Epic Journey of Boy and Heeler Puppies
OK. I uploaded this Epic Journey to Google.
I confirmed that it's really working. ;-) I laughed so hard I thought I was going to die when we made this trip.
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December 31, 2006
The world from the top of the manure pile
Who would have guessed that our five horses who must generate something like a thousand tons of manure every year would have provided us with this wonderful snow-covered mountain from which to survey the aftermath of our 48-hour storm? And who would've guessed that anyone besides the generally odiferous tenacious heeler puppies would be the king/queen of the manure pile? Although when push comes to shove, that big pile of horse shit is their own personal property, and here they are making their point crystal clear.
The sun at 7,000 feet
We woke up this morning to the bright New Mexico sun. At our high elevation, it's possible to stand outside in the middle of all this snow with your face upturned to the blue sky and feel very warm. The icicles are beginning to melt from the horses. They looked much happier to me as I went down to feed them their breakfast.
And the tenacious heeler puppies generate so much heat, that you can practically see the steam rising off of their winter coats. Today, the whole world will sparkle and shine.
What we are having for dinner
Did I mention that we have one egg in the refrigerator? And the husband is down to his very last can of chewing tobacco? The DirecTV satellite dish is buried beneath a ton of snow. There's something wrong with the video game. (Like, I never made it to the post office to pick up the package that had arrived.)
And the natives are getting restless.
Ever since the failed rescue attempt, there's been some talk of a goose dinner.
A failed rescue attempt
This is as far as we got yesterday. From her snug house inside of the barn out through the two pasture gates and just on this side of the giant manure pile. And 25 yards beyond that. And that 25 yards involved a lot of pushing, and shoveling, and can-do from my former Navy Nuke husband (It's really hard to describe that level of determination. On a fast attack, you either fix it right, or very possibly you all die at the bottom of the ocean.) with some help from me, rocking that big orange Kubota girl back and forth on her heavily treaded tires.
I understand that there is a Plan #2 today. And I'm really really looking forward to it.
I don't think we're going to get out of here for a little while.
The unfriendliest mare I've ever known
Teyla, our Appaloosa mare who we rescued a while ago, is just about the unfriendliness horse I have ever known. Just watch her body language here. Sometimes, she doesn't even like it when you look at her. And other times, when I'm petting or grooming the other horses, she stands about 4 feet behind me, looking at me with great interest and a longing, I think, to love and be loved, her eyes softening. On the rare occasion, you can walk up to her and give her a good rub on the neck or the shoulder. But sometimes, she just won't stand for any of it.
The fellow we bought her from was scared to death of her.
But the funny thing is, she'll let me catch her, she takes care of the kids when they ride her, she's never bitten or kicked us or tried to hurt us in any way, and she's one hell of a steely-eyed mountain horse, just point her in the direction you want to go in and she'll take care of the rest of it. She can go all day long in that rough terrain without one complaint. She's as surefooted as a mountain goat. She's also so quick and light, that if one of the kids needs my help with the horse when we are riding in the mountains, she has no hesitation about doing exactly what I ask. And on the rare occasion that something does actually scare at this spotted and branded mare who's made out of iron, she immediately looks to us for security.
She is just not what I would call warm and fuzzy.
SOS from the evil, snowed-in geese
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When I woke up yesterday morning, the first thing I did was rush to the windows and look outside to count all five of my horses standing by the fence.
Then I turned my ear toward the open window and listened. Very intently. For the sound I was hoping to hear. At first, there was only the murmuring of the wind. I listened harder. Hoping they'd been smart enough to put themselves inside.
Nothing.
I yelled for them out the window, "Goosies!"
A heeler puppy yipped.
I tried again. Only this time louder and longer. "Goooooooosies!"
And then to my relief, floating across the pines through what little early morning light could pierce the curtains of ceaseless, falling snow, came the raucous, agitated honking of my beloved geese.
Charlotte Gray and her kittens are snug in the barn
Charlotte Gray and her little kittens have weathered out the storm in their little corner of the barn. Essentially, they're all piled up together in their blanket in the loose hay. Just look at their winter coats! They've been eating lots of leftover turkey from the Christmas dinner. Along with leftover yams and stuffing. Apparently, they think I'm quite a good cook. My husband says I always have to have something to worry and fret over, or I won't know what to do with myself. So I have had plenty to keep me occupied these last 48 hours.
December 30, 2006
Horses and three feet of snow
Update: I've reloaded this video to YouTube. It should be working fine now.
This morning there were icicles hanging from the chin of every horse we own. They were icicles on their flanks. Icicles on their tails. Icicles on their ears. Icicles on their muzzles. Icicles on their fetlocks. As our two smaller horses, the Arabian and the Appaloosa, plowed their way through the snow to the water trough, the snow was up to their furry bellies.
Toby looked to me like one of those barges on the Nile. Or one of those intricately carved Viking ships. You know, with a dragon or the mythical beast at the head, with an elegant arched neck, and the ornate rudder? Instead of sailing across a river ocean of blue, the Percheron horse navigated his way across a blanket of white. The only thing missing were the oars. But maybe all of those icicles hanging from his flanks would suffice.
Epic journey to the barn
Update: I've reloaded this video onto YouTube. It should be working now!
The journey from my front door to the barn generally takes only a few minutes. But with 3 feet of snow on the ground this morning, what is usually a little stroll became a journey of err ... epic ... and hilarious ... proportions for my nine year old and our two heeler puppies!
Lila, the more tenacious of the pups, tried to tunnel her way to the pasture gate. A few times here, when she disappeared beneath the snow, I thought we'd lost her. We spent a lot of time outside today with the puppies in tow, and I made sure to keep a good eye on her. Frankly, with all that tunneling she did, I expected her to end up in China.
December 29, 2006
Goose down
My five African geese love the snow. And I believe they are impervious to the cold. Maybe it's all that venom and bile and downright goose meanness that wards off the chill.
On a cold day like today, I start thinking about all of the goose down things I own. We all sleep on goose down feather beds. We sleep beneath goose down duvets. There are more than a few goose down coats hanging in our closets. And, oh my lord, I believe our pillows are even chock-full of goose feathers.
Just don't let my pack (forget the word flock) of charming pets get wind of that one, or Heaven knows what they might do me.
Their feathers do look pretty dapper against all that fresh white snow, don't they?
The blizzard of '78
In 1978, in the rural township in Ohio where I grew up on Lake Erie, we had an epic snowstorm. People still refer to it as the blizzard of '78. I missed an entire month of high school. That is, school was closed down because we were pummeled by snow. I don't recall anyone owning four wheel drives at that time. Which seems funny to me now, given the brutal weather along the Lake Erie coast. I remember taking my dad's old Ford tractor (circa 1945) to the tiny grocery store up the road, because we couldn't get my mother's Buick LeSabre out of the driveway. The big sliding doors on our graceful old red barn even froze shut. I spent an entire month building igloos and snowmen and riding the neighbors' snowmobiles. I even managed to take my old buckskin quarter horse out for a few snowy rides.
I think that was four of the best weeks I've ever had.
Snow day for Toby the Percheron Horse
One of the things I enjoy the most whenever it snows here is looking out the window and seeing Toby either trotting or cantering or bucking and frolicking through the snow. As the youngest, he's full of the most play. And he's usually being followed in hot pursuit by the other horses. It seems that they enjoy a good snow day about as much as we do. It's still falling steadily, and who knows what tomorrow morning may bring.
Snow day
We're snowed in!
The Department of Transportation just reopened the highway that I take to get into Santa Fe, but as far as I'm concerned today, everything is closed down. This is the view outside my window this morning. The Pecos mountains are completely hidden in a veil of snow. We've got a good 6 inches here at 7000 feet. So that means several feet of snow in the mountains. I've been up there in May and June, after a winter of heavy snows, when there's still snow on the ground. I can imagine the deer and elk pawing through the heavy snow, foraging for feed.
The coffee is good and hot, and, oh, it's going to be a lovely day. Now I just have to get brave enough to get out there and feed the horses.
December 28, 2006
More about those horse farts
Following up on an earlier post about this topic, I ran across this the other day. I don't remember ever seeing this commercial on TV. Do you? I think it was banned. And I also think it's pretty funny. (Possibly, I have been listening in on my little boy and his friends too much.)
I suspect that my 9-year-old son, who will probably be making jokes about our Percheron horse's big farts well after college graduation, would absolutely love it.
Cossack Riding in my brain
Ah. Cossack Riding.
You gotta love it.
With the weather so nasty outside and another winter storm supposedly upon us and being a horsewoman of modest means with no indoor riding arena on the place and a regular day job, I find that I do a lot of my horseback riding in my head this time of year. That is, as I'm lugging hay, toting water, cleaning stalls, cleaning dust from nostrils and eyes, trying to detangle manes and tails, checking hooves, keeping an eye on the fence, breaking the ice on the water tank if the heater goes south on me yet once again, I'm really cossack riding in my imagination.
The word stir-crazy comes to mind. Whatever gets you through the long winter days, I guess.
What the west would have been like with Shetland ponies
I think this is pretty funny.
Well, I don't know about Shetland ponies, but after owning a Pony of the Americas for a few years, I think the West could have been won on the back of one of those sturdy little guys. I'll never forget the big smile across my then 5-year-old little boy's face when the cowboys up in the Pecos wilderness would stop to admire his handsome pony Thor. We'd be up on one of those high mountain trails, and that 25-year-old geezer POA would get all kinds of admiration from the man with the handlebar mustaches, fringed chinks, jingling silver spurs, et cetera. I think you could've ridden the old gentleman from coast to coast. By the time we'd reach 10,000 plus feet, all the other horses would be breathing hard and really working it, and old Mr. Blue-eyed Polka Dots wouldn't have even broken a sweat. I miss the little bugger.
La Ferme du Cheval de Trait
Damn. I wish I spoke French.
La Ferme du Cheval de Trait : un spectacle unique en Europe... Pendant plus d'une heure, découvrez les chevaux de trait dans des présentations inédites... 1h30 de spectacle de Percherons, Cobs et Bretons : Poste Hongroise, attelage à 5 ou 7, voltige, course de char... avant de partager vos émotions autour d'un pot de départ ! Dans une ferme typique du Bocage Normand, restaurée avec des matériaux traditionnels, des parcours thématiques, des expositions inédites (les épouvantails en "habits du dimanche", les chemins creux de nos terroirs) vous font revivre l'histoire agricole du Bocage. Des salles d'exposition et une superbe sellerie vous permettent de découvrir l'univers des chevaux de trait.
French-challenged as I may be, there are some exquisite heavy horses here, some beautiful Roman riding, and spectacle overall, right down to the humble little donkey. I purchased a secondhand book on circus equitation "Classical Circus Equitation" some time ago, which is a prize, as far as I'm concerned.
Anyway, did you know that the early circus wasn't in a circle at all? But in a straight line? The performers rode across the front of the stands/bleachers, whatever you would have called it in ancient Greece and Rome. That's kind of what these riders are doing. Performing in a straight line in front of the bleachers filled with spectators.
Extremely cool.
Chariot Racing: My Christmas Tradition
Chariot racing with a team of milky white horses is a Christmas tradition at my house.
I always hole up over the Christmas holiday and watch one of my very favorite flicks, Ben-Hur. When that nomad fellow introduces Charlton Heston to his "children", the white arabian horses who pull his chariot, I am simply hooked all over again. Well, at least over the weekend I made it all the way to the big chariot race scene before falling sound asleep on the sofa. And I got to give Ben Hur's backstabbing Roman friend with the red chariot with those crafty razor wheels and team of black horses a good cussing out like I always do.
It was just the four of us, my husband is not a football fanatic by any means, and for a little while there, I had control of the universal remote.
Yippee.
Jane West: life under the big top
Jane West now has a blog of her own!
Wondering who she is? She's the middle-aged woman who'd like to join the circus. Or maybe become a trapeze artist. She suspects that riding into the big top on the back of an elephant might just be a lot of fun. In her free time, she teaches her Percheron horse circus tricks in her backyard. And she's stood on the back of a cantering horse on the 20 M vaulting circle.
Her closet's filled with Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots. No sequined, feathered costumes to be found there. Yet.
But a girl can dream. And there are lots of stories to tell.
After all ... Life's a circus.
December 27, 2006
Missed photo opp
Toby, my 1,700-pound Percheron draft horse is laying on his side in the loose hay next to the round-bale feeder. His eyes are half closed. His whiskers, eyelashes, forelock, fuzzy ears, and mane are covered with hay. His big rump rises up out of the loose timothy grass like the Rock of Gibraltar from the tip of the Iberian Peninsula. His hooves are splayed out like the rocks upon which the harpies reputedly sing their songs, luring unsuspecting sailors to their doom.
And every now an then, the gigantic horse lifts his heavy head just enough to grab a mouthful or two of hay, before collapsing into the timothy again to savor each bite, munching slowly, slowly, slowly, beneath the warm winter afternoon sun.
Ah. It's a good life.
Brindle horses
My holiday short story, William's Gift, has as one of its key characters an ugly brindle dog. This type of dog is ubiquitous here in northern New Mexico. And I'll admit that even though I described the dog in the story as looking like indoor/outdoor carpet, I have a very large, warm and fuzzy, soft spot for these canines.
Check out this post on brindle horses over at Bridlepath. While I've certainly seen this coloration on the coats of dogs, cattle, and cats, I don't believe I've ever seen it on a horse.
Very pretty.
December 26, 2006
William's Gift
Dear I Gallop On Readers, Here's a little holiday gift for you. I continue to be humbled and warmed by the people who stop by here to read and comment. Thank you all. Wishing you a very blessed New Year. ~ Kimberly
Fat dogs, thin dogs, stump-tailed canines, red Chow mixes with long black tongues, a three-legged hound, spotted dogs, wrigglers, yawners, ragged mop dogs, trash eaters, chicken chasers banished from the ranch for eating one hen too many…
William Tafoya peered into each kennel, his mood falling quicker than the sleet outside the barred windows. It was his first visit to the Santa Fe Animal Shelter, his first Christmas Eve without his daughter Elena and her hitas, the first time he'd contemplated giving a gift to a woman outside his immediate family since Joyce left him five years ago, and he'd bet money it was the first time there wasn't a single puppy to be found in town.
For William Tafoya, this would be an evening resplendent with firsts.
"I' m sorry, but our last puppy was adopted yesterday," said the white-haired clerk. "Is it a Christmas gift for someone special?" she inquired in a knowing tone, gazing at him over her spectacles as if she had some inside information regarding his feelings for Sandy Hopper.
Panic rose in William' s throat at the thought of being found out. He'd told no one his secret, not even Elena who was in Mexico for the holidays with her husband's family. He'd barely admitted it to himself.
The know-it-all clerk made a point of looking at the clock on the wall as the minute hand clicked into place. 4:35 p.m. She folded her beefy arms and leaned across the counter. "You tried the pet stores, honey?"
Every last one of them, he thought as he wandered past the kennels of the inmate dogs, hoping against hope to find a single pup misplaced among them, something cuddly enough to make Sandy Hopper smile this Christmas Eve. He hadn't seen as much as a trace of one cross that pretty face since she'd asked him to finish construction on the Tesuque house, even though she'd be living there alone now. She'd lost her husband Harry in an automobile accident just last spring as the adobes were being laid, and the pain was still fresh in her.
Yesterday on the job, he'd found her staring at a blank wall in the massive living room, yards of plaster yet to dry. Before he could leave her to her thoughts, she turned to face him, hazel eyes brimming with tears. A single drop slipped across the freckles on her nose.
"You know what I'd like, Will?"
He froze, guilty at invading her privacy. "No, what?," he asked, suddenly painfully aware of his large hands hanging heavy at his sides. He shoved them deep inside his coat pockets, not sure what to do.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'd like a good dog to keep me company in this big house."
He nodded, thinking how frail she looked with her cap of auburn hair framing her face now pale and drawn, thin arms hugging her tiny frame close beneath a sweater he remembered seeing more than once on Harry.
It was a place to start.
With little hope, he paused in front of Kennel Number 14. A single whine rushed down the aisle from the far corner of the building, broke over him in a wave of howls, yelps, yips, barks, and suddenly he forgot how to breathe. Fifty-three years of Catholicism had not prepared him for this one.
Seated on the floor next to the ugliest dog he'd ever seen was a man with wings.
William removed his cowboy hat, rubbed his fingers through his still jet hair, held it in his rough hands.
Huge unwieldy wings.
Wings like those of a giant guinea fowl or something from one of those "B" movies that Elena’s hitas love to watch.
"Heavenly Father." William heard the words slipping from his mouth as his knees went weak. He gripped the kennel door and stared. Let his Stetson drop to the floor.
Feathers flew about Kennel Number 14 as if there'd been a scrape, and while feathers seemed almost natural to the man, the eyes did not. Deep set in a face of timeless perfection, the eyes were old, tired, like they had seen many things. With just a hint of the wild country glimmering underneath.
Unable to meet his eyes, William glanced around wildly, but the shelter was empty. No employees, no last-minute lookers, no children toting puppies, no trumpets, no timbrels, no lutes or harps like the sisters at St. Francis Cathedral claimed were the standard accompaniment to miracles, just the din of barking dogs.
Beneath the buzzing of fluorescent lights, the man with wings looked way too real. Like a chicken in a coop two sizes too small, one wing arced against the concrete wall, the other wrapped protectively around the ugly dog with vacant eyes. The dog growled at William, low and guttural, the fur stiff along its spine like brown indoor/outdoor carpet. The winged man stroked the animal’s block-shaped head until it yawned, crinkled jowls unfolding to show clean white teeth and a spotted tongue.
"You see him too." A voice behind him. It was a statement, not a question. Gnarled fingers laced through the wire along side of his own, one sporting the biggest diamond he'd ever seen, and judging from the accent …
"Texas," said the tiny woman grinning up at him as if she'd read his mind. Her voice was like a bell, and from the lines that etched her face she must have been at least 80 years old. "I moved to Santa Fe from Dallas, some 50-odd years ago," she continued, nodding in the direction of the man with the wings. "And that's when I first laid eyes on Miguel."
"You know his name?" William inhaled sharply, mind racing, wondering how she'd managed to sneak up on him.
"Why, yes, of course." The old lady studied him carefully. Her gray eyes twinkled. "This is your first time to see him?"
William cast an anxious glance towards Kennel Number 14 where the ugly dog was now reclining against the winged man, it’s head lolling against one feathered shoulder. "Uh-huh."
The woman patted him on the arm. "Well then, my dear, it probably won't be your last."
"What do you mean?" The idea that she might be one of those fruit loopy crystal types crossed his mind. Santa Fe was overrun with them now. There were more here per square foot than in California. He knew, he’d built a lot of houses for folks who were trying to escape the West Coast craziness. Before he knew it she would be reading his astrological chart and dealing Tarot cards. He started to protest, but she continued.
"The first time I saw Miguel was in 1943, when I lost my husband in the war." Her pale eyes clouded, looked inward a distance. "The second was in 1947, when I met Daniel, my second husband, and the third …" she crossed her arms as if concealing a deep hurt. She was silent for a moment.
William had never been a big one for words. He had not a single syllable right now.
"The third time was when I found out I couldn't have children."
He hardly noticed the ugly dog leaning against the kennel door now, sniffing his hand as the woman recounted the events of her life on her fingertips.
"The fourth and fifth times I saw him were when we adopted our babies. The sixth was when Daniel got the cancer." She hugged herself tight as if to ward off a chill. "And the seventh is today." She eyed William with her wide, clear eyes, as if memorizing the features of his face.
It was damned unnerving. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't.
"It's been my experience," she leaned close and whispered, "that heaven meets you in person like this only when there's something very important at stake."
William didn't hear the rustling of wings inside the kennel. His eyes were riveted to hers.
"Have you been praying very hard for something?"
It was the first time anyone had ever asked him that question. Not even the priest with the red high-topped tennis shoes at the St. Francis Cathedral.
He pulled a single feather from the kennel gate, ran his finger along the dove-gray quill too real to be ignored. It had been a lonely five years, almost too much to bear. Yes, he nodded, biting back the tears, then a moment of panic, suddenly remembering what he was here for. It must be nearly 5 p.m., and he still didn't have Sandy’s puppy.
The woman took his hand, squeezed it hard. "Then I suggest you take our angel's advice and give this good dog to your friend."
Relief flooded over William. For the first time in days, he knew exactly what to do. He looked up to thank the woman and ask her how she'd known about Sandy, but to his surprise the aisle was as empty as it had been five minutes ago, and the ugly dog sat back on its haunches, whimpering, the only occupant of Kennel Number 14.
Enormous downy flakes of snow fell in the Tesuque Valley as William pulled into Sandy Hopper's driveway 15 minutes late. A string of colored lights illuminated the tiny Airstream trailer she’d parked next to the unfinished adobe, so he guessed she was still expecting him for dinner.
The ugly dog licked his face.
William wrapped an arm around the stocky beast, praying that Sandy wouldn't laugh at his Christmas gift. The Animal Shelter clerk had assured him that at seven months old, he was still a puppy of sorts. And his looks were kind of growing on William.
A shaft of light cut through the curtain of snow as the trailer door swung open.
William snapped the brand-new leash to the brand-new collar, events of the afternoon teeming inside of him, things that he would keep to himself for some time. One of these days, he would be able to tell her. "Here we go, fella." He ruffled the dog’s brindle fur, and stepped out of the truck.
Sandy walked across the yard, waving, and when she saw the ugly, jug-headed pup trailing along behind him through the snow, a smile broke across her face, radiant, beaming, the first one he'd seen in months.
It was a place to start.
December 23, 2006
The horses of middle earth
What am I going to do this Christmas season without my dose of the Lord of the Rings? Especially all of the fabulous horses in that film. I've been a Tolkien fan since I was little girl, and I was at the theater on opening day for all three of the films. I own the DVDs. I guess you could say I'm a die hard fan. And while I will always love the saga of middle Earth, I've enjoyed Tolkien's horses in his books and then in the films almost as much. Did you know that Tolkien wrote part of his trilogy in the trenches of World War I? I find it fascinating.
You may think I'm silly, but I've searched the Internet for the newest Narnia film, which I understood was to be released this Christmas season. I'm hoping it's The Horse and His Boy.
Anyone of you high fantasy fans know anything about that?
Entering the world of Friesian showing
Oh, did I mention? I'm buying Goffert 369?
I'm starting my own Friesian show barn, you see. Goffert 369 and I will be slam dunking all those little kiddos at the local Breyer Horse shows in no time. I hope to be writing many interesting blog posts about how I've taken the plunge into the whole glamorous world of the Friesian show ring. And Martha Stewart can just eat her heart out. Wait until I have a dinner party in my barn.
December 22, 2006
David Letterman vs. Butterscotch
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Here's a Friday night funny for you. David Letterman takes on Butterscotch, that strange mechanical toy horse that I wrote about earlier. I'll bet that lady at Hasbro wasn't too happy with Letterman after all was said and done.
I was at Target with my children over the weekend, and we actually saw one of these things. She's cute, but a little freaky at the same time. If you pet her, if she really does respond to your touch. My daughter was swearing up and down that she really will gallop when you sit on her back. And for $300, she really should. But according to the specs, she makes galloping sounds and moves up and down when a child sits on her back.
I'm afraid she'd just collect dust. Or, who knows? Maybe some kid would wind up loving her as much as I loved Jane West and Thunderbolt.
Santa Momma
Ah... ha-ha-ha-hah! These two girls made their own commercial for Breyer horses. This is way too cute. I especially like the part where they tell you not to waste $150 on something like one of those American Girl dolls. (Which I think are very sweet, by the way.)
I've been getting the same er ... commercial ... for something like a year now in my very own home from my own daughter.
The white Andalusian arrived last week. Yesterday, even in spite of the snowstorms here, the marvelous UPS man (my hero) delivered the black Andalusian horse, the English (yes, I decided on English tack) saddle, two cattle dogs, and the cute little girl rider.
Santa Momma can now breathe a huge sigh of relief.
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I can talk about my horses all I want
I'm at the office Christmas potluck luncheon yesterday, and everyone at the table is telling cute stories about their dogs. Specifically, about how cute their dogs are when they are feeling jealous. You know, Fluffy insists on sitting on my lap and is the only dog I'm allowed to pet when there's another dog in the room type of thing.
So following that train of thought, I tell a story about my husband's ultra jealous Polish Arabian mare, Miss Morningstar, who believes that she owns him heart and soul and doesn't even really like me around. And how when either he or I are brushing or paying attention to any of the other horses she will either 1) squeeze her saucy 800 pounds in between the other horse and you, demanding to be brushed; 2) stand behind you and bump you with her teacup muzzle until you can no longer ignore her or she's sent you flying halfway across the pasture; or 3) chase away with all the ferocity of a lioness any other horse who dares to get near you when she's feeling really territorial.
Now all of these folks have been in my office and have seen the big living-color photos of every horse I own or have owned in the recent past, and they look at me like I am lying or have a very fanciful and possibly overactive imagination. It strikes me that most non-horsepeople just don't have a clue as to the unique personalities of each and every horse and that they're just as personable, if not more so, than Fido. (And not to put down Fido, certainly. As you probably know if you've been reading for a while, I simply love and adore my dogs.) So most of the time, I just don't tell my horse stories, unless I'm with my horsey friends.
Has this ever happened to you? Anyway, this is one of the many reasons I started this blog. So I can talk about my beloved horses and equines in general (who are by the way one of God's greatest accomplishments) ad nauseaum without annoying anyone.
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Do they really talk on Christmas Eve?
Shadowplay is my favorite photographer on Flickr!
John Lienhard, University of Houston. So listen to the animals tonight. Find your irrational creative core -- find hope that passes reason. Find a way to disarm your own enmities. And let hope disarm the rational limitations that've bound you -- for the last 364 days.
Do the animals talk on Christmas Eve? Do they talk about the coming of Christ? About the baby Jesus? As a girl, I used to head down to our big red barn in Ohio and sit on a bucket, waiting. Hoping it was true.
Our orange tabby cat Tangerine would sashay down from the hay loft to keep me company, looking up at me, eyes half-slits, purring mightily, enjoying my surprise midnight visit, but not a single word came out of his mouth, even if it was curved in an enigmatic feline smile that led me to believe that he just might. Maybe. Purrrrrhaps. If I just waited a little longer. And then my mom would come through the door, wrapped in her pink robe with her snow boots on, and ask me what in the heck I was doing and tell me to get back in bed right this instant before I caught my death of cold.
My buckskin quarterhorse enjoyed the hard Christmas candies I fed him. As did Pearl the goat. Heidi the German Shepard was partial to them as well. Their crunch crunch crunch as the ate their treats was the only sound in the otherwise silent barn.
This year, my money's on the geese.
December 20, 2006
Equestrian vaulting practice: the rider's seat
Working on the rider's seat at equestrian vaulting practice this weekend. The idea here is to open and release the hips and zip up the abdomen from the very inner core. This starts from the pelvic floor through the abdominal muscles and finally to the sternum, which is knit together.
In this exercise, the instructor is asking my daughter to sit like a rag doll astride Irish draft Shakespeare, letting everything go and flop around as the horse trots on the circle, and then to wake up the body, putting the ideal body position together piece by piece. This helps to teach the difference between a correct and incorrect position.
Hearing it is complicated enough. Actually doing it is even more so. Riding is definitely thinking sport.
Equestrian vaulting practice: the flag
Here's 10 year old J. practicing the flag, one of the compulsory exercises in equestrian vaulting. The key in this exercise is to keep the hip down, while raising the leg. When performed correctly, the hip should be down, knee down, top of the foot facing down, pointing and lifting through the middle toe of the raised foot. The left leg should be resting solidly on the horse, with the top of the foot firmly on the horse, pushing down for stability. The body should be in a "box" position, with the elbows in.
In this exercise, the instructor is asking her to perform the flag both correctly and incorrectly. J. performs the flag incorrectly by turning the leg out, arcing the back, and lifting the foot with the top of the foot facing out.
This helps the body to learn what both the correct and incorrect positions feel like.
December 19, 2006
Tougher than we think
If you've been reading my blog for a while, then you probably know or you probably surmise from what I've said, that I have a pretty simple set up for my horses, and that they live a fairly natural, outdoor life. Every Saturday at vaulting practice, I get to see how the other half of the horse population lives. A stable full of exquisite Warmbloods imported directly from Europe, they are blanketed, bandaged, padded, armored almost, against every conceivable type of disaster. And it makes sense, I shudder to think what those magnificent animals cost.
Since I've been thinking about the whole blanketing thing with the onset of cold weather, and after some good advice from my readers have decided to not blanket my horses for all of very good reasons that they gave to me, I've been paying more attention to how other horses are kept in the winter. I was surprised that the vaulting horse had been clipped just a couple of days prior to practice on Saturday. I'm not talking just his ears or his muzzle or his fetlocks or his face, but his entire body. He was smooth and silky and blanketed from head to tail. Don't you think he gets really cold when he's outside working? What would happen to him if he got out of his stall, headed out towards the wilderness, and managed to tear off his blanket?
OK. Call me paranoid.
I guess I'm finding very interesting these days, how we humans keep animals who have for centuries lived on the steppess and on the plains, outside in all types of elements, able to subsist on plants from which other animals would probably receive no nourishment.
They're tougher than we think.
We don't need no blankets
All day yesterday, the weatherman predicts an epic snowstorm across the entire state. Two feet in the northern mountain areas, he says. And that means us. In my office, we were all feeling rather jolly, thinking about what we were going to do with our free day off today.
But when I wake up this morning, we have only had a light dusting of snow, like confectioners' sugar across the valley. I get ready for work, grumbling the whole time, and go out to check my non-blanketed, very furry horses in the pasture while my car is warming up. Of course, they're nowhere near their nice loafing shed where they could get out of the weather. All five of them look like iced confections that you might see at a French chocolatier. And with their shaggy, natural coats, fuzzy ears, legs and fetlocks, they seem not bothered one little bit by the cold.
They look at me like what is all the fuss about and then return to their hay.
December 18, 2006
Christmas trees and heeler puppies
Farolitos in Santa Fe.
Every Christmas, we head up to the Mesa and cut down our own Christmas tree. We usually get one so large that the Star on the top of the tree is way up in the clerestory windows of the house. It's something we all look forward to. Our annual family Christmas tradition.
And then we realized something. We're the owners of two, not quite six months old, heeler puppies who love nothing more than to romp and play in our living room.
Have you ever had a 12 foot Christmas tree with all the trimmings crash in the middle of the night onto the floor? Glass bulbs shattering, tinsel tearing, jingle bells rolling across the floor? That happened to us last year, because we (well, I?) got greedy and dragged home a monstrously huge Christmas tree, and our stand wasn't quite buff enough to handle that big boy.
We could just see our two tenacious heeler puppies chasing each other around this year' s gigantic Christmas tree, sending it careening to the floor. (Something we don't want to repeat.) So, unfortunately, no fresh-cut Christmas tree for us. We're settling for one of the tabletop variety, at least for this year, until the puppies grow up a little more.