Wintered hands, icy water buckets, horse blankets. Sweat freezes along my forehead, the horses get excited. Feed them, feed them again. Repeat. Wrestle with hay bales, tiny slivers in my arms. Climb manure pile, trek towards the basement door. Back inside, I feel too hot. The layers won’t come off fast enough and there are parts of me still numb. Rotate out wet hats, rotate in dry hats. Socks. Apply primary leg layer, follow up with snowpants. Long shirt short shirt other shirt. Vest, jacket, zip, zip. Rotate out wet boots, rotate in dry boots, and gloves, and repeat several times each day until spring. I grew up doing my share of barn chores, but it’s different this year and the burden falls entirely to me. Usually I have the other half of the farm, my father, to assist and together we muddle through, but all things routine and comfortable went inside out on December 23. My dad’s heart failed us. It was slow, suffering, haunting. He was immersed in his pride-or maybe fear, and tried to will it away. In the evening I found my mother tending to him, she had come home from work, she was putting blankets on him, they were praying. He was still wearing his shoes and I asked “Is dad ok?” He groaned, “I’ll be fine”. This level of denial is something my family resorts to if it’s very, very bad. I spent the evening trying to tune out sounds coming from my father. Gasping, sucking, anything for air. That sound came over and over, followed by gurgling, then moaning, then quiet. Too difficult to struggle. With that symptom, he asked for an ambulance, which arrived exactly at midnight. My mom punched at my door, yelled for me, and then I could hear her voice moving quickly away. That meant she was frantic. I had heard it before. Emerging, frightened, I noticed they had dressed in coats already, and my dad was panting. I stayed back. Someone needed to watch the dogs and horses, and my dad was specifically concerned with it as he was leaving. I didn’t know what to think about that. I felt a new sadness, something far beyond any other, I might have just seen my father for the last time. I tried to delete those images of him suffering. While I cried alone in our big house, the doctors were reviving my father with paddles. His body probably lurching on a plastic table under a fluorescent light. A disgusting image. I got him back. He didn’t die, he was going to but he didn’t, and those days were dotted by nurses and hospital rooms and the smell of unwashed sick people. We learned of other serious ailments and my mother called doctors many many times. Our tall Christmas tree, half decorated, began to lose it’s needles. My mother sawed it into pieces right there in the living room. She seemed relieved as she dragged it outside to burn. Home alone with my mother, I made an effort to keep her company. She only broke down once, and I had to embrace her. It was very stiff, unpracticed. Then she was angry, too much gin, and we spatted about money. Rotate out wet hats, rotate in dry hats. Socks. Apply primary leg layer, follow up with snowpants. Long shirt short shirt other shirt.Vest, jacket, zip, zip. Rotate out wet boots, rotate in dry boots, and gloves, and repeat several times each day until spring. Feed them, feed them again, repeat, and care for Father.
unreliable organs cause girl to do extra chores February 2, 2011
Self Regulating Equine January 28, 2010
People will never run out of things to sell horse people. This includes the professionals who so many of us trust. Sadly, in so many cases, common sense shines not into deep pockets. If your horse needs endless checkups, various injections, and God help you “experimental treatments”, you might ask yourself, “What was the problem again?” Chances are you never got anything more than a vague glance, crossed arms, and a complicated spew about how there’s an undetectable lameness that you were lucky to find before the entire horse just came unglued. Clearly this vet has a theory about your checkbook.
It isn’t appealing in the English riding community to allow your horse in public without shoes. It’s not even an option as far as I can tell. My Dutch Warmblood came into my care with a mess of hoof problems, all caused directly by farriers who had done a little creative marketing and therefore expensive shoeing. The former owners were very proud of the amount of money they spent on his treatment. Sparing no expense, because at this point they had no idea what to do with the beast and it seemed most attractive to throw money at it.
Well that was four years ago. I let his shoes fall off, I let his feet get ratty, sore, bruised, and I allowed his Navicular changes to do whatever they were going to do. They went away. I don’t have a farrier, I don’t trim his feet, I have only rasped him a handful of times. I let my horses live outside and they take care of it themselves. My ” lame” Warmblood has the most beautiful, sound hooves you could imagine. They are perfectly shaped, as though freshly trimmed.
Look through the hype people.