Unusual Behavior Isn’t a Training Issue.
It’s time for my annual announcement. Your horse doesn’t have a training problem. It isn’t a brain tumor, and he hasn’t gotten into the duck chow. It’s late winteritis or spring fever. Both are bad, their symptoms are unpredictable. One day, the pond is defrosting and I think I have survived the longest meanest winter I can remember. The next day, the wind is whipping through my scalp at thirty miles per hour and it’s sixteen degrees.
On the blustery days, the inmates stand in the shelter and grumble. They have started to shed, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I don’t brush them. Two days later, another storm threat. The temperature is just high enough that they all get wet before it freezes to snow. I hope the loose hair on top of the old hair insulates better. I feed twice the usual hay so they have something to poop on in the barn. Glad I have not foolishly taken the tank heaters out, I grumble into the house.
Against the odds, dull sunrises turn electric pink and yellow. The gray horses leave snow angels in the mud holes. I don’t groom the mud off either. It works better for the additional snow that will come, whether in the forecast or not. Nothing is greening yet, but a robin shows up. Naturally, I think he’s lost his way.
Every night there is a screeching yapfest between the baby coyotes by the pond and the house dogs who feel like something should be done. If they are awake, they leap to their feet, screaming as they skid around the corner of the washer, and crash out the backdoor onto the porch. Once outside, they become immediately silent and sniff the air. Close enough. They bark inside the porch for a respectable time if it’s too cold or windy. (Shh. They don’t think I know.) They come back into my studio, sheepish and deflated, and curl up in their beds. They don’t wonder if their ancestors are embarrassed.
When the cold snap breaks, the horses stretch out in the sun. Exhausted by the weather, no one stands watch over the herd. They all plop down and nap for so long that I wonder. The next moment, the horses are bucking and bolting and breaking out of their pens. Well, it’s Edgar Rice Burro who opens the gates. It takes a donkey for the technical parts. But off they go, tearing up the dead ground in search of spring grass, the elixir of gods. They sweat through their stinky winter coats and smell like a boys’ locker room. The odor is soon cured by another mud bath that cakes hard enough that it won’t come out before the hair does.
These days are remarkable to me because horses are peaceful creatures. One gelding likes to make faces at the mare. It’s a harmless hobby. The herd is older now, retired, and enjoying a quiet life. Many of us think our horses are bored, and without constant human interaction and training, horses lose their will to live. It’s more likely that horses would lose their spark from over-training and micromanaging. Instead, days roll by, bending to the weather. Friends stand close, watching life on the pond, tracking the coyotes with their eyes, safe behind our fence. We are rich in ordinary days.
Most country dwellers have habits that make us unwelcome in town. Mine is a soft spot for long ears. Counting rescues and rehabs, there have been ten donkeys and mules here over the years. My pack of barky dogs is nothing compared to Edgar Rice Burro, who is the Enrico Caruso of the donkey world. He extends his nose out to open his throat and his voice pulses from deep in his prodigious belly. Edgar begins by heaving air in and out of his lungs in a moaning yodel, followed by a fart with each exhale. Then the tenor honking begins like a crosscut saw being heaved back and forth. As the last bray sneaks out, there is a slight break in his voice, like country singers have. It’s operatic. It scares children. The Corgis are humbled.
On this day, it was the Corgis who gave warning. Not the everyday bark when the stray cats saunter past their yard to eat free kibble in the barn. A different bark than the day the pregnant deer came up to their fence to mock them. Preacher Man and Mister howled for so long, I got curious. Between hearing aids and glasses, if I didn’t have dogs, I’d be oblivious.
Outside, I saw the horses standing near the barn, looking north. Not unusual. I walked out further and heard baritone barking; the two Rottweilers who recently moved into the property adjoining ours. I like Rotties, one was wagging and the other showing teeth and growling like a monster, as they jumped up and down. Two sides of the same anxiety, they were nervous. No wonder. Edgar had his big old head stuck through the fence panels, ears flat and lunging at them. It made quite a rattle.
When I first moved here, dog packs ran loose chasing horses, attacking dogs, and killing goats. I negotiated with neighbors, but after the first thousand dollars of vet bills, no help. The sheriff said to shoot the dogs who came on the property; lousy advice that would start a range war like in the old Westerns. Instead, I re-fenced the farm and bought a load of fence panels from a Christmas tree lot after the holiday. Enough to line my pens. I was glad. The Rotties had already curled the thick top row of fencing down, awkwardly hopping without hope of scaling the panels.
A week later I heard their yelps with my own deaf ears while mucking. Edgar was facing the Rottweilers. The owner was coming across the field to get them, and I introduced myself. Edgar caterwauled at the horrified man, scabs on his cheek from wrestling with his horse, and a drop of fresh blood on his nose. The man must be a townie; he was a bit intimidated. I told him I hoped his dogs wouldn’t get hurt. It’s a rough neighborhood.
Then Edgar and I waddled back to the herd. Edgar is eighty in human years. He had a rough winter with some chronic health issues and isn’t as spry as he used to be. He found a sunny spot and gingerly dropped to the ground. Edgar doesn’t like goats particularly, but it’s spring and they’re part of the job.
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