Mimi Takes a Big Step

I was off to a cat-sitting visit and as I went out the door to the carport, Mimi strode right out past me.  This was shocking, for two reasons.  One, my dogs are very polite.  They know not to go out the door without permission and they are pretty good about it.  Two, it was Mimi.   Mimi came to us from a supposedly legitimate breeder, but I take leave to doubt it. 

Mimi has several of the classic “puppy-mill” dog characteristics, in fact, they define her.  She doesn’t speak “dog” and seemed to have no concept of how to interact with other dogs when she came home to us  a couple of years ago.  She didn’t mind the other dogs, she just didn’t notice them, or understand what they were trying to say to her.   It was like they didn’t exist in her universe.  She would just walk right over them on the sofa, and their annoyed growls were totally ignored by her.  No reaction to a snarl or snap at all.  Like she was from another planet.  She doesn’t understand dog play, and I don’t think she ever will.  When our little nurse-dog Pepper would inevitably insist on grooming Mimi you could tell she couldn’t stand it and would immediately get up and move out of reach.  I’ve watched her first learn to tolerate a good licking and now her eyes positively glaze over with pleasure as she goes into the “zone”.  Don’t bother calling her if she’s getting a bath from her big sister Pepper. 

Among other things she’s absolutely terrified of strangers.  Some people think that’s an Italian Greyhound thing, but I believe it’s all in how they’re raised.  A dog who was well socialized as a puppy has a much better chance at a good and long life.  It’s hard work to overcome ingrained shyness (just ask me, I know).  Mimi quickly adopted us, but it was well over a year before she would look us in the eye, even for a fraction of a second.  She wanted to be as close to us as possible, but would always keep her head screwed away, like we smelled bad or something.  But she’s one smart little Iggie.  We’ve seen her get up and run to the door, inciting all other couch occupants to do the same, only to meet them on the way, as she doubles back to take the prime spot that she really wanted.  Tell me that’s not smart, creative thinking.  She’s got so much to offer that I’ve tried repeatedly to stretch her comfort zone with the long range goal of being able to travel with her and share her with others without her being a shivering, petrified mess. 

Before I could successfully take Mimi out to meet people I had to get her where car rides weren’t terrifying in themselves.  To that end, Scott and I have been taking her with us to run errands lately as much as possible.  I keep a bag of the very tastiest dog treats (jerky, her special favorite) in the glove box and as soon as we get in the car she gets one.  Scott stays in the car with her while I run the errands, and she gets another treat whenever I return to the car.   Inititally, she was too tense to eat them but we’ve passed that now.  And the last stop of the day is usually McDonald’s or Bojangles or Wendy’s, where she gets her own little lunch.  I know, we spoil them, but sometimes desperate measures are called for, and I’ve found that for me sometimes the best way to short-circuit a dog’s or horse’s habitual panic is through treats.   A plain junior cheeseburger or the meat from a Cajun Filet biscuit are powerful things in a dog’s world.   And today proved it’s working!  I knew she was getting more okay about these little outings because she quit hiding from us when it was time to go out.  She actually wagged her tail and moved forward on the couch a little, the last time.  For Mimi, that was progress.  Now, Scott had his wisdom teeth out last week and has been laying low ever since, with completely no interest in fast food.  Mimi had become accustomed to going out for lunch at least once a week and I guess today she decided the drought had gone on long enough.   Seeing her trot happily out ahead of me, I called back to Scott, “I’ll take her with me”, since I just had one very quick stop to make to feed some cats nearby.  I opened the door to the car, called her and she jumped in!  On her own!  A victory in itself.  I immediately gave her a piece of jerky as her happy feet danced on the seat with anticipation.  On the way out the quarter mile long drive I rolled the window halfway down like usual, and for the very first time, Mimi’s nose was poked slightly over the edge of the glass.  She’s been too nervous to join all the other dogs in the joy of sniffing  the driveway scents, but today she did, both going and coming back.  It was a thoroughly uneventful trip, she was calm, but trembling (that’s an IG thing), and never tried to hide her head under my arm as she usually has before.  It’s such a small but wonderful step she took today, and I’m in a happy, hopeful glow about it.  Her progress had been so slow as to be minute, but she turned it on its head today.  Our little girl is going to grow up into a wonderful adult dog, I see that now.  It just takes time, patience and repetition.  

Icy Here!

Finally got our first wintry precipitation for the 2012/2013 season, in the form of sleet yesterday.  It was a shorter burst than anticipated, which was probably a good thing.  When I drove out to do some dog-walking mid-afternoon there were already roll-overs, the black ice was amazing.  Thank goodness for our sturdy little old '95 Nissan 4 wheel drive truck!  Back here everyone coped with the storm in their particular ways.  Willow and the GGs seemed unperturbed, and Stacy thought it might be the day to debut her "goat riding a horse" act:

Stacy: Hannah, quick, give me a leg up!

There were lines at the bird feeders like I haven't seen since the gas shortages of the seventies.  Birds came to fisticuffs (wingicuffs?) and the odd feathers flew.

The big dogs could be found either in the carport in their snug little heated corner,

or inticing someone to go for a walk.  (sorry about the blurriness).

The Iggies were both double-blanketed in spite of having their heat-lamps to broil under, on the couches, Buglet looked like a tick--nothing but eyes and legs, but she wouldn't give up her favorite spider.

Pepper and Mimi just broiled under the heat-lamps like sausages at a convenience store.

Are Horse Lovers Made or Do They Just Come That Way?

Sometimes I think parents have only themselves to blame for their little horse-crazy children.  I mean, what do they expect if they read them “Black Beauty” when they are very small? 

In my case I think it was a perfect storm of factors.  My dad grew up an Oklahoma cowboy, and some of my earliest memories are of being spellbound by stories of his Cheyenne and Arapahoe friends and all the horse trading and riding and ranching his family did.  “Cheyenne Fannie” was a frequent horse-trading visitor, and when Black Kettle’s little grandson died dad told me how he was given a Christian burial, but his little white pony was shot and buried with him so he’d have something to ride in Heaven.  Whole train cars full of Appaloosas would come into Watonga straight from the Nez Perce lands, and dad and his older brother Britt would buy and break them for resale, their spectacular coloring making them valuable amongst the usual bay and chestnut cow ponies. 

My grandma had grown up at the turn of the century and as a small child living on an isolated farm her only friend was a weanling filly mule named Goldie.  Goldie and little Flossie were inseperable, even to the extent that Flossie coaxed Goldie up the incredibly tall, narrow and dark stairs to the second floor bedrooms and all the way onto the bed.  I always wondered how she got her down!  Flossie got a whipping for that but she said it was worth it.   I ate their stories up, and then they read me “Black Beauty”,  so between that and genetics it was all over as far as my mania for horses was concerned. 

We had neighbors with cows and horses and I got in trouble for following them when their weekend trail rides passed through our woodland logging roads.  My cousin Amy was the richest person I knew, from my point of view as she had an evil little Shetland appropriately named Frisky.  Frisky regularly did one-eighties, usually managing to sling us into the thickets of sawtooth briars, but neither our constant scratches nor scrapes could deter us.  Amy’s father was a sawmiller and owned a giant Percheron logging mule named Bertie May.  Bert was a frustrated mother and cows with fresh calves had to be protected or she would drive the calf from its mother and guard it from the anxious cow!  She was also a Houdini who frequently escaped the pasture, there being no fence able to stand up to her sheer size and strength. 

One of my very first rides was with two of my little cousins on Bert.  Once I was on her the ground seemed an awful long ways away, and I’m the one clinging with my very toes to her well sprung sides as she good-naturedly toted us around on her day off. 

I couldn't leave you without showing you last night's sunset.  Maybe all that color is a precourser to the ice and snow we're forcasted to get?  We can only hope, although I'm starting to envision little coats on the goaty girls.  A trip to Petsmart to see what they have in the way of large dog coats may be on for today!  They probably don't need them, but when I see them all naked next to Willow who's wearing a blanket for the first time in two years  (last winter just was too mild to even be called that), I have to admit I worry a little for them.  They've plenty of hay to snuggle down in but I bet they'd appreciate their own blankets. 

Woody and His Little People

 

When I found Woody most of his experience with people must have been indifferent at best, but mostly bad.  Even though he came to trust me completely over our twenty-two years, he never really became comfortable with the idea of having his face stroked or petted.  Most horses I have known have enjoyed a gentle stroke or pat, and Woody was no exception, as long as you kept it to his neck.

 In any herd he was always low man on the totem pole and for all our time together I had to either provide him a separate area to eat, or if I couldn’t do that, then I needed to physically guard him so he could eat in peace.  He definitely appreciated it, and even enjoyed being stroked and talked to as his ate.  I could actually see his whole being soften and relax under my hand, and since a lot of horses would just as soon you leave them alone to eat, I really valued those times with him.  Even his ears would relax, and  I felt good that I could do something for him that he really appreciated.  Woody was pretty undemonstrative.  It took about ten years before he’d unbend enough to let his lips twitch when I scratched him, up til then as far as I knew he was just tolerating me.

 

But Woody had a weakness, and it was little people.  Children fascinated him, and the feeling was mutual.  I have a large family with lots of cousins and from time to time the idea of “pony rides” would come up.  Woody was just a different horse for them.  No matter how hot he was for adults to ride, he was a true steady Eddy for children, happy to plod slowly round and round the yard.  After he’d been around twice I could probably have put him in charge and turned him loose with them, as no further leading was necessary, he knew where to go and where to comeback and stop at.   Once I put a tiny Irish cousin up on him, not knowing that she already took lessons back home.  I could see Woody’s consternation and confusion as he raised his head when he felt her pick up the reins and put her tiny legs on him!  But at a word from me his head came back down and he heaved a big sigh as he realized they were cues he should ignore.  Children were the only ones who were welcome to touch his face, and even if their excitement made them pat him enthusiastically he never pulled away from them. 

And another little horse-crazy girl is born.

Ivan

 

The first time I saw Ivan I was as big a mess as he was.  A local farm owner advertised for barn help and I jumped at the chance of my first horse job.  All I knew about Saddlebreds was what everyone sees, the huge shoes, long feet, action and rolling eyes.  Through my hunter-jumper friends I’d heard a rumor that they were often good jumpers.  The barn owner was an extremely kind lady who obviously loved her horses.  Physically, they wanted for nothing (except turnout that is).  Nothing but the best feeding and care.   Gradually I noticed that they usually came in from workouts with bloody mouths, which we carefully medicated.  I learned to strap them into the confining tail harnesses at the same time I learned to carefully bathe and cool them out.  I watched unhappily as they were occasionally terrorized in their stalls with brooms  to produce the “animation” desired.

But the barn was a haven for me.  Home life was tricky at best.  Mom and I fought all the time, mostly over my boy friend and lack of “proper” social  ambition, dad was in the early stages of Alzheimers, before anybody knew about the disease.  I just thought he had strange opinions when he’d accuse me and my best friend of being way more than friends, but it cost me that friendship just the same.  At the barn all that just floated away as I immersed myself in the work.  I had the care of the two year olds who were already getting full work outs under saddle.  All except one.  “Keep away from Ivan.  He’s nuts.”  Ivan was a red chestnut with the biggest star I’d ever seen.  The BO had an aerial picture on the wall and you could tell which horse was Ivan, sticking his head out of the barn window with that headlight between his eyes even from thousands of feet up.  Ivan had a foaling stall to himself because he constantly paced and stood by the window pawing a foot-deep hole in the floor.  He wore both pawing chains and hobbles, but still he dug, pressing his nose against the window bars.  Like the others he hadn’t been turned out since he went into training for fear of pulling a shoe or marring that silky coat.  He seemed to feel it worse, though, and he was clearly miserable.  I carefully cleaned his stall as quietly and gently as possible  but it broke my heart to watch him rear against the far wall and try to beat his way out, away from me.  I couldn’t stand to see him so afraid and unhappy so I started taking my lunch and a book into his stall and eating quietly in one corner, as he trembled and fidgeted  as far from me as he could get.  Gradually he began to accept me and it truly warmed my heart when he trusted me enough to lie down for a nap near my feet.  I took over his care, no one else wanted to deal with him anyway because he was still crazy-scared most of the time.  I soon lost my heart to the damaged colt and spent every free moment keeping him company in his stall, but there was nothing I could do to really make his life any better for him. 

Ivan and I both lucked out the next summer when it was determined that he was worthless, not having the necessary knee action for the Saddle Seat world.  His owner let me make payments on him and $900 later he was mine.  I turned him out for the first time in six months and cried as he ran and bucked and slid in an overabundance of joy.  Ivan took to the trails like he was born to it.  I think he was glad to get out of the ring, and his bravery knew no obstacles.  Traffic, dogs, kids, water, it was all fine with him, as long as we were trotting or cantering.  I couldn’t get him to walk, and like many inexperienced riders I put him in a harsher snaffle, sitting his jigging uneasily as his front end got lighter and lighter.  I knew what was coming and a rear was inevitable, but it panicked me into calling around for lessons.  No one in my area was thrilled about teaching someone with a saddlebred but eventually I found an eventing trainer who would take us on.  He put Ivan back in a smooth snaffle and taught me how to send him forward into it to create a flat walk.  He also helped me teach him to jump. 

Ivan proved a talented and enthusiastic jumper.  Soon we were limited only by what I had the nerve to attempt, as cross country jumps went.  Ivan pricked his ears and sailed happily over ditches, logs and streams.  As long as running was involved it was all fine with him.  He was such an enthusiastic jumper that he ran away with me in show jumping at all the horse trials I took him to.  I could control him in lessons, but I guess my nerves got to him at events because he’d haul me around a course at top speed and I was too embarrassed to set him down in front of God and everyone.  He never touched a jump or had a penalty but I have a picture of us jumping that shows the jump crew with their hands over their faces. 

Trailering back from Virginia one time the truck broke down.  I had to spend the night in the little two-horse trailer with Ivan to keep him from screaming for me all night.  I slept in the stall next to him and he was content.  We were a team, and he comforted me in my teenage heartbreak as much as I did him. 

 I was blessed to have Ivan for just two years, his fourth and fifth.  One afternoon in August he coliced and the vet recommended I bring him to the clinic.  Back then I still thought my trainers and their vets were gods and that there was nothing they couldn’t do. They treated him about twelve hours, hoping it wouldn’t require surgery as they told me they’d lost the last two.  This was back when colic surgery wasn’t the more routine operation it can be now.  I watched from the sidelines as they prepped my boy and flipped him on his back, one back leg extended and one tightly flexed.  Unbelievably, the anesthetist had to leave mid-surgery on another emergency and I was drafted to monitor the machine.  I didn’t know what I was doing and  at one point Ivan moved a bit, as his level of sleep became insufficient.  They removed several feet of purple-black intestine and sewed Ivan back together.  He came out of the surgery well, but it transpired that the flexed up leg wouldn’t work and I watched as he crawled around the padded stall, trying to get to his feet.  When he quit in exhaustion the vets wracked their brains trying to get him going again.  I was still on auto-pilot and deep in shock, thinking that if I only kept doing what they told me, everything would be alright.  I’d never lost a horse before and it still hadn’t dawned on me that I was losing this one.  I knew what would get him moving, and I cried as I raised a broom beside him, but fear gave him the  strength to finally gain his feet.  It took me more than twenty years to stop beating myself up for raising the broom to him, but at the time I thought that it would save him if I could just get him to his feet.  I didn’t know that the battle was already lost.  It was just too late.  His insides couldn’t work anymore, the blood had been cut off for too long.   I still can’t look at a purple liquid, the color of the euthanasia solution.  Ivan was my heart horse, but he paved the way for the little chestnut castoff that now inhabits my field and his own place in my heart. 

 

 

Willow and the Boy Scout

 

My niece and her son came to visit last summer.  She and I have a pretty strained relationship but we try to make it work on account of the kids.  Her family is  all very into Scouting  and one day, out of the blue she told me that Jason needed some kind of horsemanship certification, and she naturally  assumed I’d be thrilled to help with that. Five years or so ago, before we fell out she’d gone through a horsey phase, wanting to learn to drive, and  I could teach her theory til the cows came home, but I could not get her to gear herself down enough not to drive any live horse crazy.  So, she kind of bull-dozed over my protestations that it’d been many years since I’d done any kind of formal teaching and besides, to my knowledge Willow had never even met a little person and had certainly  had never been used for any sort of demonstration.  I agreed to give it the old college try, contingent upon Willow remaining happy and untroubled. 

I know I didn’t get any sleep that night, but next morning I collected Jason, and we went to the barn and I caught up Willow.  He’s the absolute sweetest-natured horse, but he views all strange humans with initial distrust, thanks to his early saddle seat training.  A couple of peppermints convinced him that Jason was at least potentially a friend, and we began with haltering and unhaltering.   At first Jason’s movements and gestures  were a little too abrupt for Willow’s taste, but he picked up on Willow raising his head away and leaning back from him and quickly figured out how to be slow, gentle, and calm.  Willow heaved a big sigh, licked and chewed and from then on was much more relaxed.  We worked through tieing  safely including proper length of rope to have between horse and post---or in this case tree--- as well as safety knots, and  I followed that with a  grooming demonstration and Jason’s repetition and Willow was perfect.  He stood like a champ while Jason curried and brushed and  then stood three-legged some more while the boy picked endlessly at his hooves.  It’s always hard to realize  just how much force is required to get the dirt out of a foot when I guess you’re mentally picturing digging a hoof  pick into your own. 

Next, I led Willow and Jason walked along side as we moseyed to my lunging area for basic leading.   I watched Willow like a hawk for signs of nervousness because even with me he’ll occasionally perceive some quick danger and pull back.  He always comes right back to me, with an almost embarrassed look, but I didn’t want his feet  anywhere near my tennis-shoe clad nephew’s toes.  To my slight amazement Jason listened closely and followed pretty exactly all my instructions.  They circled to the left, working on “whoa”, and “walk on”, then back to the right, before I turned them loose to make a circuit of the pasture.  Again, Willow was a star, ambling along beside Jason like an old dude string horse.   Jason’s grin was so big I almost needed sunglasses.  He’s small for his age and I guess he gets picked on some, and I could see it did him good to be able to control and be in harmony with such a big creature. 

The moment of truth had arrived.  I’d reserved the right to pull the plug (so to speak) on this project at any time if the child or horse were uncomfortable, but both were relaxed and happy, and Willow appeared to be enjoying this new experience as much as Jason.  I tacked Willow up, explaining all the while, then untacked him and walked the boy through putting all the gear back on.  I put on my helmet and prepared to demonstrate mounting, mouth going a mile a minute in my effort not to leave anything out.  I parked  Willow by the mounting block, thanking my stars that we’d worked so much on standing still, after Mark Rashid showed me how to better communicate my expectations along those lines.  Holding onto the reins and pommel with my left hand and the cantle with my right as I emphasized how important safety is in this, I put my left foot in the stirrup and stood up in it, allowing the iron to take my weight.  Imagine my surprise and horror as the saddle and I slid inevitably down Willow’s side, and I was deposited on my back under his belly, as he bent his head and looked at me inquiringly.  I could just see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to figure out what new idea this was supposed to be, and what the correct reaction was.  Yes folks, I’d been so caught up in my effort to cover everything that I’d forgotten to tighten the girth.  I was mortified.  But I couldn’t help being quietly thrilled at Willow’s (non)reaction to my stupidity.  I don’t think the kid actually realized what a catastrophe my “fall” could have been, although I tried to make it clear, not sparing myself in the telling of what a gigantic mistake forgetting to tighten the girth actually was.  After that, actually having Jason mount and walk around quietly practicing turning, stopping and walking off as I kept hold of the lead rope was pretty anticlimactic.  By this time, we’d  had Willow out for over two hours and I figured we’d accomplished plenty for one day.  Jason untacked him with my help, brushed and patted him and I turned him loose for a well-earned roll.  I don’t know if he ever did learn to trot, but I was satisfied that he’d had a decent basicintroduction to horsemanship and I was absolutely thrilled with my little green horse, who proved that often they just need a chance to step up to the plate and act like a grown horse who knows what he’s doing. 

Frustrated Cowgirl

 

My dad was born in the Oklahoma Territory in 1898.  Sixty two when I was born, I am sure I was a tremendous shock to his system.  Dad had grown up in the tiny town of Watonga, where his parents settled after the Land Rush of 1892.  His older brother was born in a “soddy”, a cave-like home cut and built into the side of a hill.  Watonga was situated on the former Cheyenne-Arapaho Reservation and was still full of cowboys and Indians in my dad’s day.

 Growing up, I pestered him continually for stories of his youth in that Western town.  Dad had had a string of “ponies” when he went off to join the Navy in 1917, and I never tired of hearing of his escapades with them and with his Cheyenne and Arapaho companions.  Between that and a steady diet of Zane Grey and Louis Lamour I always felt that I should have lived back then.  The painful reality is that my eyesight is so bad I’d have been lucky if they were willing to feed me as I sat in my corner trying to earn my way by feel.  On the frontier I’d have been pretty much blind.  Oh well, a girl can dream, right? 

To my everlasting (it seemed then) frustration Dad wouldn’t  let me learn to ride until I was ten years old.  He maintained that any younger was too small to handle a horse and he never trusted ponies.  So I sat steaming on the sidelines as my little horse-loving friends told of their lessons and horsey exploits.  When the magic age finally rolled around Dad found that there were no “Western” riding stables in our area, so to his consternation he had to let me go for English lessons.  He made me take weekly lessons for two solid years before he’d get me a horse, and while it frustrated me no end at the time, I now think it should be a blueprint for most parents.  But that’s another soap box.  I always knew that Dad thought those slick little postage stamp saddles were “sissy”, but he went along with it all anyway, patiently providing me with boots and a hard hat, both several sizes too big.  I was the little geeky looking kid in hand me down black boots way over my knees, that I was so proud of!  My hat pretty much prevented me seeing anything but the horse, but I didn’t care---I was riding!

So I grew up riding “English” out of geographical necessity, but at heart there was always a little cowgirl, waiting for any half-assed opportunity to show up.  We rode bareback like Indians, looped hay strings around our patient horses’ heads and rode bridleless through the neighborhood, and swam them in every pond.  We terrorized  chickens and drove dogs into a frenzy on a regular basis. 

 Dad thought the only proper western saddle had a hard seat and eventually he found me a used one of those little youth western saddles that Western Auto used to sell from their all-purpose catalog.   When I wasn’t trying to jump everything in sight I’d be in that western saddle with a rope around a log, dragging it around, pretending it was a cow.  I looked forward to Christmas all year just to have a legitimate excuse to drag a tree home behind old Jim, or Tonka. 

Once I learned to jump, that became my big love and it still is.  Every place on the trail that had a tree on either side became a jump, as I hammered huge nails in to hold my “jump rails”.  Of course, I tried jumping in a Western saddle, but hooking my bra on the horn cured me of that quick.   Eventually, I  went to work, and then to college, still mostly riding on those little postage stamps.

But the cowgirl still lurks in me.  Yes, I’m the one ponying my horse through my pick up window back to the barn after an event.  In my defense, it was Woody, and I just knew he’d handle it fine, traffic held no bugaboos for him, and being shod only in front gave him some traction.  Yes, that’s my Stubben-clad bronco tied by his snaffle rein---I know I know--- to a springy limb out back of the convenience store, and that was me chasing pursuing dogs back to their home, “cutting” style, dreaming of cows.  It’s amazing the look on a dog’s face when it realizes the game has turned and it’s become the prey!  Usually doesn’t take too much encouragement to get them back to their own yards, but some are more persistent and good for several minute’s fun ! 

At one of the first horse trials---we used to call even the little ones “events”---I took Woody to, we were walking along a trail through the woods from the stable yard to the cross country start box.  Woody hadn’t quite figured out the program yet, so he wasn’t anticipating the gallop to come, and walked nicely.  A big-name trainer and her student followed us by twenty five yards or so when I started to hear shouting from up ahead, “Loose horse!”   Pounding hooves foretold the coming arrival of a sweat-flecked dapple grey, wild eyed and reins and stirrups flying as he belted toward us.  He was coming our way, and I heard people holler, “don’t try to grab him!”, but my sleeping cowgirl woke up and overcame any common sense I might have had.  I sat down and sunk my heels and took a firm grip on Woody, with one hand on the reins and a big handful of mane.  The grey broke to a post-legged trot, and came right at us, thinking he knew Woody I guess, then squealed and prepared to blast off again as I reached out and hooked his rein.  He hit the end of it but Woody was dug in like the cow horse he could have been, and practically sat down, resulting in the grey doing a quick one-eighty and coming back up beside us.  I know it was stupid, and believe me, I heard about it, I guess I could’ve been yanked off, or pulled over, but if I never get another chance, I was a cowgirl once.