Eastwood---"Woody"

 

 

When I returned to North Carolina after six horseless years I couldn’t help eyeing every horse I passed on the highway, mentally window shopping.  Soon my eyes were caught by a pasture full of four or five appaloosas with another, more nondescript horse.  More interestingly, this farm had one of those renta-signs out front, the kind that lights up and has flashing arrows running around the border which said, “Horses and Pinestraw for sale”.  Who could resist an offer like that?  Besides, I couldn’t help thinking of all those Appys.  Surely one of them would fit me.  At my inquiry the farmer who seemed not too knowledgeable informed me that the Appys were a stud, a mare, and their offspring---a two year old, a yearling and a weanling.  Hmmm.  That was kind of startling.  Apparently he’d bought them from an acquaintance who was tired of horse owning, and the other horse was just thrown in.  The appys were all so narrow that their front legs seemed to come out of the same hole in their chests.  Up close, none of them really appealed to me.  The farmer suggested I try the lone gelding, informing me that the others beat him up a bit, that he was hard to catch, and that since he wouldn’t load they’d had to lead him home.  Tempting, isn’ t it?  With a sigh I grabbed a bucket of sweet feed and a halter and headed out into the field.  The whiteish horse was suspicious at first, but eventually came to the lure of food and I was able to halter him.  Up close he was very poor looking, ribby, and raw boned with a ewe neck, a back long enough for a horse and a half, and a coat that had never shed out though this was August.  But I liked his long legs and there was something about his distrustful eye that drew me somehow.  I felt like there might be something in there looking for a chance.

  I saddled and bridled him easy enough but had to mount him on the run, and it seemed apparent that he was used to being cowboyed for he was very nervous. When I say “cowboyed” I mean no disrespect for real cowboys and girls, they are some of my favorite people and can be the best horsemen.  What I mean was he was used to “hooting and hollering” and being roughed up, and was thoroughly nervous and jumpy.  In twenty two years together I never did get him to where he was a rock to mount, although we came to an agreement about it.  Off we went at a fast walk which pleased me immediately.  This horse had places to go and people to see.  Up around the fields, across the road and around more fields.  He pulled toward each road or trail that branched off and never slowed til I turned him around to head back.  I love a horse that wants to go and see what’s over the next hill.  His trot was fine, but his canter was rough and fast, breaking down to a hard pounding trot when I insisted and after the canter he incessantly pranced, clearly anticipating more running.  One thing I noticed was that while he didn’t have much of a flat walk ¸ or really even halt, jigging in place, his front end never felt the least bit “light”, and I never felt like there was any danger of him rearing, despite the almost constant pressure I had to keep on his mouth to keep him from going any faster.  Touching my legs to his sides only sped him up.  But his willing attitude and spirit captured my heart, as his headshyness and clear mistrust told me he’d had a hard life.  The price was eight hundred and being the shrewd horse trader I am when I want something, I offered them eight hundred.  I know, I’m sure they saw me coming.  “Frosty” as they called him for his winter color was coming home with me!

 

His papers came with him but knowing nothing about Quarter Horse bloodlines all those “Poco this” and “Jet thats” meant nothing to me. 

 

Over the next few months I concentrated on getting him to slow down and flat walk.  For the first two months all we did was walk, as I tried to show him that his days of being run and roughed up were over.  Even a  short gallop (he had no canter) would blow his mind, reducing the rest of the ride to endless jigging and leaping in place.  After joining several family trail rides we were politely asked if we wouldn’t like to go home til he settled better as the shouting and cutting up and racing enjoyed by the men reduced him to caprioles, scaring the mothers and children.  I rode him in a hackamore, needing the strong feel but wanting to stay off his mouth.  We gave up cantering entirely for the first several years after I discovered his incredible, ground eating trot could easily keep up with my friend’s thoroughbred’s canter, and Woody would happily and calmly trot by the cantering youngster.  I did a lot of lunging with him because I like voice commands and I found that they helped me stay out of his face.  Woody was so tuned to them that he never needed more than a whisper.  The quietest, slightest cues I could give him made him the happiest, although it was many years before a gentle request would slow his canter. 

 

 

On the lunge Woody learned to jump without the distraction of me on his back, and he loved it! It wasn’t long before I found we could jump anything up to three feet from a trot, and with my best friend we enjoyed hunter paces, although I know we were a humorous sight, trotting fences beside the cantering thoroughbred.  Woody loved jumping so it go to the point where I didn’t dare point him at anything I didn’t want to jump, which made him unsuitable for beginners, although he was fine for kiddie rides and seemed to enjoy the small humans who loved to give him carrots, peppermints and pats.  It wasn’t all smooth sailing, he had an impressive drop-shoulder-jump-and-spin shy that put me on the ground quite a few times, but he got bolder as we explored more and more.  What an engine he had!  His favorite speed was faster, and I think that’s why he loved foxhunting so.  We cubbed for several years, preferring its informality to the regular season, and I think it was the most fun I’ve had in my entire life.  The first year we kept almost completely out of sight of the hounds, where the horses could hear but not see them, only getting  closer as we trailed the tired horses and field back to the kennels.  My friend was bringing along her three year old and was quite determined to give him a quiet education, and the next season we stayed at the back of the hilltopping field, where the most excitement was an occasional trot, and seeing the “first flight” as they flashed colorfully by, galloping over their fences.  The third year our horses were so seasoned and accustomed to the pageantry that they calmly but eagerly joined the main field, and Woody could often be found leading a reluctant horse over an intimidating fence or ditch.

 Being into eventing at the time, I had hoped to be able to compete again someday.   I knew dressage was going to be a nightmare, chiefly because it has to be done in a snaffle and the best “English” bit I’d found for Woody yet was a type of kimberwicke that had slots so the reins could be set for different amounts of curb or plain snaffle action.  Guess what slot we used.  The first trainer/teacher I went to hated him.  “Get rid of him, he’s awful!” was her opinion, although when I persuaded her to let us try some stadium fences she thawed a little.  Still, I knew it wasn’t the right match for us, and the next trainer was able to at least get us to where we could compete in a boucher snaffle, which had some leverage, though it worked more on the poll.  The only question was whether or not we were really going to  “Halt at X”, or just carry on straight over the little ring fence and on past the judge.  We competed with little success but enormous fun for several years, only placing or winning when all the other competitors wiped out through jumping faults.  But we ran and jumped to our hearts content, and eventually I was lucky enough to find a trainer who could teach me to ride Woody in a plain, large, loose ringed snaffle for the dressage.  This was like a miracle to me, and to this day, with this training, I think there’s few horses that cannot be brought to work successfully in such a mild bit. 

 

After that, my friend and I broke Woody to drive and Woody found a new love in it.  I think he knew there was not going to be any cantering involved, so his mind stayed relaxed, his tail swung, and his head stayed down, with his mouth soft and happy.  It was the one thing he was suitable for a beginner to do with him, and he gave several young drivers their start in the sport. 

 

 

Over the years there was hardly anything we didn’t try, and Woody was up for all of it, from distance riding, to competitive trail, lead pony to bouncy obstreperous race horses, therapeutic riding, parades, and cutting.  The only thing he voted “no” on was polo, and that was because my eyesight’s so bad I kept hitting him with the stick.  It’s the only time he ever pulled toward the gate.  I figured he was entitled to his opinion on it, and I had no coordination, so I bowed to him on that one.  During the twenty years I rode him, Woody never lost that drive and interest that had so captured my heart in the first place.  Not to mention a sense of humor that prevented me from ever being able to turn him loose on the lawn to graze.  You could never turn your back on Woody if he was loose, no matter how happily he seemed to be munching on our rare grass.  I’d hear hoofbeats, and look up and he would be disappearing down the trail, on his way to who knows what.  The day we euthanized him due to crippling tendon injuries I tried it, and even hobbled by lameness, he still left.  It was a good laugh he left me with. 

Woody was one in a million.  He was a saint to put up with me and all my strange ideas and requests, and the best possible partner for my middle years.  He’d be too much for me now.  Woody came along at just the right time for me and together we did it all.  We rarely achieved what most people would call success, although I treasure the few blue ribbons he brought me like gold.  They were all the sweeter for their rarity.  Memories to cherish for a life time. 

Pepper---Our Dimunitive Dachshund Dynamo

 

We lost our first Dachshund, Selenay a few years ago and she really left a hole in our hearts.  Selenay was your typical Dachshund---she had standards.  You had to prove yourself to her but once you did, there was no more faithful friend.  Selenay would get on your chest and stare into your eyes, not wanting anything, just looking at you with so much love you’d think her head would hurt.  Congestive heart failure took her suddenly at a relatively young age.  Our Italian Greyhounds are the heart and soul of our house, but they’re kind of quiet on their own.  We needed someone to liven up the place a little.  That’s pretty much in the job description of a weiner dog. 

 

We were just starting to feel like we could entertain the idea of another Dachsie when I caught a lost and found “found” ad in the paper for one.  Even though I knew she wasn’t the one we were missing, I called on the spur of the moment.  I just left my name and the information that in the unlikely event that a purebred Dachshund was not claimed we would be interested in giving her a home.  Imagine our surprise when we got a call back a couple of weeks later! 

 

Pepper, or “Dottie” (??) as they called her had been found as a half-grown puppy in the bottom of a bar ditch twenty miles away.  She’d evidently fallen in and been unable to climb out.  She’d been there for some time because she was a bag of bones and for days after being found passed nothing but sticks and stones.  How could no one be missing a perfect little Dachshund?  We went to meet her, and she captivated us on the spot. 

 



Pepper is the smallest version of Dachshund, and that is the only thing I would change, given my druthers, about her.   A medium or full sized Dachsie is by definition sturdier and more hardy.  We live on a farm in the woods and while we keep a close eye on her, it’s easier for things to happen to a small dog.  Pepper weighs in at a solid eleven pounds.  Her defining characteristic is her sense of democracy, which is somewhat rare in the Dachshunds I have known.  She loves everybody, and never met a stranger, be it human or dog.  She’s the only dog I know who absolutely loves to go to the vet.  If allowed, she’ll sneak into their surgery  center in the back and ecstatically greet all the workers, joyously running  from one to another with little yips of happiness.  And this in spite of the fact that she’s been poked and prodded, clipped and needle-stuck there a number of times. 

 

Pepper’s other defining characteristic is her sense of responsibility to the other dogs.  A  few years ago we had a poor, puppy-mill Italian Greyhound with neurological problems.  Somehow, Pepper appointed herself Sophie’s nurse and all around care-giver, guiding her in her blindness, always by her side.  We are lucky enough to have reasonably healthy---knock wood---“children” now, but let one involuntarily yip and Pepper is instantaneously there, hovering until she is satisfied that her sister is okay or until you have to move her away so that you can treat the patient.  Carefully, she washes both her little sisters every night, satisfying herself that all is as it should be with them. 

 

Dachsunds seem built for whimsy and a few Halloweens ago I purchased a costume for Pepper that resembled a hotdog bun, complete with a zigzag of mustard down it's length.  It had elastic straps to go under the belly, and with humor in mind, I put it right on her.  Apparently the humor did not translate, because she was not amused.  She froze in place and her whole outraged body language shouted, "Get it off---get it off!"  Okay, that was kind of a failure and I didn't try her again til this year.  While portraying a real life hot dog was perhaps just not that funny from Pepper's point of view, becoming a lobster was alright!  We let her keep it on for a good week after Halloween---not all the time of course---while she strutted and wiggled in delight, even letting out proud little yelps.  The Iggy girls wear coats freqently and it seemed like Pepper felt like she was finally getting her due.  Can't wait to put it back on her next year!

 

Pepper sleeps the sleep of the just.

The Spirit of the Season

You know, I really don't see what the big fuss is about.  If I wish you---or a total stranger, as I like to do---Merry Christmas it's done in the spirit of general goodwill and love, whether or not I know your religion, and I'll be delighted if you wish me back a Happy Kwanzaa, or Happy Hanukka, or even Happy Holidays.  I may even learn something.  One thing I try never to do is assume that my way is the only way.  And who of us is so overburdened by love from our fellow men---or women---that we can afford to reject it just because it's not couched in our favorite terms? 

Willow's Story---the Conclusion (so far)

 

I ‘ve got to admit, it was a little intimidating when my pumped-up four year old hurried down the ramp off the luxurious van that delivered him.  Fortunately, Willow  was reasonably polite, and not having a place to temporarily confine him for quarantine and getting aquainted, I had to go ahead and turn him out into the large field with the other geldings.  Amazingly, there were no fireworks and everyone was friends from the  get go.  I love geldings! 

I occupied myself with ground work and manners for most of the first year.  I’m not in any hurry, and I don’t have an agenda with my horses.  I used to, but I guess it’s one of the things I grew out of.  There’s nothing wrong with having goals, they’re great, and I still have them too, but I’m happy with any improvement  of anything at all every time I’m with my horse, and I’m never disappointed.  Something’s almost always better than it was before.  It makes every interaction a happy one and a cause for quiet celebration.  So, Willow and I  worked on things like fly-spraying on a loose or dropped lead shank (no good place to tie up anyway), voice commands, lunging, tieing, and walking fairly politely.  It actually took me until the last year or two before I achieved all my fly-spraying goals.  To begin with I was satisfied to be able to get the spray on the horse!   It took me probably an hour of “lead shank lunging” to get Willow to where I could spray him without him leaping and backing out of reach.  While I still can’t spray him without a halter---and the little bugger knows it--- I’m thrilled to be able to drop the shank on the ground and have him stand---stiffly---for it! 

At this point I realized I’d bitten off quite a large chunk by getting a green horse.  I know I’m out of shape and therefore can’t possibly have the seat I think I used to have, and I’m always alone when I’m working my horses, and I’ve never had access to a ring.  This equation made me do everything in the tiniest baby steps I could possibly devise.  First, I had Willow broken to drive, reasoning that that would polish up his bridle skills, and give him lots of “real world” experience, which it definitely accomplished.

 

  In the six years I’ve had him, Willow’s gotten a very easy ride, so to speak.  Most years I’ve only ridden him about ten times on average.   Chronic depression holds me back quite a bit.  It’s hard to work up the energy to get your “baby” out when it’s all you can do to get him fed and minimally cared for.  Another major factor is I’d forgotten what Saddlebreds are like in the pasture.  And this I kick myself for often.  Typically, Willow acts like a nut in the pasture, given to blowing, scooting, and running at the slightest provocation.  With the abovementioned limitations foremost in my mind, I would watch him and think, “well I sure don’t feel up to dealing with that today!”  I’m embarrassed to say it took me years to realize that immediately you put your hand on him, Willow is a saint.  A totally different horse, from the way he acts loose in the field.  Once I realized that it freed me up to ride him a bit more because I didn’t have to feel totally on top of my game to ride and enjoy him.  I ride him a little more often now, maybe fifteen times a year, just slow mileage on the trails.  He’s amazingly brave!  At least with hazards and obstacles.   He loves water, and I can ride him up to a loaded, idling logging truck with no hesitation from my wonderful boy.  The only thing he’s really scared of is a stranger.  He’ll never forget his earliest training. 

Two years ago we accomplished our biggest goal so far, participating in a Mark Rashid clinic!  At the time Willow still had only about twenty-odd rides under his belt.  It was a freezing January weekend, and in my usual fashion, I hadn’t ridden him in two weeks.  Our goals for the clinic were relatively small, just to go forward more reliably, steer better, be in general the best partnership we could be, and hopefully, see if we were on the right paths.  I’d had no professional help and no one to troubleshoot for me, and was extremely afraid I might be doing things wrong without knowing it.  Willow was great, and probably the very most valuable thing I got from the clinic was the enthusiasm of the auditors for my little “cripple”.  I don’t think Mark was particularly impressed with us, but he helped us as much as he could, especially with standing still for mounting, leading perfectly, and the steering issue.  I guess we weren’t in the same class as most of the other “serious” rider/horse combinations.

 After evaluation, Mark described Willow as “seriously physically compromised”, which I guess is fair, especially if you intend to do something particularly physically demanding with your horse.  Which, in fact, I don’t.   I’ll be happy with whatever Willow can give me, I didn’t get him with hard mileage in mind.  Long mileage, possibly, but not pounding.  Anyway, Willow rose to the occasion with his usual steadfastness.  Surrounded by dressage horses, reiners, and snorty little endurance horses working on their gallops back and forth almost under his nose, he was perfect.  Stood like a champ, unfazed by it all.

Willow's Story---Part Two

So Willow (or “Whoey”---don’t ask---as he was known then) arrives complete with broken halter---not the best calling card---at Saddlebred Rescue, fresh from the sale. SBR’s philosophy is to try a horse as quickly as possible, intentionally throwing them from one radical situation---the sale---to another---a light workout in a busy indoor arena. This way you pretty much know how much a horse will rise to an unsettling occasion. What’s surprising is how quickly these horses tend to settle, and while there’s always bug-eyes and antenna-ears, horses that haven’t been ridden sometimes in decades accept the new job asked of them amazingly well. The folks at SBR are very kind and excellent horsemen and women, and all of this is accomplished quietly and with lots of pats and gentleness. The point is to see what the horse’s potential for good---or bad---behavior is. You can see how a horse would have every excuse for a complete meltdown but rarely does one fail. Almost never.

 

So Willow was pretty calm, and they estimated his age to be more like four or five, saddled him without incident and put someone up on his back.  The evaluation read, “good mind, but green as grass that has just been planted.”  So, really, really green, but very  accommodating.  That caught my eye right there, sounding like the kind of temperament I like.  And back then, green didn’t really phase me either, as long as the mind was there.  About this time Willow’s gait abnormality was noticed and he kind of wound up on the back burner for a while, there being so many totally sound horses needing work.  Eventually, he did go to a volunteer professional to be worked a bit and she put a handful of successful rides on him.  This is about the time his breeder happened to see him on SBR’s website---to her horror---and was able to fill in a good bit of his background, and when I discovered that SBR’s first trial of him was in all probability the first time he was saddled, let alone backed.  That really made me happy, and after thinking it over, along with my future goals for riding and having his hocks and stifles xrayed, I sent for him. 

 

 

Willow's Story---Part One

 

Ever buy a horse sight unseen?  Believe it or not, that’s how I got Willow.  The most important thing is the integrity of the people you are dealing with.  In this case that was Saddlebred Rescue, a wonderful organization in New Jersey.   I worked in the Saddlebred industry enough in my youth to know that the breed has the temperament­---if not usually the background---that I wanted.  Just in general, I’ve found Saddlebreds to come in two types.  Either they have fabulous temperaments and are very versatile, reasonable and affectionate, or they’re bats**t crazy.   I’ve owned both types, although in my defense, the nutty one was tranqued when I tried her.  Live and learn.    I’ve been fortunate to own two of the solid gold ones. 

Willow bless his little heart has the typical love-bug personality.  He’s never happier than cuddled up to a human who’s preferably rubbing or stroking his face, especially his forehead.  And this from a horse who’s ears I couldn’t handle for years.  My wonderful---and versatile herself---barefoot trimmer Marilyn Gilligan is a tall soul who could reach Willow’s ears no matter where he put his head---unlike my relatively dwarfish self.   She simply put a hand on his poll/ear area and followed him around as he tried to dislodge her, only requiring that he keep his feet mostly on the ground, til he eventually realized that he wasn’t in grave danger, something I never could have done on my own.

Anyway, Willow was born on a lovely farm in West Virginia and was a promising youngster, being shown in hand successfully in the State Fair as a weanling.  Soon after that something went wrong.  I don’t know exactly what happened, but the equine sports masseuse/therapist who worked on him thinks the scenario was most likely something like this.  Baby lies on the ground by fence.  Baby gets back leg under fence.  Baby panics, thrashes around, grinding the bottom hip into the dirt, and breaking off the wing tip of it (“dropped hip”).  Baby continues to try to rise, damaging and tearing many muscles in other back leg and groin.  After that I guess they waited to see if he’d come sound, but due to the scar tissue and permanent damage even after Willow healed his back stride never became completely symmetrical, resulting in a mechanical lameness.  He’s not in pain, but one back leg strides a couple inches further in each step than the other.  As far as showing goes, he’s lame; he’d never pass a vet inspection.  Nothing more was done with him, and he was turned out and lived a happy pasture life for several years. 

Eventually his luck ran out and Willow found himself at New Holland sale in Pennsylvania, and unbroken coming-four year old.  Saddlebred Rescue only buys horses that are headed to the meat packers.  If anyone, even horse traders are bidding, they pass.  Willow’s gait imperfection is so slight that you really have to look for it; it’s not something you’d see til you’d watched him quite a while, unless you’re a judge.  Saddlebred Rescue outbid the kill-buyers and came home with this anonymous chestnut three year old in their trailer.  I can’t stand to contemplate the alternative.  To be continued…

 

 

What's Wrong With These Pictures?

The dogs were not the only ones stirred up by the 'cannon fire'.

Yes, apparently we didn't hang Willow's bucket high enough to keep two enterprising and determined Goaty Girls out of it.  Especially when he gets a wild hair and decides it's safer in the open than in his shed. 

I promise this is not going to become a Goat Blog!  It's just that the little critters are just so darn entertaining.  And still strange enough to us to be intriguing with all their little characteristics and mannerisms.  Hannah has become quite the love bug, coming up for scratches and petting, especially around her head and neck, and under her jaw.  Typically, Miss Stacy is only interested in you if you've got something edible.  I haven't been able to 'reach' her yet.  If I don't have something for her she's on to another prospect before I can get to a good spot on her. 

This morning there was a lot of shooting from the hunters starting about 530a.m.  I don't know what kind of gun they use but it sounds like a cannon.  It even upsets the dogs in the house.  Yesterday there must've been a hundred ducks and geese on the lake.  It was beautiful to see, but bittersweet.  I'm trying to make my peace with the hunting.  As much as Mom would've hated it, I know Dad would've been okay about it.  He was an avid bird hunter, driving across country with his setter in the trunk (those were certainly different days, weren't they?) to Oklahoma every year for the dove or quail season.  And I am my father's daughter.  So, woman-up, I guess.  (I never see the sense in the phrase "man-up". ) 

 

Willow and his Goaty Girls are a family

Well, I'd say my plan for keeping a horse and goats together is working out as well as I could possibly have hoped.  Willow has become quite fond of his little GGs.  The last several days I've gone out in the mid-late afternoon and surprised the three of them taking a siesta together!  It is so sweet to see the three of them curled up close to each other in the hay.  I think it's really being good for Willow to have them here, because I actually can't remember the last time I saw him lie down.  I've read that sometimes a lone horse may become short of real rest or deep sleep, being reluctant to lie down alone, or with no one on watch.  I'd never thought about it in reference to Willow but now that I have, I'm concerned that he has perhaps felt this unease.  I've hardly if ever seen him lying down since Woody died over a year ago.  He stands around dozing a normal amount, completely relaxed, but never flat out, or even on his sternum.  He rolls occasionally, so I knew he doesn't have any problems getting up or down.  Of course, I'm one of those people whose heart speeds up unpleasantly at the sight of my horse ever lying down, and I only restrain myself with difficulty from checking to be sure they're alright.  Too much experience with colic to view a reclining horse totally calmly.  But seeing Willow napping in the hay with the GGs this week is a wonder.  It makes me feel like I've done something right for him, even if I can't afford a second horse anymore.  Although I will say that I see no evidence that any of the three are 'keeping watch', but I guess it's having company and friends that counts.  The real trick has been to try to get a shot of them before they realize I'm there and get up to see what treats I've brought for them.  Most of my shots look like this:

Over the River and Through the Woods...

 

Every November I head west to Phoenix for Thanksgiving with my sister.  She’s in assisted living, and doing pretty well but basically marooned from family. When I realized how the holidays bothered her I got in the habit more than a decade ago of spending Thanksgivings with her.  I visit her a couple of other times in the year as well, but Thanksgiving is a given. 

 

Barbara moved to Arizona from Virginia, and while she loves Arizona I know she also misses the greens of her native state. To that end I usually go out into the woods the day before I leave and pick her a mess of running cedar. 

 

Running Cedar is a grows along the ground and is an evergreen plant.  It’s a “ Clubmoss”, which isn’t really a moss,  but more of a fern.  It’s very short and  has straight stems with tiny flat branches which spread like fans.   Running Cedar grows mostly in the woods where there are a lot of dead leaves on the ground.  It often grows in harmony with Partridge Berry, and they look lovely together. 

A bank of running cedar is beautiful, but it grows so erratically that it takes an awful lot to make a wreath!  It would take more patience than I’ve got to make one from nothing but running cedar, so I just wrap and wire it around Barbara’s regular Christmas wreath to add a little natural greenery to her door.  Wish I had some mistletoe, but I’m not that good a shot!

If I didn't know better, I'd swear the wood peckers around here must be armed with machine guns!

I'll leave you with the winter sunset that we were blessed with tonight.

The New Meaning of Fall

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Fall has always been my favorite time of year.  Each year I grind my way through the seemingly endless summer, holding on to the vision of cool and color like a mirage in the desert.  This year has been different.  Since hunting is now allowed, in fact encouraged as a private hunting club has bought a lease for it the days have lost their lustre. 

Our farmlet is in the middle of the leased land, so we can't help but be very aware of the presence and movements of the hunters.  They are all great guys and make every effort not to disturb us.  They're not allowed to shoot within a hundred yards of our line and I am telling myself that people live by hunting preserves all the time and rarely get shot.  It's not really myself I'm thinking about, though.  The first things I did on hearing about the hunting rights being sold, back in the spring was to buy Willow a blaze-orange halter and a blaze-orange horse sheet.  I couldn't stand the thought of him out without them.  Unfortunately, they didn't hold up very well and while you'd think a blaze-orange halter would be easy to see, I can only think he must've buried it.  Maybe I'll find it in the spring.  And, the sheet is already in shreds.  Sigh. 

What really disturbs me though, is the knowlege that now fall may come to mean the season of death.  My mother and I have always been completely committed to providing a safe haven for wildlife, but in the end we had to make some major compromises in order to find a buyer for the farm.  My mother's and my main wish was that the land never be developed.  It took ten full years to find a buyer who shared that philosophy and was also willing to let us live out our lives on a little parcel on the lake.  So we had to make a deal with the devil, and while I know there was nothing else I could do, I'll still never stop regretting it. 

So far, the hunters have had a very gratifying season.  They've taken seven bucks already; at least they don't kill does.  My logical mind keeps telling me how over-populated the deer are here, and they do cause many more auto accidents than they used to.  I know culling is probably necessary, but I do so love to watch them.  In my mother's last years I got a salt block that we put in her back yard, with a wildlife camera focussed on it.  We got to know whole families of deer.  The buck with the droopy horn.  I wonder if he's still alive.  Damn.  I must be reasonable.  The hunters offered us some of what I'm sure is very fine venison.  We accepted it in the spirit it was intended and even tried it.  It was fine, I guess.  But it sure didn't sit well with my conscience.  We gave the rest away.  Last week I looked into the dead eyes of a buck in the back of their Jimmy.  Why did I put myself through that?  Somehow I hoped it would help me come to terms with the killing, but all I could think of was how much more beautiful he would've been standing alive in the forrest. 

Now it's duck season and that's even worse.  There's no way the wood ducks and ring necks and the others are over populated.  In order to shoot away from our house the hunters must have their blind near it, so as to point their guns away.  I've always loved to see the ducks come in at night, and every one is a jewel-colored treasure.  The iridescence of the drakes and the subtle, tweedy shades of the hens.  How can it be right to take the light from their eyes?  While the deer are hunted with single shots, flocks of ducks bring volleys.  I swear, I know how over-dramatic it sounds but I feel like my soul flinches with every shot, as if it was killing something in me.  I hate to see the ducks come in now.  And I wonder if I'll come to dread the fall, as it begins to seem like a season of death. 

 

How the Goaty Girls came to Shadow Lake---the Conclusion

 

 

We had so much going on with construction, renovation, moving and Mom’s estate that I planned to get my horse his very own goat some time this winter.   Probably after the first of the year.  I wanted things to settle down and our existing family to all settle in first. I think it doesn’t pay to ask animals to accept too many lifestyle changes in quick succession.   We had sold the farm, but retained lifetime rights to live in a little three acre keyhole in the middle, on the lake.

 The biggest shocking change to us is that hunting rights to the farm, which is mostly thick woods, have been sold, or leased to a hunting club.  This is a very hard adjustment as ducks, deer, geese, squirrels and all other wildlife have had a safe haven here for over fifty-five years.  More about that later.  However, the hunters are very nice and as accommodating as they can be and still kill for pleasure.  The head man raises goats, which was some little comfort, as I figured at the least I could pick his brain about practical goat keeping, and at the most, I might be able to negotiate for a goat. 

At our first meeting I raised the subject, and showed him my set up, and told him of my studies.  Waylon was very open and friendly, and it was clear he loved his goats.  Eventually, (probably five minutes later) I inquired about the possibility of getting a goat from him or someone he knew sometime in the future.   His main concern was that a single goat would be lonely, since goats are herd animals.  I tried to explain that my plan was that the horse and goat would form their own little herdlet.  I could see he was skeptical, and he mentioned that he just happened to have two little half-grown girl kids that he might be willing to let me “have”.  Once again I made my argument about a horse-and-goat herd.  Pretty much the next thing he said was that he might just bring me some goats (??) one afternoon.  Ahem.  What could I say?  “Thank you, Waylon”, seemed the best answer! 

Late that afternoon the dogs raised a ruckus, and here came Waylon’s pickup with a large crate and two very unhappy goats in the back!  “Um, thank you, Waylon”.  He drove into the pasture and extracted them from their crate, while I tried to keep my very curious horse at bay.  Willow thought this was the best entertainment in days and was already too charged up by the strange smells and sounds to be caught, so I was reduced to playing horsey keep away, with limited success.  Eventually I conceded and he snorted his way up to the truck.  The little goats were horrified and immediately climbed up on the truck’s roof, where their tiny hooves made a racket as they stomped anxiously.  Waylon couldn’t stay all night, and I caught Willow so he could leave.  The goats followed as fast as they could behind the truck as it went to the gate, baa-ing piteously.  They were a sorry sight, and I felt worried for them.  I held Willow for a while but I wanted them to have plenty of opportunity to get acquainted before dark.  When I turned him loose he wanted a much better look at them, but they were having none of it.  Thank goodness there were two of them, so they could each catch their breath a little!  Willow’s used to playing tag with the dogs, it’s enjoyed by both species, and since the new fence kept the dogs effectively out, he was spoiling for a game.  He’d already been fed, so I couldn’t really distract him.  To be honest, I was afraid I was going to have to call Waylon the next day with some bad news, as Willow pursued the girls at a high trot.  Several times he bore down on them, and I thought he’d trample them for sure,

snaking his neck with pinned ears.  I guess I should’ve given him a little more credit though, because each time it seemed they’d be goat-burger, he carefully avoided trampling as he overrode them. 

When it got too dark to see, I retired to the house, muttering dire warnings to my horse.  I’d like to think they mattered, but I know they sorted it out themselves, as animals usually will do if given a chance.  By the next morning an uneasy truce was in place, although it was days before the Goaty Girls, as we’d begun to call them would occupy the same space as Willow.  Within a couple of weeks they had formed a little herd, usually to be seen in the same quadrant of the field as my good gelding.

The happy herdlet now

How the Goaty Girls came to Shadow Lake---part two

So, three excellent goat husbandry books later, I was as sure as I could be that I had a good idea of the requirements of a palace for horse and goat.  Fencing would be mesh from ground to top,  eliminating the possibility of danger from coyotes and dogs., as well as goat escape.   A board across and eventually a hotwire on top of that. My three-sided turnout shed would be very roomy, both big enough to accomodate an extra horse (you never know), to be converted into a hospital stall should the need arise, and certainly adequate for a horse and goat to both have their own space.  I decided on 12x20 for that, south-facing.  A virtual Graceland for Willow!  Goats love to climb on stuff, and fortunately our land is plumb littered with boulders.  Everywhere.  You want to build a shop?  Sorry, you'll have to move it 4 feet to accomodate the boulder that surfaces, too large to be dug out.  A barnlet?   Same situation.  So we just had the  contractors roll one of the large rocks that they'd had to move for the fence anyway out into the center of the pasture.  A thermal waterer like I'd always wanted.  Finally, we had wire welded securely onto both gates and had them hung as close as humanly possible to their posts and the ground.  The only advice I wound up not taking was to build a raised 'goat bed'.  It was in all my original plans, to be in the most protected area of the shed, three feet off the ground in a generous triangle with the bottom closed off to prevent snakes from making their home there.  I figured the contractor would put it in last, but inexplicably, he didn't put it in at all.  Faced with having to get him back out to fix it, which I knew could take weeks due to his schedule, and seeing if it was really necessary, I chose the latter.  I also knew it would cost more, and we'd already gone WAY over budget.  I'm glad I did it that way, because I can't see that the goats miss it at all.  I guess they've been bedding down on the straw of stables for centuries quite happily. 
Here's how everything turned out:

Fence, gates and shed.

Goat rock

Thermal waterer

 

How the Goaty Girls came to Shadow Lake Farm---part one

 

I always assumed I'd have at least two horses for the rest of my life.  A 'riding horse' and probably the previous riding horse, now retired.   As a child I had an 'only horse' for years without thinking about it, but I rode a lot more then and my horse had a lot more interaction with friends.  Now, riding time has decreased tremendously and it's rare indeed that a friend's and my free time coincides for a few hours. 

Scott and I are as close to perfect for each other as I think it's possible to be, but it would be nice if one of us had a 'financial bone'.  I haven't balanced a checkbook for at least two husbands--- finding my best results by listing all deposits as $25 less than they really are, and all debits as at least $5 more than actuality.  Pathetic, I know, but it's like I've got dyslexia with numbers.  They never come out the same.  Drove my math-teacher father to distraction.  Aaaanyway, we've been making a concerted effort to grow up and be responsible adults, and high time too.  I still can't balance our check book but I'm trying.  For months we have been crunching numbers to try and find a workable budget.  My work as a pet-sitter is erratic and Scott can't work now, but that's another story.  After Woody passed on last year Willow was fine on his own and I was in no hurry to get a replacement.  I figured the answer would show itself.  And, did it ever.  No matter what I did with the numbers I couldn't make the costs of having two horses fit into our resources.  Now I was in a quandry, because my horse's welfare is always my first concern, and horses are indisputably herd animals.  While some, like Willow live very well and apparently contentedly alone I know in my bones it's not right for them. 

Other equines, such as ponies, minis and donkeys are certainly easier keepers, right?  I struggled with the donkey issue, because Carson's over at the 7MSN are incredibly sweet and endlessly entertaining.  What tipped the balance away was that I'd still have pretty much the same veterinary and hoof-trimming costs.  Theoretically, I could learn to trim my own.  My wonderful bare foot trimmer Marilyn Gilligan has generously offered to teach me, but I worry too much about hoof angles and wouldn't want to trust my kids to my faulty eyesight. 

 

Pigs, and chickens I considered and discarded because I just didn't see them forming a herd with Willow.  Sheep are high-maintenance with their coats and I didn't see me making use of the fruits of my extra labors with them.  Hmmm, goats have been keeping race horses company in their stalls for hundreds of years, haven't they?  Many a hot-blooded thoroughbred, too nervous to live well in a stall has shared it happily with a goat.  So, obviously the inter-species bond is good.   And goats have such funny, endearing little faces.  The blogs I read definitely tipped the balance for me, convincing me that goats can make very good pets.   I had very little real  life experience with them, a childhood friend had one on the farm, and there was one at the stable where I learned to ride, but that was it.  More research was definitely called for.

Three goat husbandry books later, I was as sure as I could be that getting Willow a goat was the best answer for all of us. 

Introducing Stacy and Hannah, the Goaty Girls

This is Stacy.  Her blazed face makes her easy to spot.  Stacy was born in March, and was a triplet, so having to stand further back in line for her share of milk, she's a little bit smaller than average.  Currently she's about like a medium-sized dog, maybe a bit bigger.  She'll grow some, but probably always  be a little stunted.  She is very active and tempetuous.  The first thing she did on arrival was to jump on the goat rock and begin leaping in the air, turning a 180 before landing on the rock facing the opposite direction. We were captivated!   She also likes to rear up like a little horse, actually more like a levade, because she can hold her balance for a couple of seconds.  She'll rear at the drop of a hat if she wants a better look at something, or if she wants to appear intimidating.  I say, "wants" to appear, as it's a little like being threatened by a teddy bear.  Stacy was the pet of the farmer who bred her, since she was a  little thing, but oddly she is very particular about what she eats.  I haven't been able to persuade her to eat any treats except alfalfa yet, she turns up her patrician little nose at carrots and apples!

And now, meet Hannah.  Isn't that a darling heart on her forehead?  Hannah is Stacy's big sister, technically a half sister since they only had the same sire.  She was also born in March, but as a twin is bigger and more robust than Stacy.  Hannah is more of a pet and more willing to investigate and try new things.  She's also aware of the size difference and never hesitates to push Stacy away from the goat feed; fortunately Stacy is quite persistent and determined to get her share.
 

Aren't they adorable?  We were enchanted, especially Scott, within five minutes of their arrival.  Stacy and Hannah are Boer goats, which means they were bred for meat (we have never told them this), and will grow up to be relatively large and heavy.  From what I've read, they should top out between 210 and 265 pounds, but they are VERY easy keepers, so I think it will be a challenge to keep them at a healthy weight.  They have the loveliest little Roman noses and sport adorable yellow earrings (FDA tags) in their right ears.  I kind of hope the tags eventually fall off, since they are well out of the FDA's reach now and forever.  Their horns are shortish, and follow the curve of their skulls back.  Boers originated in South Africa, and are particularly hardy which suits me, as I am pretty much of a laissez-faire parent.  "Less is more" is my motto, though it's not written in stone.  Anybody that needs extra care will get it, but it's nice to know Boers are naturally strong and relatively low maintenance.