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". )