Wow. My percheron horse Toby is getting his own emails. He is very excited. Especially from a beautiful big gal like this. His eyes almost popped out of his head when I showed him this picture. He's begging me to teach him to type now. Although that will probably be difficult with those pie-plate-sized hooves.
Dear Toby,
My name is Lady Charlemagne. Thank you for teaching us about shaking hands.
I am sending a photo of me with my food bowl.
best regards,
lady charlemagne
ps I am also called "good girl"
Toby says-- Please send hand-shaking photos, Miss Charlemagne!
A sliver of moon dangles just above the horizon next to the brightest star I can imagine. I think of a cool Vogue model with sparkly diamond earrings and the collar of her dark blue evening coat turned up. I turn up the collar of my coveralls. Trudge toward the barn in boots you'd never see in any fashion magazine.
Four horses mill around the feeder. I fill it up. Wade into the darkness swinging my lantern calling, "Toby! Toby!" If I had neighbors, they would no doubt think I'm a very loud woman, especially this early in the morning. But at least I'm scaring that old bobcat off. And his kin.
No answer.
I trudge through the silence, through the blackness, barely able to discern the darker dark of the pinon trees when I hear chug chug chug ... whoosh whoosh whoosh slicing through the silence, down from the top of the pasture and passing somewhere near me without even a hello.
Chug chug chug whoosh whoosh whoosh.
Aroused from his sleeping or his draft horse dreaming in his favorite corner way up there where the world unfolds in amber and azure, Toby has finally heard the breakfast call.
I can spend hours on the DraftsForSale.com website. Just don't tell my percheron horse Toby. I wouldn't want to hurt the Big Boo's feelings. This handsome team of percherons Rip and Bob, is currently listed for $9,000.
Don't you think I could get myself a team like this and give wagon rides on Rowe Mesa? Feed people breakfast burritos and hot coffee at dawn. Take along the charming heeler dogs. Get myself a brand new stetson and a driving coat and open up for business. That's a nice idea until I begin to think of the breadth of the spectrum of humanity who could show up as clients. My social skills just might not be up to the task, although my husband swears I can strike up a conversation with just about anybody.
Maybe I don't have to buy a whole team? Just get Toby an equally Big Boo-type friend. (I wanted to name the big percheron horse Boo [or Brother], but everyone in my family had a fit and disagreed. But there are ways around these things, you see.)
We were horrified a few years ago to see our beautiful mesa listed in one of the New Mexico horse magazines as one of the best places to ride in the state. (It is 36,000 acres of rolling grassland, pinon, juniper, ponderosa.) Right there on the front page. The author of that article was also pretty keen to point out what an ideal location it is for driving, with thousands of acres criss- crossed with lovely Forest Service roads. We expected it to be overrun after that article came out, but apparently no one was paying much attention. Thankfully.
Now I understand that some of our weasel-like politicians are selling us out to the four-wheeler crowd. The post office has been plastered with notices of who to contact and where to sign the petition for the mesa. Don't even get me started on that tirade. (I had a coyote-like dog once who made it her business to eat four-wheeler tires for lunch and always lived to tell about it. I can always get another one.)
It's funny, at the old Pecos Pueblo ruins--which were donated to the public, as I understand it, by the beautiful movie actress Greer Garson, who for many years lived on the Forked Lightning ranch with her husband--they show this kind of hokey movie at the main ranger station. It's narrated by Ms. Garson herself, in her cultured and melodic voice, and at the very end, she makes this rousing speech about progress and the Old Santa Fe Trail that always takes me by surprise.
You see, I live right on the Old Santa Fe trail. And this is where the Pecos Pueblo ruins are located. The conquistadors came up across the mesa top, I understand. I still crane my neck up and look for them occasionally when I'm standing in the back yard, doing something mundane, like filling the dog water dish. And if I did, I'd tell whatever shadows remain of the Pueblo Indians to run.
So, in this little film, Greer Garson is talking about how wonderful, how splendid, all this progress is, and these images of horses and wagons are flashing across the screen to eventually fade out and be replaced by images of 18-wheelers cruising down a modern interstate.
18-wheelers. I kid you not.
At that point, I just want to walk out.
I have noticed that no one ever applauds.
One of these mornings, I'd like to wake up and walk out my front door to see the highway gone.
My percheron horse Toby finally got what he wanted the other day. After banging and pushing and pulling on the gate that separates the pasture from the now sadly very empty hen yard (curses on the infernal shifty bobcat, the bane of the last few months), he finally got himself in.
Problem was, he couldn't figure out how to get himself out.
So when Dennis went down to feed the horses yesterday morning, he counted four, not five hungry horses. And a 1,850 pound very friendly percheron horse is rather hard to miss. So he called for Toby. And he called again.
And then he heard the hoofs. Hoofbeats drumming from the unlikeliest of places. You know, like the hen house.
He found poor Toby trapped in the chicken pen. Eyes rolling. Ears swiveling. Nostrils quivering. Bottom lip tucked in. Chugging like a steam locomotive up and down the fence. Very scared and lonely and afraid because apparently he'd been in there a good part of the night.
When Dennis opened the gate, the Big Boo careened through almost swinging it shut on his tail, and he never looked back, galloping for a good five minutes thereafter around and around the pasture, just to shake off the nervousness, the draft horse sized heebie jeebies of his predicament.
The gate between the hen yard and the horse pasture is now thorougly, double, and triple fortified against curious Percherons. And you should see those hoofprints he churned up in the dirt.
The snowy weather finally broke. So I caught some rays in the horse pasture yesterday afternoon, sitting in one of the old Rubbermaid adirondack chairs we have down at the barn. (It's not the beach or the carribbean, but it fits my budget. And also, it's just a pleasant way to spend time with the horses. You can catch us down here on many a Friday night with the horses in the summer.)
Toby my percheron X is obviously in need of some attention. And, no, I don't feed him tons of treats by hand, there's no sugar in my pockets, and I didn't slather myself in molasses.
This is just my very big, very friendly, and quite nosy p-e-t.
One of my greatest pleasures in life, each and every morning, is being greeted at the pasture gate by one of these beautiful creatures.
As I was getting firewood this morning, my percheron horse Toby caught sight of me from where he likes to start the day, at the top of the pasture in the sunshine, and came rollicking towards the gate in a great floating trot, 1,800 pounds of enthusiasm, leaving a bevy of highly pissed off mares in his wake.
I've never raised a horse from a really young age before. We got Toby when he was a little over one. He's five now. I remember when the sleek, strapping fellow stepped out of the trailer in my driveway, eyes rolling, ears twitching, nostrils flaring, scared to death, but scared in place, four hooves rooted to the ground, fixed right next to the woman I was buying him from. And I stood there wondering what in the world I'd gotten myself into. We'd made the deal pretty much over the phone, and I'd only seen photos of Toby (then Eclipse) up to that point.
It was a good trade. My thoroughbred mare (the high-strung beauty who had no temperament for the mountains but who was destined to have beautiful babies with the sport horse breeder's Friesian stallion) for one young Percheron gelding. Beneath all of that youngster stuff, all of the full of himself young horse energy, the big boy showed good sense.
And that whole brimming over with life thing is something I hope the horse never completely loses. Maturity will temper that, I know. But the energy will still be there. It will simply change a bit over the years.
Kind of like my own, I guess. I still brim over, but in a middle-aged, more sensible kind of way. Most of the time, that is.
I'll always remember this time of having a sweet young horse who rushes to greet me on a bitter cold morning, and hold it dear. It's almost as if I carry the big horse around with me during the day, hidden away in my coat pocket. I know he's there.
I love this photo of Harry the Horse. Reminds me of me and my big Percheron.
Toby, my just turned five-year-old percheron, and I don't venture too far from home unless we've got the grownup company of Dennis and another good, solid horse. In our case, all mares. And in Dennis' case, specifically, a 14-year-old Polish arabian mare who is an all around trail veteran and mountain goat. Who also, by the way, never seems to get tired. I've seen her carry Dennis and one of our then-five-year-old kids through mountain passes and across rushing rivers at 8,000 feet up in the Pecos mountains, and maintain the same proud carriage and sane sensibility all day long.
When we ride with Toby, that little Arabian meets her match.
What is it about young horses? Sometimes they are simply delightful. And sometimes all of that youngster energy makes them a pain in the ass. Usually, it's a blend of the two--
Brilliance and bull.
The first half and hour out along a brand new route, Toby pranced and trotted, pranced and trotted, started and stopped, blew hot air through his nostrils at the scary things, then after letting me know that Mr. K.'s old lawn chair in the front of his crumbling adobe house was probably going to eat us up at about any moment now, he marched by nonplussed. The routine is this--the big horse stops like a stone statue, blows, stares, let's me know he's not happy about whatever it is he's looking at or imagines he sees, I put my hand on his jar-head, marine-worthy neck, tell him we're safe, and suddenly satisifed, on the draft horse goes without a hitch.
45 minutes into the ride, he'd slowed to a walk, and was sweaty and frothy. With that winter coat in our unusually warm November weather, he had sweat rolling down his muzzle. I could feel his sides heaving in and out, heart pounding, not because he was all that tired, mind you. This is sheer excitement.
Yeah, it was sheer excitement for me too, perched up there on that broad back like a little doll when I'd lose that occasionally elusive deep seat in the rough terrain. And for Dennis and his Arabian, who'd been trotting and cantering to keep up with the living, breathing steam engine. Miss Morning Star did look a bit annoyed at Toby's sheer enthusiasm. Although she wasn't tired. And even if she was, the gritty critter would never fess up. (Nor would her equally gritty rider.)
We got Toby back and forth successfully through one of the big train tunnels (beneath the tracks). I led him through the hundred-year-old structure the first time, his giant hooves echoing clip clop clip clop, tenacious heeler sisters panting at his heels, taking very seriously their job as our escorts and protectors, and he didn't bat an eyelid (more than once or twice). Sometimes I think that horse would follow me through hell if the situation warranted it. This is good. This is the attitude I want in a mountain horse.
All in all, it was a successful outing. I wish I had more time to spend with the youngster. We'd be a lot further along if I did. What Toby needs is to work cattle, plow a field, pull a cart, haul stuff in panniers for miles, to flatten him out a bit and get him a little more sensible. Although I do love his sense of go and forwardness, and don't want to lose that.
You do the best you can with the time and resources you've got, I guess. We've got seven months before the mountains. We'll do some serious training rides on the mesa this winter. Although Toby's enthusiasm for the steers up there, where he likes to trot behind them and push them through the waves of grass (or is he just chasing something interesting?), makes me think I've got a percheron with a little "cow" in him.
I don't own an "arena". I have a round pen. Sometimes in a pinch, I refer to my round pen as my arena, but that's not what it really is. This means that I have spent most of my time schooling my young horse Toby in the wide open. Wide. Open. As in no fences. If I feel the need for some confinement, then we move to my 1-acre chain-link fenced back yard.
I am schooling Toby around the pinon trees. I want him to learn to anticipate my cues and where I am going to ask him to turn, especially when it's not clearly marked for him by a fence. (My daughter's Andalusian I can ride on a light, loose rein through the corridors of trees, using only my legs. But we've been doing this together a long time. My husband's little Arabian will find a path through the forest where you'd swear almost on your life that one couldn't possibly exist. Sometimes she will find one when you don't even ask her to. There's no falling asleep or daydreaming on that hot-blooded critter who's up to taking the initiative in the event the rider checks out.)
Toby is trotting his big trot through the trees, and I am turning him with my legs. We are doing pretty fine. And then we are presented with a big, tall pinon, the sturdy branches of which are high enough for him to pass beneath, but not me, way up here in nosebleed territory on his wide back. I jiggle the left rein, push him over with my right leg (that would be my outside leg for this momentary arc of the circle), and we pass so close by the grandfather, that the pine needles brush my shoulder and I can smell the sap.
Suddenly, we are out in the open and I feel an immense sense of relief at not having my head knocked off.
I think I offended a woman at the dressage barn the other day. And I didn't mean to. Really, I didn't. She'd strolled over from the dressage barn next door, and as I was holding this huge vaulting horse, standing with him in the shade of some centuries-old pinon trees, waiting for our presentation, she came over to chat with me. During the course of the amiable conversation, she mentioned that she preferred this barn that she was visiting to her barn next door, because people actually rode outside here. Then she continued to talk about how much she enjoys riding outside. I agreed with her. Me too, I said. I really like to ride outside. (A strange conversation I'm thinking to be having about riding horses, who are, last time I looked, animals ... outdoorsy types.) And then I opened my mouth and galloped forward by making the genius statement that I don't know how the horses of people who ride them in circles all the time don't go crazy.
Well, that woman didn't say anything, but you could see by that flicker in her eye that she'd taken offense. And she'd just been describing some nice-sounding rides outside of the arena ... (Maybe she'd been exaggerating with all that big talk about outside?)
I'm not sure I'd do well with all of the barn politics.
I suspect that very nice woman has no idea how much I'd enjoy, love, simply relish being able to school Toby in an arena--inside or out.
It rumbles along the top of his pasture at least five times a day on schedule. It races past the round pen. I practice getting him used to the train by standing with him on the far side of the railroad road, holding the leadrope with just enough slack so he doesn't feel trapped and talking to him while the massive machine snakes by, its sheer tonnage rattling the sand and rocks beneath boots, hooves, and the freckled paws of the ever present heeler dogs. The Percheron horse stands still as a picture while I wave to the Amtrak sometimes. I can just barely make out the shadows of the tourists traveling in the glass observation car. They wave back. No doubt impressed by my big brave horse and pretty cattle dogs.
I hear the train whistle blowing in the distance, through the pinon and the juniper. Toby is chugging up the last steep hill on the rutted road before we get home, a nearly 2,000 pound freight train in his own right. I'm feeling all smug and happy because we've had a lovely, light ride. The horse doesn't feel the need to rush as much as he used to, and I'm starting to ride him with a tickle of the rein and my intentions. Soon we'll no longer travel as two, but as one--at least some of the time, I am thinking. After all, you've got to start somewhere. I've seen glimpses of it this afternoon, as I sit his lofty, round strides, feel all that happiness rippling beneath me, because the young horse loves to get out, and I'm filled to the brim with myself and him.
As we reach the top of the hill, the coal black train engine careens by. Toby stops, stands, and stares, his ears pricked forward, the tenacious heeler sisters panting at his heels. See, all of that sacking out work has paid off, I am congratulating myself as the red cars rattle by us now. They wobble back and forth on their steel wheels, nearly hynoptizing the both of us, until Toby awakes from the trance like someone's just jabbed him with a cattle prod and he's all of a sudden seeing the train for the very first time. The horse launches himself forward with the full throttle of all the equine flight instinct that's been buried in him since the beginning of horse time, and races away from the train, the iron beast that he's just decided will devour him in one gulp.
He will race.
He will race.
He will race as far away from the threat as possible.
And I will hold on with knees and hands and what's left of my puny intentions. I hold the horse for a moment. We hang suspended in the air, but he's gained too much momentum with all of that muscle and sinew and bone and fear. He's too strong, and he's not listening. And then we're through what's left of the old ranch fence--the remnants of another age, when this land was filled with sheep and adobe homesteads instead of doublewides and broken beer bottles and pit bulls chained to concrete blocks and worse--the strands of barbed wire that I am all too painfully aware of because I've been passing by them on horseback for years now, always careful of them, because barbed wire is anathema. Some are splayed across the ground. Some are coiled up like rattlesnakes waiting to strike. One hangs by a rusty nail or two, suspended between the juniper posts a couple of feet off the ground.
I land flat on my back right in the snarl of barbed wire with stirrups and silver buckles flashing above my head, like the pain rifling through my side and my shoulder. Toby is a black shadow against the sky. The ground is shaking and quaking, and the heelers are barking, and I wait for what seems like a very long time. A very long time is more than a few ticks of the clock that I'm surprised to find myself clutching inside my head just about as tenaciously as I held onto the reins. I wait to be rended to shreds by the barbed wire I suspect the big horse is dragging behind him. The barbed wire that the horse is going to be all tangled up in, and that's going to catch up with me any moment now, and God knows what else.
It's funny how calmly I am anticipating my own demise when all of the control I delude myself every waking moment into thinking that I possess is now vanished into the hard blue ether of what just seconds ago was an agreeable afternoon. On my back in the barbed wire, I'm no longer cradled in the hands of angels, at least not the ones they talked about at Sunday School so long ago. Right now my ass belongs to the laws of physics and matter and the hard-hearted universe. I guess you could call them angels if you want to. But they're anything but nice.
I rip my riding pants and other things getting out of the wire and find Toby trotting back and forth along the back of the new neighbor's dirt yard. A man and woman are standing at the back of their singlewide, staring in disbelief at the super-sized intruder. I hate it that this is the way we meet for the very first time. I point at the horse losing it in their back lot and yell, "I'm sorry," not sure they speak English. They look worried that the big beast will mow their house down like a tornado, right off of its cinderblocks into the dirt.
The percheron holds his head way up in the air, rolling his eyes, prancing like some kind of circus creature. If he could speak, he'd be squealing, "I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared." Well, I am too. The heelers are trying to help me round him up, but they're making it worse. So I call them to me, and then all of a sudden I must pop up onto Toby's field of vision. I must register somewhere in the terrified horse's mind. His equine radar. Because he hones in on me like a missile and barrels towards me like a frightened child, bunching himself up into a stop. And we are eye to eye. His nostrils are flaring. Their insides are flaming red, red as the train cars. I feel the blood coursing through his veins, matching the rhythm of my own.
The big horse lowers his head, seeking relief. I lay my hand on his neck. It's hot and wet. He relaxes at my touch, and my knees are suddenly weak, but I kneel to check him, afraid of what I will find in his flesh, all that muscle, all that soul, all that spirit, contained in only skin and a sleek black coat. His leg is bleeding, a cut, just through the skin, up way high above his knee. I check him all over.
There's nothing else.
We are lucky.
I am feeling sick because I let the young horse get hurt. I want to cry, but I can't. If I'm not calm, then neither is Toby, and he's counting on me right now. The heelers are whining. It's a keen now. I should have stood at the horse's head when the train passed, like I have in the past, to give him courage. I let the afternoon and the beauty of a good ride plus thirty-plus years of horsemanship go to my head, and I wasn't careful enough.
I see that I am bleeding through the jaggedy holes in my riding pants. I can hear my mother asking me pointedly in her Oklahoma drawl just when was the last time that I had a tetanus shot, and I'm suddenly painfully aware of all of my human frailty. At my age, I still haven't had enough experience with that sort of thing. Trains, that is. And apparently a lot more.
I bury my head in Toby's coarse black mane and try to tell him that I am sorry.
Toby stands like a stone for hours on his side of the fence, willing, wishing, wanting the youngsters to come by for a visit. He jealously guards this stretch of wire all day long, and won't let any of the other horses near it. He doesn't seem to mind if J. joins him for a look, though. Even though she's a small creature from Toby's perspective, this little girl is one BIG friend.
(For the record, he stole her baseball cap immediately after I took this shot.)
Oh! Oh! Oh! (That's my best translation of Toby's whickering.) They're looking this way! Here they come!
(Breathe, Toby. B-r-e-a-t-h-e ...)
No one could ever accuse Toby of being unsociable.
This is the weekend of my 6-year-wedding anniversary.
We may go dancing to celebrate. There are a dozen red roses in a beautiful vase here on my desk as I type this. The seven years I've known my wonderful husband have been some of the happiest of my life. He helped me remember that there's a lot of beauty to be had, that there's a friend I can count on and someone to share my dreams (and who'll even egg me on given half a chance), and how to find a sense of peace in the midst of the things that are out of our control. He loves me like I am. He helped me remember how to dance and sing. Oh yeah, and he makes me laugh.
Here's to getting my fill of the heavy horses this Sunday afternoon!
I attended the draft horse show at the New Mexico State Fair a couple of years ago. My family members fidgeted and sighed as they dutifully sat with draft-horse daft mom in the bleachers while these magnificent animals glided by, pulling carts, wagons, increasingly heavy loads, carrying riders on their backs. I did get dragged off to the other exhibits and the carnival rides at some point. Then we strolled through the barns and spoke to the draft horse people. I was amazed at how willing and eager people were to talk about their horses. (But, then again, I do wonder why I was surprised, because I love to talk about mine.) This year, I'm taking two full days off and attending the draft horse show sans fidgety family members.
I will not budge. I will not fidget. I will blissfully sit and watch.
In looking back through some of my videotapes the other day, I realized that nearly every time I take the camera down to the barn, I take this same scene. This big black shadow is looming around in nearly every shot, either heading straight at me for a good scratchin' or towering over my kids.
Maybe he's really not a Percheon (3/4) Quarter (1/4) cross. But some strange interspecies Black Lab/Perch mix. I wrote recently about our unfriendly appaloosa. Well, Toby's got to be just about the friendliest horse I've ever known. He's going to scare some hikers on the trail up in the Pecos this summer, I suspect. I can just see him greeting everyone.
Our Andalusian Caprichosa has a habit of thrusting her head right at anyone she meets on the trail, sniffing inquisitively, just being sociable. After I realized what she was up to, I have to keep an eye on her and see who's amenable to such horse friendliness and who's not. With some idiots hikers not liking horses on the backcountry trails (Eek! Horse poop! How the hell do these city dwellers who venture into the forest once every couple of years with a thousand dollars worth of brand spanking new REI gear think this country got settled? By SUV? Maybe Coronado drove a Lexus? Lewis and Clark a Humvee?) and even managing to limit backcountry usage in some places (so I hear), I do everything I can to be a good equine ambassador up there.
I'm going to have to watch The Big Boo. To the uninitiated, his social overtures might be a little intimidating. Don't want my Percheron to get me thrown out of the National Forest ...
(I can see now that his baby-elephant-sized poops are going to be potentially offensive to someone with more refined sensibilities than mine. As far as I'm concerned, they can limit their outdoor forays to the city park with all those nice clean pigeons.)
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.
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.
It's been a while since I've worked with my young Percheron Toby. Yesterday was a glorious 52 degrees and no wind with a clear blue New Mexico sky and that warm sun you can feel because of the high altitude here. I saddled up the big guy and took him to the center of the round pen. Stood on my bucket (I still can't get up there without a mounting block of some kind) and he moved off. I brought him back to the center. Asked him to stand. Got back on the bucket. He moved off.
So I decided that this called for some serious measure. I asked him, calmly and kindly, to yield his hindquarters around and around. Then I stopped and asked him to stand for mounting. He moved off again. Again, I went through the routine of asking him to yield those big hindquarters. No temper. No expectations of how I was going to get this right, right now. I breathed deeply and softly as the Percheron released around me. Approaching the training in an almost meditative state.
And, guess what? He stood for mounting every time I asked the rest of the afternoon. I guess he decided that if he wanted to move those feet and not stand for me, then I'd have him move his feet alright! He got some rest and relief by standing still, doing what I was asking him to do.
The thing I like most about this delightful vid is that they all seem to be having such a grand time!
As I am kneeling down to remove the cactus sticker from the knee of my Percheron horse Toby, he is nuzzling the top of my head, blowing his hot breath out of his nostrils, and all of a sudden neatly removing my hat from my head with his teeth. Just like I have taught him to, except that I haven't asked. He is shaking his head up and down, around and around. The hat is flailing wildly, leather tie strings swirling. I ask him to give it back. But no deal. The big horse is enjoying this way too much. He takes off at his long-legged, rolling walk towards the barn, head up. I dash in front of him. Demand the hat back. But no dice. I grab the hat and lead him around in circles by his mouth, trying to break the vice-like grip of his teeth. He is rolling his eyes. I'm laughing now. I think the horse knows this is way funny. It horses can smile, then that's exactly what he's doing right now. The Percheron drops my nice winter hat, the one with the warm and fuzzy ear flaps, on the ground, licks his lips, and blinks at me in feigned innocence.
We cut our own firewood here in Northern New Mexico, and we use
a woodburning stove to heat the house. (I love that comforting radiant heat.
And that piney smell.) The Forest Service sells permits ($10) for a cord of
pinon or juniper. The idea
is to
let the big ponderosa pines flourish. I have dragged my fair share of wood
out of the mountains over the last several years. But my husband saws it up
into firelogs before we haul it to the truck or trailer, which is not nearly
as romantic as logging with horses. I sure would love to use my Percheron,
the
tractor
with
fur, to
do some logging. When I buy his harness, it's going to be a heavy-duty farm
type.
Woodcutting days are some of the best. I do understand what this
fellow is talking about in this documentary about logging. This longing for
something else in the midst of a world of technology.
Serenity. Adventure.
Beauty.
There's something primal about
watching with satisfaction as your woodpile grows and
you know
you could
make
it through this winter and the next.
Do you ever dream about having a career with horses? I do. Although frankly I never even thought about the horse dentistry thing and was surprised to learn when I got my Percheron Toby as a not-quite two-year-old, that he would actually lose those little pearly whites that filled up his mouth at the time. (I have several of them stowed away in a blue wedgewood box worthy of saving for posterity the baby teeth of my darling Toby boy ...)
Scotsman.com News. HORSE-LOVER Laura Chaffe went to great lengths to get her dream job. At the age of 25 she went back to school, spent thousands of pounds and travelled to the other side of the world just so she could study her unusual chosen profession - horse dentistry. Now she is a fully fledged equine dental technician and has just started her own business, based in West Lothian. With only a handful of horse dentists in Scotland, Laura is prepared to travel the country to rid the horse world of sore teeth and ulcers. In just a short space of time, she has saved a suffering Shetland pony from persistent toothache and witnessed the heartache of seeing horses being put down due to the state of their teeth.
This delightful video will make you smile. Guaranteed. Check
out these draft horses frolicking in the snow on their day off from logging
in the wilderness. This captures the majesty and the beauty of these gentle
giants. I love to watch these big horses play. To see my almost 1,700 pound
Percheron Toby, who is only 4, after all, romping and playing, especially
with a horse half his size like our little Polish Arabian mare is quite a sight.
He, poor thing, is the only gelding with four mares. We sold his 13-hand POA
gelding friend Thor a while ago because the kids had outgrown him and the old
geezer needed a job. Now those two romping together, usually led by the spotted
pony, always made me grin.
Our First
Horse. Both of our horses have what I would consider a peculiar
habit. Each time we let them in the barn they lift their tails and pass gas
as they
walk
by
us. What is THAT all about? Is this some kind of horse greeting I’m just
supposed to know about or are they trying to insult me?
Let me start by saying this. I have a 9-year-old boy who likes to
regale his sister, his friends, and me (unfortunately) with all kinds of humor
about bodily functions. Typical. Typical. Typical. I know.
(How is it that you male creatures come into this world wired entirely different
than we girls?)
So you can just imagine how my 9-year-old boy particularly enjoys
talking about the great big farts that our nearly 1,700-pound Percheron horse
lets
rip, generally
when
we are
brushing
his tail or scratching those big hindquarters. Toby just about knocks that
60-pound kid over with all of that odiferous gas. It's like having a big stinky
gas bomb lobbed right at ya. It's almost nuclear, man. Those are the biggest
farts ever in the history of the world. Or at least that's what I'm told. Repeatedly.
Lord help me. I've agreed to let C. invite two friends, 9-year-old twin
brothers, over for the weekend. The whole weekend. And those boys love horses,
so we'll be spending some quality time down in the barn.
The Official Site for the Percheron Horse Association of America. Long before the invention of the motorized truck and farm tractor, the Percheron draft horse provided the power to build and feed our nation. Now this noble horse provides the power, substance, beauty, and style as America's work and recreation horse for the twenty first century.
History and origin of the breed. Except for the recent past, the history of the Percheron breed is not exactly clear. The Percheron Horse did originate in the province of Le Perche, near Normandy, France. The ancestors of the modern day Percheron served as war horses carrying knights into battle instead as draft animals in the field. Those horses were light, sure-footed and spirited. As agricultural pursuits began to take precedence over battles, these horses were bred more for size, weight and strength. The French, however, kept very few records regarding breeding which allows for speculation on the breeds true origins.
It is widely believed that the Arabian horse played an important role in the development of the Percheron. By the time of the crusades, the Percheron breed was widely recognized as outstanding for his substance and soundness, as well as for his characteristic beauty and style.
By the 17th century horses produced in Le Perche had attained widespread notoriety and were in demand for many different uses. The Percheron of this time showed less scale and easily adapted to pulling the heavy mail coaches of France. They stood from 15 to 16 hands high at this time. Read it all.
The four-year-old Percheron's legs are longer than mine and growing. But ... I've been doing my exercises to open those hip flexors up (for equestrian vaulting) ... so somehow or other I'll just ... uh ... stretch my leg up there like Gumby?
Do you know that the invention of the stirrup was a major human achievement?
THE STIRRUP AND ITS EFFECT ON CHINESE MILITARY HISTORY. Lynn White, in his Medieval Technology and Social Change, offers the interesting hypothesis that the feudal class of the European Middle Ages derived ultimately from the stirrup. After the arrival of the stirrup in Europe by the eighth century, and the primacy this gave the horse and armor in warfare, the state made, land grants in return for the pledge to provide armored knights on horseback when called. The freeman with his battle-axe no longer was the mainstay of the military might of the state, though he was still subject to general muster. Charlemagne's attempt to raise horsemen by ordering the less wealthy to pool their resources was eventually unsuccessful because of the difficulties in administering such a program. The eventual result was the distribution of land to vassals on condition of knight's service; from this followed the creation of a fighting elite, which was to have a profound effect on Western society and history. Read it all.
Here Mr. Handome, who is hoping for a delicious treat after our training session, poses with my husband (also Mr. Handsome) and models his pretty new saddle.
Toby is mutton-withered. The very big draft horse has a nearly flat back. I swear you could put a kickline up there. And we may yet.
We are measuring the big boy for his new saddle. The wither tracing (what withers?) is almost a straight line. Based upon our weight calculations (and we checked and re-checked, measured and re-measured), my baby elephant Percheron draft horse is a grand total of 1,687 pounds.
I knew he'd grown a lot this year, but ... ! We shall see how the saddle quest goes.
Step 1.
Measure the circumference (heart girth) of the horses body in inches. (C)
Step 2.
Measure the length of the body from the point of the shoulder to the point of the croup in inches. (A to B)
Step 3.
Apply the following formula to calculate the weight of the horse. Heart girth x heart girth x length divided by 300 + 50 pounds = the horses weight in pounds.
Highlights from a twenty-minute trick training session with my four-year-old percheron horse Toby yesterday. We're no longer using the rope for the shake hands trick. During this session, we progress beyond using the wand as a cue to only my voice (with the extension of my right hand towards his left leg and the command "Shake").
Toby offered me a couple of unsolicited handshakes here. What did I learn from that? (Besides almost getting my knee whacked. He's not aiming for me, mind you. But this is not like teaching your cute little pup to shake hands!) Well, an important safety consideration when teaching your horse tricks is to watch for these impromptu offers during early training and also to insist that the horse only offer the trick when asked. I'm thinking about what the ramifications can be longer term, when I teach him to rear, for example.
Dennis was worried that the farrier would fire me because I'm teaching Toby to shake hands. However, when Mike the farrier came out on Friday, Toby was as good as gold and didn't offer to shake hands with him, thank goodness.
Does anyone have any feedback for me? Good or bad, I would welcome it! Not only will I learn from your comments, but any readers out there who are interested in pursuing trick training.
My trick training notes:
1) Keep horse from "begging" for carrots during session
2) How do I deal with unsolicited offers of the trick from my horse?
3) How do we make the trick prettier? Cleaner?
4) Wean off of the treats eventually. Horse will work for praise as you master the trick?
5) Begin learning a couple of other tricks. One that doesn't involve the legs and hooves and one that does. You don't want the horse to get bored.
6) More consistent practice in short short sessions.
7) Think about and anticipate potential safety issues.
Toby and I are a work in progress. Really, this is way too much fun. I realize that I am grinning from ear to ear through a lot of this. I think Toby likes it too.
(Thanks to my 9-year-old cameraman C. Superb job, buddy!)
But you really know he loves you when he agrees to climb on board of your
17-hand percheron, who's tacked up in only a vaulting surcingle, and lets you
longe him on the very big black horse around and around a 20M circle
at a walk.
Once you are reasonably certain that there is no buck or buggers left in Percheron,
you begin asking cowboy spouse for favors. "OK. Now can you raise your arms
up over your head?"
He furrows his eyebrows together and looks at you like you are crazy.
"No, really. This is important."
"I do better with stirrups," complains husband, looking straight
out between horse's fuzzy ears, raising his arms over his head. Up and down.
Up and down. Forward. Backward. To the
left.
And right. For good measure. He's been to a few vaulting competitions over
the years.
There's something soothing about being in the quiet company of one of these big boys. Here Toby and I are working on our circle, some lateral longing, and on halting straight on the circle, with Toby not turning in towards me.
Sometimes the Percheron reminds me of one of those big, strapping cowboys you see two-stepping around the sawdust dance floor with a petite partner scooped up in his arms. And sometimes, of the freight train with a couple of behemoth engines that roars by the ranch at 11:00 AM.
When I am tacking Toby up with bridle, cavesson, surcingle, side reins, and he stands patiently (he's not tied here), even putting his head down for me so I can wrangle with and adjust and re-adjust that heavy-duty, nearly-Medieval, Mad-Max-Thunderdome-ish cavesson (I forgot I'd used it earlier on my daughter's Andal
and growing. But ... I've been doing my exercises to open those hip flexors up (for equestrian vaulting) ... so somehow or other I'll just ... uh ... stretch my leg up there like Gumby?
