Riding in Jamaica

Henk writes:

Lil and family came back just before Christmas from a vacation on some island named Jamaica which, from the pictures you'll see below, looks kind of nice but much too hot for a large black horse that's  endowed with as much hair as I am. I guess that's why when Lil went riding she ended up on a skinny-legged ex-racehorse that's as gaunt as a whippet. Still, Lil tells me the horses at this riding establishment were very well cared for and not the bony, sad-sack creatures typical of these kinds of places in the tropics. In fact, many of the horses at this place (called "Hooves" by the way) were rescues. That, of course, was the final push Lil needed to get her all excited about rescuing horses here at home, which is something she's kind of bounced around ever since moving to our current farm, so I guess we have more strange new horses to look forward to. I'll keep you posted as this particular project develops. In the meantime, here are some pictures from Lil's ride. Evidently she had a blast.

Lil and her guide, Danny, leaving the former Spanish plantation where the horses are kept, and on their way to the beach.

A canter on the beach.

Playing in the surf.

Henk writes:

Lil's husband, Robert, brought his camera out to our paddock the other day, so I thought I'd share some of his pictures with you.

The top photo is me and the human with her back to you is Lil. She thinks this is her best angle for photos.

The second photo is me with Charlee. I'm the one with the braids. Don't even go there. It's Lil's idea of keeping my mane long and lovely. I think it's a touch embarrassing myself. I try to unbraid them as fast as I can, but she just keeps putting them back in. The farrier actually asked if I was "wrapped up for Christmas!" Ugh. But, hey, if it means my flowing, wavy locks will be that much more beautiful, I guess I can put up with it.

This is Charlee (both photos above). Actually, her name is Charline W, but we all call her Charlee. Do you notice a striking resemblance? To moi? I like this girl! Not only does she look almost as good as I do, but I'm pretty sure I'll be able to mould her in my own image in the personality department. She's got the right attitude! Already Lil's sons have started referring to her as "the female Henk." OK with me.

Charlee comes from the same farm as I do (Witeeveen Friesians), and we share a couple of ancestors (Barteld 292 and Mark), although you have to go back a generation or two. (Go back a generation or two and pretty much all Friesians share an ancestor here and there!). She came to live with us last fall, when she was two. Lil says the only reason they were able to afford her was that Charlee had a bad paddock accident that summer and has a really ugly knee to show for it. She'll never be rideable, but she'll be able to have babies, the first of which she's expecting in May. That will be fun, I think. We haven't had babies around since Lil bought "the slaughter-house-three" eight years ago (that's a whole other story that I'll tell you sometime). The foal's sire is Sipke 450. I haven't met the dude myself (he lives in the USA), but Lil thinks he's pretty awesome. Charlee's pretty awesome herself. Her pedigree is full of Stars and Models and Preferents (if you're not familiar with Friesian terminology, just think of these as having won the genetic lottery -- a bit like Angelina Jolie or Brad Pitt), and her half-brother is the first approved breeding stallion bred in Canada -- Michiel 442. He's now been sold to a breeder in Holland, which is a bit like selling a Canadian red wine to a connoisseur in Bordeaux: a really big deal.

We'll of course share pictures of the babe when it comes. In the meantime, feast your eyes on me. And Charlee, too, I guess.

Spanish Horses

Henk writes:

More new horses! So much for the quiet country life. I think Lil’s losing her mind. But, hey, she’s the one who has to feed everybody and make sure we get turned out and our stalls get cleaned, so I guess it’s her prerogative. And anyway, at least these last two are only visiting. Good thing, too, or I might have to take matters into my own hands. More on that in a minute.

Two weeks ago I walked into my stall in the evening and there, in the stall beside me, was a horse I’d never met before. Now, normally, I’m cool with that. I love company, and I love that whenever a new horse needs to be introduced into the herd, Lil lets me meet him (or her) first. I like to make the introductions to the rest of the gang. But this horse? I don’t know. He’s awfully good looking, and the way he acts I think he might be deluding himself into thinking he’s a Friesian. All charming and delightful and he likes people almost as much as I do and, you know, he’s stealing the attention that’s rightfully mine! People are all beside themselves, patting and ogling and feeding him carrots and “oh, isn’t he beautiful!” Hey! What about the black horse in the stall next door? Me? If you’re going to go ga-ga over any equine, it should be me!

Ugh.

And then, a week or so later, another one shows up! The first one’s younger brother, and wouldn’t you know it, he’s even better looking! Now the situation’s getting serious and I’m considering slipping the latch on their paddock and turning them loose. Let’s see how long you guys make it on your own without the humans looking after you! Have you heard those coyotes yapping it up at dusk?

I guess Wilby goody-two-shoes figured out what I was thinking, ‘cause he gave me quite the talking-to. Seems thoughts of “disappearing” the competition are un-Friesian and unacceptable. Pardon me! I didn’t know there was a code of ethics. But the humans saved me from myself anyway. The two pretty-boys have been sold and will be leaving for the beautiful province of Nova Scotia soon. Is it too late to start being gracious?

The one who lives in the stall next to mine is named Hypnotiq, and he’s a four-year-old son of Soberbio XII. Cutie-pie is his three-year-old brother Symphoniq. Both are purebred Andalusians (or, as they’re called these days, Pura Rasa Espanol). So that explains the looks and the brains. Like us Friesians, the Andalusian is a Baroque horse (also includes Lipizzaners, Lusitanos, and the Kladruber from the Czech Republic which happens to be where Lil was born). The “boys’” daddy, Soberbio, hung out in our barn for a couple of days two years ago on his way to a dressage clinic, and I must say I was impressed. Stallions can be a little sketchy, but this one is all class. A true gentleman. And very lovely.

So I’ve decided to let them have their moment in the sun. The novelty will probably wear off soon and my many adoring humans will return to worshipping me. “The boys” are due to leave on Sunday. And if they don’t, that paddock latch really is a piece of cake to open.

Check out the photos:

Symphoniq (grey) and Hypnotiq 

Soberbio

"the boys" again

Soberbio doing tricks

The Horse in the Iron Mask

Henk writes:

A couple of new horses arrived at the farm last week: an older chestnut warmblood named Lego, and his pet, a mini named… well… not really named. I’ll tell you more about that later.

When these two arrived, they got regular stalls in the barn like the rest of us, but instead of going out in one of the paddocks we use, they went into the sand-ring on the other side of the barn. Once we all go outside in the morning, the only evidence we have that Lego and the mini even exist is Lego’s screaming. He whinnies all the time. Someone pulls up at the house and opens their car door – Lego whinnies. Lil lets the dogs out for a pee – Lego whinnies. The neighbour starts cutting his grass – Lego whinnies. But we don’t see them, and we certainly don’t have any contact with them. This, plus the fact that Lego goes outside wearing a wire-mesh cage over his nose has caused some crazy speculation among the rest of the animals. I, of course, threw gasoline on the fire by suggesting that Lego was a cannibal who couldn’t share a paddock with us because he’d try to rip chunks of flesh out of us and eat it. The mini, I told them, was too ornery for him to attack, but still Lego had to wear the muzzle to make absolutely sure. It was a stupid story, but a few of the others bought it. I had to laugh at the way Charlee and Sunny skirted around Lego’s stall, fully expecting him to reach out and snatch a meal from their sides! (I’m always amazed at the trouble some horses have separating the carnivores from the vegetarians in their life. It’s like Lil’s old horse Oscar. The sight of a deer would send him running for his life, but a coyote didn’t scare him at all).

The real story of Lego and the mini is of course much less interesting than my fairy tale: Lego suffered a bout of laminitis followed by founder several years ago while living at another farm. The best his human, Jo, could figure was that the laminitis was brought on by overly rich hay (too much alfalfa), and the founder was bad enough that another episode would probably bring his coffin bones right out through the soles of his feet. Thank goodness for our farrier, Rodd (who also looked after Jo’s horses). He has Lego so well trimmed and shod and padded that you’d never know anything had happened to him. Still, Jo won’t risk a relapse, and because there were a few determined patches of grass sprouting in the sand ring (probably because no one ever rides in it – preferring to use either the arena for schooling or the hay fields for a hack), she insisted on the muzzle just to make absolutely sure old Lego didn’t ingest anything that could make him sick again.

As to the mini, well, Jo bought him to keep Lego company when he was living at her house. After Lego foundered and couldn’t be ridden for months while he recovered, Jo started referring to him as “Useless.” A paddock ornament who just stands around and eats and poops and looks good. The mini, whose only role was to keep Lego company, naturally became “Little Useless.” But Jo adores Lego, who was foaled at her hobby farm and has been with her all his life, so the Useless label didn’t stick to him for very long. The mini, however, remained “Little Useless,” and I think that’s a big part of the reason for his attitude. He really doesn’t like Jo. (The fact that she had to sit on his head while the vet castrated him probably didn’t help their relationship, either). He pins his ears and gives her attitude the likes of which I’ve never seen. At first Lil was worried that he might bite or kick one of the kids who come for therapeutic riding (because of course everyone wants to go and pet him, he’s so miniaturely cute), but he’s never shown his surly side with anyone but Jo. Just to make sure, though, Lil and the family renamed him. At our farm he’s known as Timbit (personally, I don’t know that being named after a small doughnut would make me particularly happy, but I guess it’s better than having the whole point of your existence brought into question all the time).

Once the ground freezes and the snow flies, Lego and Timbit will be moving into our paddock. I’m willing to bet Timbit tries to take on Wilby and challenge for the job of herd boss (he lived with us for a few months last winter while Jo recovered from shoulder surgery and he tried to pick a fight with Moose, our 17-hand Belgian-cross who could flatten him with one hoof). It should be interesting. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, here’s a picture of Lego in his Hannibal Lecter get-up. Be careful. He might try to eat your liver. With some fava beans and a nice chianti. (If you don’t understand that last bit, watch Silence of the Lambs).

Meet Molly

Lil and I both love this pony's story. We hope you'll enjoy it, too.

                                               Meet Molly

She's a grey speckled pony who
was abandoned by her owners when  Hurricane
Katrina hit southern Louisiana .  She spent weeks
on her  own before finally being rescued and taken
to a farm where abandoned  animals were stockpiled.
While there, she was attacked by a dog and almost died.
Her gnawed right front leg  became
infected, and her vet went to LSU for help, but
LSU was  overwhelmed, and this pony was a welfare 
case.  You know how that  goes.
But after surgeon  Rustin Moore met Molly, he  changed his mind. 
He  saw how the pony was careful to lie down on different  sides  
so she didn't seem to get sores, 
and how she allowed  people to handle her. 
She protected her  injured leg. 
She constantly  shifted her weight 
and didn't overload  her good leg.. 
She was a smart pony  with a serious
survival ethic.

Moore agreed to remove her leg below  the knee,
and a temporary artificial limb was built.  
Molly walked  out of the clinic and 
her story really begins there.

'This was the  right horse and the right owner,' Moore insists.
Molly happened to be a one-in-a-million patient. 
She's tough as nails, but sweet, and she was willing to cope with pain.
She made it obvious she understood that she was
in trouble.  The other important factor,  according
to Moore , is having a truly committed and compliant
owner who is dedicated to providing the daily care
required  over the lifetime of the horse.

Molly's story turns into a parable for  life in Post-Katrina Louisiana ........ 
The little pony  gained weight, and her mane finally felt a comb. 
A human prosthesis designer built  her a leg.

The prosthetic has given Molly a whole new life,
Allison  Barca DVM, Molly's regular vet, reports.

And she asks for it.  She  will put her little limb out,
and come to you and let you know that she  wants
you to put it on.  Sometimes she wants you to take
it off  too.  And sometimes, Molly gets away from Barca.

'It can be  pretty bad when you can't catch a three-legged horse,' she laughs.

Most  important of all, Molly has a job now.  Kay,
the rescue farm owner,  started taking Molly to
shelters, hospitals, nursing homes, and  rehabilitation
centers.  Anywhere she thought that people needed
hope.  Wherever Molly went, she showed people
her pluck.  She inspired people, and she had a
good time doing it.

'It's  obvious to me that Molly had a bigger role to
play in life, Moore said.  She  survived the hurricane,
she survived a horrible injury, and now she is  giving
hope to others.' Barca concluded, 'She's not back to  normal, 
but she's going to be better.  To me, she could be a
symbol for New Orleans  itself.' 

This is Molly's most  recent prosthesis.  The middle
photo shows the ground surface that she  stands on,
which has a smiley face embossed in it.  Wherever
Molly  goes, she leaves a smiley hoof print behind.

A few thoughts on Natural Horsemanship

Henk writes:

I share my paddock with 4 other horses: two are Friesians (Wilby and Charlee), one is a Welsh pony (Bella), and the fourth is a Standardbred (Sunny). When it’s time to go inside for the night (and, of course, dinner!) Wilby gets to go first if he wants to. He’s the boss. Sometimes he chooses not to exercise this right, and lets me, Charlee, and on occasion even the pony, go ahead of him. Sometimes he hangs back like we’re allowed to go ahead of him, and then crowds up from behind which makes me, personally, extremely nervous. Especially if the human in charge of the lead shank takes a bit too long to attach it to my halter or to open the gate for me to go through. By the time we’re ready to go I’m usually dancing and twitchy, thinking I’d made bad decision. So why will I do it again the next time I get the chance? Probably the same reason humans watch horror movies. It’s deliciously scary.

But one horse who never comes in anything but last is Sunny. He’s just naturally a bottom-of-the-totem-poler. I can chase him away from the last bit of the yummiest hay just by flicking an ear. We don’t pick on him, though, and Bella, Charlee and I take turns hanging out and grazing with the little nipper. He’s a cute little guy, and I guess we all feel a little sorry for him. His nerves are weak, his lungs are suspect and his tendons need to be treated like fragile glass – booted for riding and wrapped when he’s inside. He’s afraid of men particularly, to the point that Lil’s two grown sons don’t even bother trying to catch him when they’re bringing us all in, but leave him for her to get. The one exception is Lil’s husband, Robert. He can always catch Sunny, even if it sometimes takes a while. It can take ANYONE a while some days. Robert laughs and says he “horse-whispers” Sunny into letting himself be caught.

Robert’s version of horse-whispering is usually to wait Sunny out. He’ll just chill out on the water trough with the lead rope, and wait for Sunny to decide he’s played hard-to-get long enough and that he is, after all, hungry. Then he’ll wander over toward Robert and stop 10 to 15 meters away, his nose pointing very slightly toward the gate. This means “ok you can come get me now and I won’t run away when you reach for the halter.” This process can take a while, though, and I’ve seen even Lil get spitting mad and threaten to leave Sunny out for the coyotes.

Other people’s idea of horse-whispering can be a lot more complicated, though. They usually show up with lots of special equipment like rope halters and magic wands or whatever they call them, fancy low-impact bridles and custom-made or pillowy treeless saddles. Their horses are barefoot (so am I, so there’s nothing wrong with that!) and their consciences are clear. They practice what they call “natural horsemanship,” which is all about being your horse’s friend and leader.

Lil took me to a clinic with a natural horsemanship guru once when I was 3, and of course the first thing the woman said was that I was looking (“desperately looking,” if I recall correctly), for a leader because I flipped out a little bit while Lil was forced to change my regular halter for one of those rope things in a strange arena full of people with camera flashbulbs going off (I tend to have that effect on people). And then the crazy woman smacked me with her “special rope” ($57 for a 20-foot length) when I crowded her, as I tend to do when freaked out. And while demonstrating the maneuver to Lil (who was stupid enough to ask, and even more stupid in agreeing to role-play the part of, well, moi). She smacked her right in the face. That’s when Lil said she’d had enough and took me back to the barn where I apologized for my three-year-old behaviour and Lil apologized for putting me in the hands of that crazywoman. Lil and I trust each other. We can handle pretty much anything together.

As to being “friends,” well, cool. I’d certainly prefer to have my human be my friend than my enemy, but let’s be serious here people – I’m a horse, and you’re not. I like hanging out with humans. I’m weird that way. But I don’t see myself moving into Lil’s house anytime soon. And while I may push the boundaries a little bit from time to time, I fully expect Lil to let me know before I’ve gone too far. I weigh 1200 pounds. If I were “playing” with an elephant, I’d want him to like me, sure, but I’d also like to know he sees me as his boss, not just his buddy.

Besides, where is there anything “natural” in the relationship you humans have with us horses? There’s nothing natural about carrying you guys around on our backs. It’s one of nature’s little jokes that she made us anatomically suited to the exercise (up to a point, anyway), and for millennia we as a species have decided to let you get away with it. “Natural?” Leave your gates open for a day and see if it’s natural for your horses to stay inside those paddocks – no matter how spacious and well-cared for they may be. And even though it’s smaller, a rope halter is no more natural than one made of leather or nylon or woven fairies’ wings and unicorn hair. I’ve never seen a halter of any description sprout spontaneously on any horse’s face.

We horses love that you humans try to understand us. We really do. It can’t be easy for a self-centered ego-driven tightly wound stressed out predator to try to understand a horse. Some of you “get it” more than others do, and some of those who get it are pretty good at sharing it with those who don’t. Please continue. But give me a break. Don’t think you’re treating me the way another horse would, or that I would expect you to. Leave the “horse whispering” to the one or two in a hundred thousand who have the gift, and don’t kid yourself that anything you do with me is “natural.”

An Outstanding Horse

Henk writes:

OnTRA (the Ontario Therapeutic Riding Association) is asking its member centres to nominate outstanding riders, volunteers, and of course HORSES for special recognition. So naturally I expected Lil to nominate me. You don't get much more outstanding, after all. With my tall, dark and handsome looks, my charming personality, my aristocratic breeding... It should be a no-brainer.

But for some reason she thinks that working only a handful of therapeutic lessons this year (I have some back issues which are not helped by bouncing riders) disqualifies me.

She's nominating Dooley instead.

Dooley. The "Unhappy Appy," as Lil's friend Jo calls him. It's not that he's really unhappy, or has anything to be unhappy about. Like the rest of us, he spends most of his time hanging out in a pasture with his buddies, and only has to do a few lessons every week, which aren't exactly taxing. It's just that he never looks truly enthusiastic. About anything. He'll stand to be groomed. He'll wait to be mounted. He'll follow his volunteer leader around at whatever speed and in whatever direction is asked. He'll stand to be dismounted and untacked. He'll go into his stall and eat his dinner. Like a botoxed human,  his expression never changes. 

I'm so much more fun than that! I stick my head into my volunteers' stomachs, sniff my riders' boots when they mount up, and drool politely at the sight of carrots or dinner.

Dooley won't even bend his legs when someone's trying to clean out his feet. He'll lift his hoof off the ground, but only a few centimeters, and the human has to bend his leg for him if she wants to actually get at the bottom of his foot. He just doesn't go out of his way to cooperate. I think the word for him is sullen.

But there are other words, too. Like patient. Calm. Utterly trustworthy. Lil can turn her more advanced riders loose on Dooley and never worry that he'll spook or run away. His reaction to anything out of the ordinary, like a rider getting off balance, is to stop and wait. That response makes him worth his weight in gold as a therapy horse. But he also challenges his riders to pay attention and use their aids, because he'll wander off into the middle of the arena or over to the door where the parents stand to watch if the rider gets distracted. Put a more challenged rider on him, though, and Dooley becomes Steady Eddy, giving her a quiet, easy ride.

When the first wheelchair athlete came to us, Lil picked Dooley for her to ride. He was guaranteed not to worry about the wheelchair rolling up the ramp beside him or the lift they'd need to mount the rider up. He knows his job, and he just does it.

And it's all the more amazing that he does all this while gradually losing his eyesight to Moon Blindness. He can't see much more than shadows now, but it's not making him jittery and spooky like it does with some horses. If he gets in an unfamiliar spot he'll simply stop and wait for a human or another horse to show him where he can go safely, and then moves on. The only real issue is lungeing. He can't see the whip cues, so he needs to hear them. Not that big a deal.

And did I mention that he's 26? He doesn't look it, though. He's plump and nicely muscled up for an old fellow, without that skinny old-horse look. His riders love him, too. They bring him treats like apples and granola bars and oatmeal cookies, and take his picture to stick on their fridge at home. One rider's Mom reports that while watching the movie Secretariat her daughter explained to everyone in the room that Secretariat had nothing on Dooley, the very special horse she rides every week.

So I guess I can forgive Lil for nominating Dooley instead of me. Respect for one's elders and all that. Go Spotty, go. Win that thing!