse didn't have a clue what they were, and she'd say (though not completely joking) "don't you go teaching him about treats! I want my toy horse to stay a toy!"
I didn't give up though - carrots are a God-given right for horses, a reward for having to do what we tell them. One day he gingerly took a bit in his mouth and crunched. His big golden-brown eyes lit up.
I'd turned him to the Dark Side.
More about Dusty in the next posting.
Dusty on his 25th birthday, this past April. Some friends from work came out to help us celebrate with carrots and apples. Dusty's pal Pongo helped Dusty celebrate, too.
S was told about Dusty by the daughter of a friend of hers. The girl, K, was working at an Appaloosa show barn in Virginia as an apprentice trainer. K had worked with Dusty and liked him, and knew he was for sale.
This was Dusty with his former owner, before S:
S was desperate for a "winning" horse, and all she heard about Dusty made her think this was the horse for her. She was very excited about seeing him, and she and her husband drove down to Virginia - a huge thing, she *hates* to travel.
She didn't expect his color.
Dusty is not the flashiest of Palominos. He's sort of beige. In the winter, he's a uniform beige, mane, tail and coat; in the summer he gets a bit of a pink gold tinge to him so his mane and tail stand out a bit more.
S almost didn't buy Dusty because of his color. It was Virginia and hot, and his coat was almost completely bleached out from the sun. He didn't look like anything special, and certainly not like something that would catch a judge's eye.
But then she rode him.
Dusty *floated*. He was Western Pleasure trained, but this was 1990 so he didn't move in the abominable broken-legged-spider gaits that became "standard" a few years later. His poll was level, his nose wasn't dragging on the ground; he naturally collected and he just always looked happy: ears forward, long tail wagging. His tail dragged on the ground back then.
He was the "push-button" horse she'd always dreamt about. She even took him out of the indoor ring and out for a trail ride; he was willing and happy. She found out later that no one had ever ridden him for a trail ride around the property before.
He was even then a very sweet guy, and they used him as "Uncle Dusty" for the newly weaned babies. He'd take care of them but not take any guff from any of them. He helped them cope with being separated from their mommies and then, without hurting them, taught them the rules of the herd.
He was sweet, but he was reserved, aloof. S didn't want a personality though, she wanted "fresh blood", a horse she could show up with at the shows and knock their socks off.
So Dusty came home to Massachusetts.
I met him soon afterwards. I wasn't impressed at first: he was skinny and small and built like a thoroughbred and didn't look as flashy and chunky as her other Palomino had been, Mister Bid Hancock. I was shocked that she'd sell Bid (to a trail riding owner who absolutely loved him, so he ended up finding his niche) in order to buy *this* horse.
And Dusty was so tuned out - he seemed to not want any attention, Even more shocking to me: he apparently had never seen a carrot. Or an apple. Or any kind of treat.
Well, this was totally unnatural.
I had my Bonnie Scamp (I'd bought her) to give treats to, but I felt awful for this little beige guy who didn't even know he was missing an experience other horses completely prostitute themselves for. I'd offer him carrots; he'd sniff a bit suspiciously, and turn his head away. S and I would laugh about how this horse didn't have a clue what they were, and she'd say (though not completely joking) "don't you go teaching him about treats! I want my toy horse to stay a toy!"
I didn't give up though - carrots are a God-given right for horses, a reward for having to do what we tell them. One day he gingerly took a bit in his mouth and crunched. His big golden-brown eyes lit up.
I'd turned him to the Dark Side.
More about Dusty in the next posting.
Dusty on his 25th birthday, this past April. Some friends from work came out to help us celebrate with carrots and apples. Dusty's pal Pongo helped Dusty celebrate, too.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Buzz
When I was around 11 or 12, a fellow-horse crazy friend named Cherrie told me about this old guy who had horses and ponies, and who would let you ride them if you cleaned the horse and it's stall. It happened that he was renting the barn that belonged to another friend, Karen's, grandmother.
This was tantamount to heaven on earth for a horse-poor daughter of clinging-to-lower-middle class parents.
And so I came to meet Buzz.
Buzz had prepubescent and pubescent girls fluttering around him like bees around apple blossoms. Before you jump to any conclusions: he wasn't a pedophile - unless pedophiles endear themselves to children by saying things like "Hey, chicken legs - where the hell do you think you're going with that horse, did you brush his tail?" or "Get back on that goddamned horse, you goddamned farmer!" He loved his horses; young girls on the other hand - with their high-pitched voices and daily dramas - he sometimes barely tolerated.
I think of him as a New England cowboy - and a real oldstyle horseman. He didn't ride any more by the time I met him, but was keeping around all his old horses because he owed it to them, I think. Occasionally too, he would add to the herd after trips to the Shrewsbury auction on tack or supply runs. He didn't have a trailer, he'd just toss the horse into the bed of his pickup and bring it home.
Days he worked as a meat packer at the Finast Supermarkets, unloading sides of frozen beef from trucks. He'd start work at 5AM, and then he'd come to the barn around 3-3:30 in the afternoon to open up - the door was padlocked shut.
He liked his beer, and after a six-pack or two he sometimes would tell us stories of his riding days. One that I still remember was about his beloved Harry the Horse, a big paint he'd ride to the Oaks, a bar in Billerica. He said he and Harry would both get shitfaced drunk - apparently they served horses there. Then he would laugh, and say that one time, when riding home along the Shawsheen River after an evening at the Oaks, he and Harry tipped over and fell in. He'd laugh, take a sip of his Schlitz, and say "Harry was a hell of a horse..."
In hindsight, I have to say that he had a pretty sick sense of humor: "Harry the Horse"? "Little Richard" (a stud hackney pony he usually referred to as "Little Dick")? But it all went way over my head back then - I was pretty naive.
Every afternoon when Buzz arrived, speeding up the dirt drive in his Chevy pickup, we'd be waiting. The horses would be too: we could hear them nickering their greetings from inside. He'd unpadlock the bolt and slide the two doors wide, letting in the fresh air and sunlight.
Then they'd be set free: he'd go to each stall, open the stall door, take them by their halters to the opened door and let them go, standing back to watch each one of them gallop out into the unfenced field, tails up, manes streaming, nostrils flaring.
There was about 15 acres of land, and those horses and ponies never wandered off it. The newly-added horses would stay with the herd, and he never had to chase down a horse who'd gone walkabout.
It never occurred to me at the time that any of this was odd - the fenceless turnout, the horses locked up tight until 3 or 3:30 in the afternoon - I was a kid, it was what it was.
The horses didn't seem to care, either - or not that I remember. Maybe I'm just romanticizing it: knowing what I know about horses now, I can't imagine there NOT being a lot of neighing and kicking and carrying on to be let out FIRST.
Instead what I remember is feeling an incredible thrill standing next to Buzz to watch them running, kicking, bucking, and cavorting with each other. We were blessed to witness it, and we knew it: young and old, they drank in the glorious smells of grass and trees and flowers; they channelled their inner wild horse - and we got to watch.
It was and continues to be a sight that takes my breath away.
As for letting us ride: Buzz had a rule. Well actually, he had a lot of rules and some of them we actually followed - at least when we were within his eyesight. I'm pretty sure he knew about our transgressions too, but he never let on. We really were brats.
But this one rule was one we couldn't bend: no saddles - he didn't want us falling and getting our feet caught in the stirrup and dragged.
The "falling" part was a given; the dragged part was what he was interested in avoiding. So we all rode bareback.
That wasn't to say he just said "Here, clean this horse - clean his stall - you're good to go, have fun!" Nope. You had to *earn* the right to ride one of his animals.
Buzz had a system to cull out the dilletantes in his gaggle of horse-crazy sycophants: It was named Zero.
Zero was a paint pony of about 13hh, with the attitude of Godzilla with a hangover.
Zero hated little girls. While grooming him, he'd try to bite you, kick you, and stomp on your feet. Once you'd finished, and after Buzz had inspected him for cleanliness and an untangled tail, the real fun began.
This was the routine:
Lead Zero out to the driveway, keeping his teeth an arms distance away from your body. Gather up the reins, grab a hunk of mane, and face his back.
Block his attempt to bite your butt. Watch his hind leg for a muscle twitch heralding an attempt to kick you in the leg.
Chase Zero around as he does spins on the forehand, all the while trying to cow-kick your knee.
After about 10 rotations, launch yourself at his back.
If you're lucky you get on and don't flip over his back to the other side, because he stops spinning the moment you're airborn, and he'll stomp you if you're on the ground.
Wrap your legs as tightly around his fat belly as you can and hold on to that hunk of mane, because the next thing that happens is you're on a pony who's galloping across the field bee-lining for some trees to knock you off on, meanwhile tossing in a few bucks and crow-hops just to let you know he can.
Zero was the great equalizer.
I'm proud to say I survived him - many fell by the wayside - literally and figuratively - and were so disheartened they were never seen at the barn again.
Those of us who managed to survive Zero and kept coming back - and that's not to say we didn't fall by the wayside literally ourselves, we just were too stubborn to give in - were offered another mount after a couple of weeks.
For Karen, Cherrie, and myself, it was Oscar.
I'll continue about Buzz in another post.
This was tantamount to heaven on earth for a horse-poor daughter of clinging-to-lower-middle class parents.
And so I came to meet Buzz.
Buzz had prepubescent and pubescent girls fluttering around him like bees around apple blossoms. Before you jump to any conclusions: he wasn't a pedophile - unless pedophiles endear themselves to children by saying things like "Hey, chicken legs - where the hell do you think you're going with that horse, did you brush his tail?" or "Get back on that goddamned horse, you goddamned farmer!" He loved his horses; young girls on the other hand - with their high-pitched voices and daily dramas - he sometimes barely tolerated.
I think of him as a New England cowboy - and a real oldstyle horseman. He didn't ride any more by the time I met him, but was keeping around all his old horses because he owed it to them, I think. Occasionally too, he would add to the herd after trips to the Shrewsbury auction on tack or supply runs. He didn't have a trailer, he'd just toss the horse into the bed of his pickup and bring it home.
Days he worked as a meat packer at the Finast Supermarkets, unloading sides of frozen beef from trucks. He'd start work at 5AM, and then he'd come to the barn around 3-3:30 in the afternoon to open up - the door was padlocked shut.
He liked his beer, and after a six-pack or two he sometimes would tell us stories of his riding days. One that I still remember was about his beloved Harry the Horse, a big paint he'd ride to the Oaks, a bar in Billerica. He said he and Harry would both get shitfaced drunk - apparently they served horses there. Then he would laugh, and say that one time, when riding home along the Shawsheen River after an evening at the Oaks, he and Harry tipped over and fell in. He'd laugh, take a sip of his Schlitz, and say "Harry was a hell of a horse..."
In hindsight, I have to say that he had a pretty sick sense of humor: "Harry the Horse"? "Little Richard" (a stud hackney pony he usually referred to as "Little Dick")? But it all went way over my head back then - I was pretty naive.
Every afternoon when Buzz arrived, speeding up the dirt drive in his Chevy pickup, we'd be waiting. The horses would be too: we could hear them nickering their greetings from inside. He'd unpadlock the bolt and slide the two doors wide, letting in the fresh air and sunlight.
Then they'd be set free: he'd go to each stall, open the stall door, take them by their halters to the opened door and let them go, standing back to watch each one of them gallop out into the unfenced field, tails up, manes streaming, nostrils flaring.
There was about 15 acres of land, and those horses and ponies never wandered off it. The newly-added horses would stay with the herd, and he never had to chase down a horse who'd gone walkabout.
It never occurred to me at the time that any of this was odd - the fenceless turnout, the horses locked up tight until 3 or 3:30 in the afternoon - I was a kid, it was what it was.
The horses didn't seem to care, either - or not that I remember. Maybe I'm just romanticizing it: knowing what I know about horses now, I can't imagine there NOT being a lot of neighing and kicking and carrying on to be let out FIRST.
Instead what I remember is feeling an incredible thrill standing next to Buzz to watch them running, kicking, bucking, and cavorting with each other. We were blessed to witness it, and we knew it: young and old, they drank in the glorious smells of grass and trees and flowers; they channelled their inner wild horse - and we got to watch.
It was and continues to be a sight that takes my breath away.
As for letting us ride: Buzz had a rule. Well actually, he had a lot of rules and some of them we actually followed - at least when we were within his eyesight. I'm pretty sure he knew about our transgressions too, but he never let on. We really were brats.
But this one rule was one we couldn't bend: no saddles - he didn't want us falling and getting our feet caught in the stirrup and dragged.
The "falling" part was a given; the dragged part was what he was interested in avoiding. So we all rode bareback.
That wasn't to say he just said "Here, clean this horse - clean his stall - you're good to go, have fun!" Nope. You had to *earn* the right to ride one of his animals.
Buzz had a system to cull out the dilletantes in his gaggle of horse-crazy sycophants: It was named Zero.
Zero was a paint pony of about 13hh, with the attitude of Godzilla with a hangover.
Zero hated little girls. While grooming him, he'd try to bite you, kick you, and stomp on your feet. Once you'd finished, and after Buzz had inspected him for cleanliness and an untangled tail, the real fun began.
This was the routine:
Lead Zero out to the driveway, keeping his teeth an arms distance away from your body. Gather up the reins, grab a hunk of mane, and face his back.
Block his attempt to bite your butt. Watch his hind leg for a muscle twitch heralding an attempt to kick you in the leg.
Chase Zero around as he does spins on the forehand, all the while trying to cow-kick your knee.
After about 10 rotations, launch yourself at his back.
If you're lucky you get on and don't flip over his back to the other side, because he stops spinning the moment you're airborn, and he'll stomp you if you're on the ground.
Wrap your legs as tightly around his fat belly as you can and hold on to that hunk of mane, because the next thing that happens is you're on a pony who's galloping across the field bee-lining for some trees to knock you off on, meanwhile tossing in a few bucks and crow-hops just to let you know he can.
Zero was the great equalizer.
I'm proud to say I survived him - many fell by the wayside - literally and figuratively - and were so disheartened they were never seen at the barn again.
Those of us who managed to survive Zero and kept coming back - and that's not to say we didn't fall by the wayside literally ourselves, we just were too stubborn to give in - were offered another mount after a couple of weeks.
For Karen, Cherrie, and myself, it was Oscar.
I'll continue about Buzz in another post.
The Posse
There's a group of us at the barn who hang out together. We're women of a certain age. We don't have show ring aspirations; we're content to ride and to hang around and shoot the breeze. What we have in common is a love for our horses, despite their imperfections.
When we first started hanging out together, we jokingly referred to ourselves as "The Pussy Posse". That's been shortened to "The Posse" with a little nudge-and-wink look, the naughtiness unsaid but implied. We crack ourselves up.
Some of us have never really had girl friends before - for myself, I always was more of a guy friend gal. :) Women were too bitchy, too backstabbing - not to be trusted. Men could be untrustworthy too, of course... but you almost always knew where you stood with them.
So it was guy pals for me; guys and my horse. Horses, when Tico came into the picture. Hmmm, they're both guys...well, minus a couple of parts...
When I moved my boys to their current abode in Dunstable, Crystal Farm, it was really the first time I had them somewhere where there were friendly, adult women - some even nearly as old as I am. I started to realize that, at the very least, there were HORSE women who were cool.
Soon after, the Posse was born.
Here are some of us... Linda and Avita, the cutest little chestnut Morgan mare you'll ever see, are missing . )c:
Elaine and Rascal, Dorothy and Pongo, Suzanne and River, and myself and himself.
We ride together every weekend, if we manage to all show up at the same time. If we don't, it's not a big deal. We know we're there for each other: we share our family issues, work issues, concerns about our horses and worries about life in general. We're all smart, opinionated ladies and we share our opinions. We worry about each other.
It's a nice thing.
Some of the Posse got together last night and shared a PuPu Platter and had yummy Chinese Restaurant-style libations. We ate, drank, and laughed our asses off.
Some of us couldn't make it: family obligations, or too tired after a stressful week at work. They were missed, but spoken of fondly.
Women can be cool. Who knew?
When we first started hanging out together, we jokingly referred to ourselves as "The Pussy Posse". That's been shortened to "The Posse" with a little nudge-and-wink look, the naughtiness unsaid but implied. We crack ourselves up.
Some of us have never really had girl friends before - for myself, I always was more of a guy friend gal. :) Women were too bitchy, too backstabbing - not to be trusted. Men could be untrustworthy too, of course... but you almost always knew where you stood with them.
So it was guy pals for me; guys and my horse. Horses, when Tico came into the picture. Hmmm, they're both guys...well, minus a couple of parts...
When I moved my boys to their current abode in Dunstable, Crystal Farm, it was really the first time I had them somewhere where there were friendly, adult women - some even nearly as old as I am. I started to realize that, at the very least, there were HORSE women who were cool.
Soon after, the Posse was born.
Here are some of us... Linda and Avita, the cutest little chestnut Morgan mare you'll ever see, are missing . )c:
Elaine and Rascal, Dorothy and Pongo, Suzanne and River, and myself and himself.
We ride together every weekend, if we manage to all show up at the same time. If we don't, it's not a big deal. We know we're there for each other: we share our family issues, work issues, concerns about our horses and worries about life in general. We're all smart, opinionated ladies and we share our opinions. We worry about each other.
It's a nice thing.
Some of the Posse got together last night and shared a PuPu Platter and had yummy Chinese Restaurant-style libations. We ate, drank, and laughed our asses off.
Some of us couldn't make it: family obligations, or too tired after a stressful week at work. They were missed, but spoken of fondly.
Women can be cool. Who knew?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
A Tico Story From September 2005
I got Tico in July 2005, and moved him and Dusty to a new barn soon after. I managed to find a barn close to a state forest with trail access, and close to my house. It turned out to be a not-so-great place and I moved them out the following March, but at the time it seemed ideal.
Tico was and is sweet (though mischievous), and can sit around for months and then ridden without ever needing to lunge him. I know this because he was barely ridden at all - no more than 10 times - in the year prior to my buying him, and most of those times it was by me.
At the time of this story, this was important because I was seven days away from hip replacement surgery. I was not going to be getting on him again for a while after this ride.
Anyway, back to September, 2005.
Like most people here in the northeast, I'd been suffering through a steamy bug-choked summer. There were trails tantalizingly close - something I hadn't had in a long time - but they were chock full of hungry and marauding gangs of deer flies, horse flies, mosquitos and all things buzzy and bitey.
In one earlier but soon-aborted attempt at a trail ride I did learn that Tico didn't mind being non-stop whacked all over his body with a branch full of leaves: he was smart enough to realize that I was defending him from the exsanguinating hordes and not trying to beat him into submission. So that was a plus, anyway.
Anyway, it was the Labor Day long weekend and time for riding was running short, and so I bit the bullet. I coated him in bug spray, put his fly mask on, and we headed out.
Like many horses, Tico doesn't like leaving his pals to go somewhere he's never been before, but he never fights about it. Well, at least not to the death. :c) I like a horse you can persuade with little effort and no rancor and resentment. I've known the opposite - not fun.
Our path wasn't the straightest - there was some weaving back and forth across the trail, with surreptitious glances back towards his pals - but for the most part he walked along well, and was being careful where he walked. The trails had quite a few rocks and tree roots to step over and around; he navigated them well.
So I was feeling pretty good about this horsie purchase, and happy with life in general.
We had one incident where the trail came close to someone's back yard. We could hear them: kids hollering, dogs barking, and big splashes as (I presume) the kids cannonballed into their pool. We couldn't really see them, except for an occasional glint as the sun reflected off the splashed water.
We stopped. He was on high alert, stock still and focussed completely in the direction of the weird sights and sounds. I didn't bother him - as a matter of fact, I took the opportunity to snap a photo. We stood there for a few minutes, and his head came down, his ears relaxed, and he tried to turn back.
Well, that wasn't a "get-me-outta-here" trying to turn back, it was a "can I get away with cutting the ride short" turning back, so I suggested we keep moving forward, and he complied, no problem. He was just checking.
But then it happened.
We rounded a corner and up ahead, there was a mud puddle. It was a dark and dank looking puddle, but not really notable otherwise.
We continued on towards the puddle.
Suddenly, about 100 tiny mud colored frogs who had been sunning themselves on the "shore", decided it was a really good idea to make a hasty retreat before the approaching big monster stomped all over them.
The puddle went from a dark brown splotch of innocuous mud to hundreds of tiny bits of earth suddenly animating and splish-splashing into the water. It was ALIVE!
Snorts and honks ensued. Legs akimbo and stiff, sides heaving, neck about 10 feet longer than normal, he stared down the alien mud puddle.
But the mud puddle had gone ominously quiet.
I asked him to go forward. We accelerated backward over twigs, roots and rocks. His concentration was completely on the placid goo - they weren't going to surprise attack him, no sirree bob!
I got him stopped, asked him to move forward again. We creeped up slowly to approximately the same place as before. Again, I asked for forward movement; again, we ended up about 10 feet back. A third time, we got to the same spot and I got off.
I had the (probably unwise) idea that if I could find one of the frogs and show it to him, he'd be ok.
Well, I couldn't find one - they were keeping a very low profile. But we did manage to go all he way up to the edge of the puddle of doom. He was still wary but obedient and offered only slight resistance; pretty soon he was calm enough to look around at the rest of his surroundings.
So I told him he was a goof ball but I loved him anyway, got back on him, and we headed home. Heck, I was going to turn around at about that point anyway.
I only allowed him to walk (I won't let a horse race back to the barn) but I swear, he may be a quarter horse, but he was doing a running walk as we left the lair of the mud monsters.
Tico was and is sweet (though mischievous), and can sit around for months and then ridden without ever needing to lunge him. I know this because he was barely ridden at all - no more than 10 times - in the year prior to my buying him, and most of those times it was by me.
At the time of this story, this was important because I was seven days away from hip replacement surgery. I was not going to be getting on him again for a while after this ride.
Anyway, back to September, 2005.
Like most people here in the northeast, I'd been suffering through a steamy bug-choked summer. There were trails tantalizingly close - something I hadn't had in a long time - but they were chock full of hungry and marauding gangs of deer flies, horse flies, mosquitos and all things buzzy and bitey.
In one earlier but soon-aborted attempt at a trail ride I did learn that Tico didn't mind being non-stop whacked all over his body with a branch full of leaves: he was smart enough to realize that I was defending him from the exsanguinating hordes and not trying to beat him into submission. So that was a plus, anyway.
Anyway, it was the Labor Day long weekend and time for riding was running short, and so I bit the bullet. I coated him in bug spray, put his fly mask on, and we headed out.
Like many horses, Tico doesn't like leaving his pals to go somewhere he's never been before, but he never fights about it. Well, at least not to the death. :c) I like a horse you can persuade with little effort and no rancor and resentment. I've known the opposite - not fun.
Our path wasn't the straightest - there was some weaving back and forth across the trail, with surreptitious glances back towards his pals - but for the most part he walked along well, and was being careful where he walked. The trails had quite a few rocks and tree roots to step over and around; he navigated them well.
So I was feeling pretty good about this horsie purchase, and happy with life in general.
We had one incident where the trail came close to someone's back yard. We could hear them: kids hollering, dogs barking, and big splashes as (I presume) the kids cannonballed into their pool. We couldn't really see them, except for an occasional glint as the sun reflected off the splashed water.
We stopped. He was on high alert, stock still and focussed completely in the direction of the weird sights and sounds. I didn't bother him - as a matter of fact, I took the opportunity to snap a photo. We stood there for a few minutes, and his head came down, his ears relaxed, and he tried to turn back.
Well, that wasn't a "get-me-outta-here" trying to turn back, it was a "can I get away with cutting the ride short" turning back, so I suggested we keep moving forward, and he complied, no problem. He was just checking.
But then it happened.
We rounded a corner and up ahead, there was a mud puddle. It was a dark and dank looking puddle, but not really notable otherwise.
We continued on towards the puddle.
Suddenly, about 100 tiny mud colored frogs who had been sunning themselves on the "shore", decided it was a really good idea to make a hasty retreat before the approaching big monster stomped all over them.
The puddle went from a dark brown splotch of innocuous mud to hundreds of tiny bits of earth suddenly animating and splish-splashing into the water. It was ALIVE!
Snorts and honks ensued. Legs akimbo and stiff, sides heaving, neck about 10 feet longer than normal, he stared down the alien mud puddle.
But the mud puddle had gone ominously quiet.
I asked him to go forward. We accelerated backward over twigs, roots and rocks. His concentration was completely on the placid goo - they weren't going to surprise attack him, no sirree bob!
I got him stopped, asked him to move forward again. We creeped up slowly to approximately the same place as before. Again, I asked for forward movement; again, we ended up about 10 feet back. A third time, we got to the same spot and I got off.
I had the (probably unwise) idea that if I could find one of the frogs and show it to him, he'd be ok.
Well, I couldn't find one - they were keeping a very low profile. But we did manage to go all he way up to the edge of the puddle of doom. He was still wary but obedient and offered only slight resistance; pretty soon he was calm enough to look around at the rest of his surroundings.
So I told him he was a goof ball but I loved him anyway, got back on him, and we headed home. Heck, I was going to turn around at about that point anyway.
I only allowed him to walk (I won't let a horse race back to the barn) but I swear, he may be a quarter horse, but he was doing a running walk as we left the lair of the mud monsters.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
I've invented a new emergency dismount style. I call it the Superman.
... of course, you need to have the complete cooperation of Dobbin, as it requires that s/he trips and flips over onto his/her back.
And in the immortal words of some LOLCat or another, "... it's not so great, akshully."
Yesterday, I went over to the barn around 3:45. I was going to groom and ride Tico and groom Dusty.
I was feeling a bit lazy though, so I decided to ride him in his english snaffle and the bareback pad (I also add an english saddlepad underneath it, not that that really matters).
So... as I'm grooming him on the crossties, the barn girl threw his supper hay into his stall (they feed hay pretty early there).
Mr Piglet was not pleased. Although he obviously has not missed a meal in quite a few years, he *hates* when I don't let him dive right in and start noshing if it's *there*, waiting for him.
Too bad, fatarse. :)
So, I jumped on him and started riding in the indoor. Weather around here has been rainy, mixed with downpours, thunder, lightning and sprinkles. Not a great summer, all in all.
This indoor has a side door from which you can look directly at Tico's stall. Every time we were near to it, it called to him... "Hay!! Hay!! The Hay is in your stall, come, eat!!!"
So... walk... a bit of a trot... and Every Time we came around to the door that faces his stall there was bulging, a little hissy fit and general brat behavior. I ignored it. We went both directions, then I asked for a canter.
Again, at the corners, some brat behavior, and some pitching forward like he was thinking about throwing in a buck, Tico style (Tico's bucks are not particularly deadly), but I caught him up and made him move forward.
We went his "good" direction first, to the right; then tracked to the left (so we were looking straight at his stall on that one corner again).
I got the correct lead out of him, but he was being spazzy and really leaning on the reins. We came around the corner, and he tripped. A BIG trip. He went down on his knees, and I went flying over his head and did a modified face-plant - more horizontal than directly on my head, hence the "Superman" - and I kind of skidded to a stop.
During my flight, I was aware of a lot of commotion behind me. I tucked up my legs and turned to look.
About 3 feet away from my face, there was a fat gray horse butt with legs flailing in the air. He'd done a face plant himself, and flipped all the way over onto his back.
I got up fast: I was a bit concerned about surviving all that, only to be kicked in the head by flailing hooves which looked a lot closer than 3 feet away - and may actually have been, come to think of it. Tico got up pretty fast too, once he finished flailing. His face was coated in sand, the bareback pad was coated, his butt was coated. There was sand in his eyes and in his ears. As for me - I looked like I'd been rolling around in the dirt - pretty much the same as he did, when you come to think of it.
At first he seemed to be favoring his right hind a bit, and he did the "pain" face once. I checked him over - nothing broken, no heat - and walked him off to the aisle. He was a bit tentative but no real limping. He mostly looked a bit abashed.
I called the vet. Again. Between Dusty and Tico he probably is starting to feel like I'm stalking him. Anyway, after I told him what happened, he asked me "What's he doing now?"
"He's just standing here."
The vet must think I'm a complete friggin' idiot.
Anyway, he said to give him some bute, but to not be too surprised if he's ok - that horses sometimes take amazing falls without hurting themselves. Meanwhile, he just said keep an eye on him.
So, aside from a skinned elbow, a slightly twisted knee and a sore neck, I'm ok. I'll be checking on Tico this evening to see how he's doing.
And in the immortal words of some LOLCat or another, "... it's not so great, akshully."
Yesterday, I went over to the barn around 3:45. I was going to groom and ride Tico and groom Dusty.
I was feeling a bit lazy though, so I decided to ride him in his english snaffle and the bareback pad (I also add an english saddlepad underneath it, not that that really matters).
So... as I'm grooming him on the crossties, the barn girl threw his supper hay into his stall (they feed hay pretty early there).
Mr Piglet was not pleased. Although he obviously has not missed a meal in quite a few years, he *hates* when I don't let him dive right in and start noshing if it's *there*, waiting for him.
Too bad, fatarse. :)
So, I jumped on him and started riding in the indoor. Weather around here has been rainy, mixed with downpours, thunder, lightning and sprinkles. Not a great summer, all in all.
This indoor has a side door from which you can look directly at Tico's stall. Every time we were near to it, it called to him... "Hay!! Hay!! The Hay is in your stall, come, eat!!!"
So... walk... a bit of a trot... and Every Time we came around to the door that faces his stall there was bulging, a little hissy fit and general brat behavior. I ignored it. We went both directions, then I asked for a canter.
Again, at the corners, some brat behavior, and some pitching forward like he was thinking about throwing in a buck, Tico style (Tico's bucks are not particularly deadly), but I caught him up and made him move forward.
We went his "good" direction first, to the right; then tracked to the left (so we were looking straight at his stall on that one corner again).
I got the correct lead out of him, but he was being spazzy and really leaning on the reins. We came around the corner, and he tripped. A BIG trip. He went down on his knees, and I went flying over his head and did a modified face-plant - more horizontal than directly on my head, hence the "Superman" - and I kind of skidded to a stop.
During my flight, I was aware of a lot of commotion behind me. I tucked up my legs and turned to look.
About 3 feet away from my face, there was a fat gray horse butt with legs flailing in the air. He'd done a face plant himself, and flipped all the way over onto his back.
I got up fast: I was a bit concerned about surviving all that, only to be kicked in the head by flailing hooves which looked a lot closer than 3 feet away - and may actually have been, come to think of it. Tico got up pretty fast too, once he finished flailing. His face was coated in sand, the bareback pad was coated, his butt was coated. There was sand in his eyes and in his ears. As for me - I looked like I'd been rolling around in the dirt - pretty much the same as he did, when you come to think of it.
At first he seemed to be favoring his right hind a bit, and he did the "pain" face once. I checked him over - nothing broken, no heat - and walked him off to the aisle. He was a bit tentative but no real limping. He mostly looked a bit abashed.
I called the vet. Again. Between Dusty and Tico he probably is starting to feel like I'm stalking him. Anyway, after I told him what happened, he asked me "What's he doing now?"
"He's just standing here."
The vet must think I'm a complete friggin' idiot.
Anyway, he said to give him some bute, but to not be too surprised if he's ok - that horses sometimes take amazing falls without hurting themselves. Meanwhile, he just said keep an eye on him.
So, aside from a skinned elbow, a slightly twisted knee and a sore neck, I'm ok. I'll be checking on Tico this evening to see how he's doing.
That's the buttprint Mr. BigButt left behind
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