I checked her last night along with all of the other horses, and she was fine. I'm hoping she hasn’t had a stick impaled in her leg all night, imagining the damage that would do. I take a deep breath, tell myself that I can do this, clasp a hand around her leg, and pull the stick out. Piñon doesn’t complain much (I would have), although it is pretty ugly. I clean the wound. Give her the very last of my stash of powdered Bute with her grain to ease her discomfort and get the swelling down, then phone the vet.

Doc sedates her, irrigates the wound, checks to see if there are any splinters left, pulls her front shoes, gives her a shot of antibiotics and tells me the good news is that the stick has gone into the leg sideways and not straight into the joint. He leaves me with a course of powdered antibiotics and some paste Bute, along with instructions for doing hydrotherapy on the leg.

Now we haven’t had Piñon very long, and I’ve already given her her spring shots, which was not too big of a deal, although we need to work on getting her a little more calm. But paste Bute, I discover, is a totally different story. I think Piñon's gotten away with not having anyone put anything besides a bit in her mouth without a good wrestling match, and I don’t want to go there. That's a no-win.

So what do you do when a thousand-pound, long-legged, long-necked mare is standing resolutely on all fours, as tall as she can get, nose straight up in the air, jaws clenched together, sitting back on her hind legs if she feels you are pushing too far? (At this point in the doctoring, my 8- and 9-year-old children have retreated to the other side of the fence. Wondering what has happened to their sweet and gentle pet. It’s written all over their pale and worried faces. I tell them the horse is just communicating her unhappiness with us the only way she knows how, with her body. Both kids peer through the corral panels. Nod solemnly.)

I put a stud chain around her nose, which gets her attention all by itself with a couple of short, fair corrections mid-rear. (Although she doesn’t rear up very high, it’s unacceptable and still very dangerous for me on the ground.) Rearing quelled, I talk to her, tell her I’m not going to hurt her. Start rubbing the tube of Bute on her neck, cheek, to the corner of her mouth. Her head shoots up in alarm. I retreat, advance, retreat with the tube until she’s settled down. Then I put a couple of my fingers in the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t like that one bit. I hope she doesn’t bite, because I need my fingers. Again, advance, retreat, advance with my fingers, until she settles down again. Then finally I put my fingers in the corner of her mouth followed by the tube of Bute paste. Her head goes up again and I go with her, doggedly following her head up and down and up and down with my hands, fingers, and tube, until I can finally dispense the sticky white paste into her mouth.

Being able to not get mad and hold my temper when I’m frustrated at a horse is something I’ve learned from nearly a lifetime with them, and I’m successful almost all of the time, and down on myself if I am not. I tell my kids to not get mad, to not get angry when they are dealing with their horses, that real horsemen just don’t do that, so I stick to my own rule even when I’m dealing with a difficult horse all by myself. Sometimes this requires talking to myself or counting to ten. I’ve found that maintaining a sense of humor is the very best way to maintain one’s composure. You'd might as well chuckle about it, then have another go. (I think of what my husband Dennis says. Sometimes chicken, sometimes feathers.) Most of the time I am a good role model. (Although I did get mad at my daughter’s horse the other day, because she was dancing around when I was trying to mount, even after several corrections. And both of my kids, who really must listen to me, I found, reminded me that not getting angry at the horses is one of the golden rules at our house. Guess I’m doing OK with this teaching stuff then.)

Every horse is different. And there’s a certain amount of creativity required in dealing with our individual horses. But doggedly, calmly staying with a horse when I have to give meds seems to be effective.

In the future, I’m going to work with Piñon on not being so touchy about her mouth. The woman I bought my draft horse from gave me some very good advice. She had been putting her fingers in the big gelding’s mouth on a regular basis since he was a little bitty guy. It’s made many things, including giving meds by mouth, checking teeth, and even bitting, much easier.

Piñon is on the mend. And with practice and exposure, she’s also getting easier about her meds. Although we’ve gone through quite a lot of molasses (and cajoling) to get her to eat those powdered antibiotics.

Flickr photos:
obedientmuse; obedientmuse; obedientmuse