If You’re Happy and You Know it Clop Your Hooves

Hudson developed a slight problem.

His right knee got a bit bigger, with  arthritic changes normal for an older horse. His soundness level didn’t change.

I’m seriously over qualified for two careers:

1. Master Obsesser
2. Professional Annoyer

If I had either of these careers, we’d all be boarding at Jane’s Fabulous Barn of Many Horse Wonders, for $50 a month. Because I could afford the tax write off, and I would love to see you all every day.

Hudson tried to launch my new careers.  He banged the arthritic knee on the one lonely 6′ section of pipe fencing, while messing around with his pasture mate.

No heat, no swelling, not lame.  Slightly bruised.  Fine to the touch in three days. The bump on the knee began to grow, in a “Hey. Is that bigger today? Nah.” sort of way. He’s still sound.

Exhibit A: The problem knee.  Attached to the problem leg he likes to stick through fences.  Because the dirt on the other side is softer.

Weird, huh. He looks like his normal, big-boned self.

Hudson yesterday: poised to swan dive into his Happy Meal.

Then his knee went all Pinocchio on me.

Jane’s successful career launch.

How can he be SOUND?!?

Two things happened:

1. I couldn’t handle the stress I was creating.  I was annoying myself.
2. Hudson’s chiropractor, a competitive roper and fantastic chiro, sighed compassionately at my anxiety, picked up Hudson’s leg and bent that knee to full flexion. Hudson didn’t blink. It didn’t hurt.

The joint is that mobile?? I instantly saw the possibility of an obsessionless future.  One in which I wouldn’t be afraid to hand walk, ride, pony or touch Hudson.

I called our vet, Jamie Kerr, and made an appointment for lameness exam and possible x-rays. (If you’re going to do it, use the best, right?) Jamie spent most of his life preparing and riding in the Tevis, or vetting the Tevis. He’s seen every possible lameness on the planet.  Hopefully even non-lame lameness.

I worried (surprise!) that it would be a little tricky to explain why I wanted a lameness exam on a sound horse.  Meghan, the clinic’s office manager, was also wonderfully compassionate.

Oh good.  They’re familiar with nut cases.

If it looks like an arthritic calcium deposit, walks like an arthritic calcium deposit, and creaks like an arthritic calcium deposit, it should BE an arthritic calcium deposit, even if we don’t want one, right?

This is the good part of finding oneself in the middle of Chaos Theory.

It didn’t walk or creak properly. He DID have Pinocchio Knee.

Copyright: Disney

Jimminey Cricket. The knee was lying.

Jamie has to be the kindest vet in existence. Before the physical exam, he asked me Hudson’s age and history, explained it looked like an injury common in older race horses, cow horses, and over-used brood mares. I think he expected what we all expected: calcification of an arthritic joint.

After the physical exam, it seemed to me that Jamie was cautiously excited.  He had me press my finger on the point. I’d been afraid to press it hard. Hudson had no pain reaction, and my finger went in about half an inch.

It GAVE.

Bone doesn’t give.

Jamie x-rayed.  I don’t think either of us could believe the image that came up on the laptop. A nearly perfect knee-joint, with tons of fluid padding between the bones, and only very minor arthritic changes that Jamie had to point out to me.

No flashing arrow that said “Your Horse Has Arthritis, Stupid”.

The Pinocchio Protrusion didn’t show up on any of the x-rays.

It’s chronic soft tissue inflammation.  With no heat.

My older horse, who spent all his life in hard work, has the joints of a nine-year-old.

Jamie said, “How old did you say he was, again?”

Hudson is going to be 24 in seventeen days.

I had to break the bad news to Hudson: “Jamie says no more galloping, no fast starts or stops, and no dressage circles. Nothing with sharp turns. You get to do trail rides, walk, trot and lope. But only in big arcs or straight aways”

I think all he heard was “no circles”, as he raced off into his paddock, bucking and joyful.

Murphy Monday: Cinco De Murphy!

Murphy was born on Cinco de Mayo.

He turned TWO years old yesterday.

As part of his growing up and changing needs, he moved to a new facility, where he met a dumbfoundingly handsome horse, with whom he bonded utterly.

We have to admit, this new horse is extremely handsome. And very personable. Daisy could barely tear him away.

He’s huge. I think Daisy is 5′ 11″ tall. Murphy hangs his head over her shoulder.

Happy Birthday, Murphy!

Still the same curious boy who said, “Hey. It’s dark in here.”

We love you…

Running Water, Chaos Theory, and Sparrows!

There are two ways to look at this:

1. I’ve been riding Ginger for Laurie.
2. Laurie has graciously indulged me by allowing me to ride Ginger.

I think the photo below shows that #2 is the correct pick. They’re beautiful together:

Copyright: Centerline Photography

Ginger is an orange ball of fire: opinionated, believes “forward” is an understatement, and is…impatient…with the idea of anything approaching what she would call ‘sedate’. Anything less than Mach 10 is sedate to Ginger.  Slowing down takes far too much time and energy. She’s also a total glamor girl. Think Lucy before her comedic talent was discovered.

Lucille Ball famously said: “I’m not funny. I’m brave.” I think Ginger would say the same thing.

She’s also a mare’s mare. She reminds me what it feels like to be a hormonal teenager: out-of-sorts and crampy, making a benign issue a problem because we girls just feel like THERE IS A PROBLEM. THAT THING I JUST SPOTTED MUST BE IT. FIX IT, dang it.

I so get this.

During a recent ride, Ginger decided the wash rack that butts up to the arena was The Problem. There was a hose.  Water was coming out of it.  WATER. Do I understand what she’s saying?!?  WATER at one o’clock!

This is a horse that loves her baths.

We went backward, forward, skittered sideways, bounced up and down, and in general showed our displeasure at having to pass near running water at a speed below Mach 90.  I identify. When hormones are involved, I do NOT back down once I’ve staked out an issue, true or not.

Fairly soon, we’re standing quietly opposite the wash rack, while the water is running, talking to a friend. (We know it’s still going to kill us, but we’re very brave.) We try to focus on the conversation.  Sparrows are flitting in and out of the arena, picking up hair for their nests.  All the horses are shedding.

A bit later, we quietly go to work, and it’s awesome. We are cantering nicely in our least favorite direction when it happens.

Two sparrows come tumbling over each other into the arena, straight at us.  I don’t know if they’re fighting, or it’s spring baby making time.  I feel a wing hit Ginger’s belly. Birds whapping near one’s privates are definitely an allowable meltdown issue.  Ginger pays no attention to the birds. Not even a blip on her radar. We keep cantering.

This is where Chaos Theory comes in.

A plot of the Lorenz attractor for values r = 28, σ = 10, b = 8/3.
Whatever. It’s a butterfly! If they flap their wings in Australia, we WILL have a tsunami in California. Who knew?

The birds should have tumbled out, right?

No. Because we hit a Chaos loop.  Running water scared us, therefore the universe hurled us squalling feathers. Her hooves gathering upward in the canter pushed the rolling ball of birds up and in between her front legs.  I feel them tumbling and richocheting between her legs, their little heads whapping like ping-pong balls.  I feel a wing hit a stirrup, feel the Ball ‘O Birds being gathered back up and into the churning cycle of her front legs. They tumble and flap and toss.

I gauge Ginger, wondering if she is going to go all “Today is a good day to die” on me.

Calm cantering.

Except for the sparrows bouncing and rolling and flapping between her front legs, just another day in paradise.

If I stop her, it’s likely the birds will crash to the ground and get pulverized in the process.  If I don’t, she might notice at some point BIRDS are pinging around between her front legs. My slow thought process takes a couple more canter strides to come up with a solution.  (Hey. How often do birds get caught in our horse’s legs?! It’s not like I’ve had to practice this!)

Down into the trot. Hopefully, that will give the birds time to get out sideways. We trot, the birds shoot out of the spin cycle (they’re fine), and Ginger politely asks to canter again.

As if a downward transition to release frantic, trapped sparrows was a normal part of any workout.

And she thought the hose was the problem?

Note to self: next time I decide THAT THING OVER THERE is the problem, check for sparrows.

Would You Like Some Fries with That?

My entrance into helping at the training barn caused a disturbance in the force.

The former helper was male. The training barn is heavily weighted to mares at the moment. Apparently, they looked forward to their cabana boy.

They were not exactly unhappy with me. Ears swiveled at each other: “It’s not cabana boy! Is this good or bad?”

The geldings response was instant and welcoming: Awesome. Dude, look! It’s a chick! One youngster was oddly gleeful: “Mommy!! Where have you been?!?”  Um. Right here, I guess?

The mares decided to hold a sorority meeting after the barn was closed up for the night.

Girls in a herd are much trickier to navigate than boys.  Ask any high school boy who’s been brave enough to attempt cutting a girl out of the herd. It usually doesn’t go well.

I think about this. It’s never good when one is left out of a sorority meeting.

I was new: I expected to get the horse version of super-glue-to-the-chair, notes passed behind my back, and a blackboard scrawled with derogatory “Teacher is…” phrases when I walked into the barn.

I wasn’t going in blind. The trainer gave me a rough overview of personalities, quirks, and habits.  I was looking forward to one quiet alpha mare in particular.  Barn staff had nominated her as “Least Likely to be Difficult”. Very sweet mare.  Her quirk: she dislikes having her blanket touched. Problematic, since I’ll be taking it off and putting it on at least twice a day.

The next morning, I walked into a barn of unusually docile mares. Sweet faces innocently hang over stall doors. Stupidly, this did not activate either my Mom Mayday Siren or Substitute Teacher Hazard Warning Lights.

Awww… They like me! How cool is that?

I unblanket, groom, bandage and lunge the higher-strung Alphas before the arena is packed.

They were perfectly behaved.

Relaxed, and in the rhythm, I went on to the less-amped alpha and beta mares, leaving Miss Least Likely for last.

Fortunately, beyond The Mare Stare of Death, and slight ear pinning, she’s never acted her feelings out. I remove her blanket under the Death Stare. Try to coax her ears forward. Nada.

Oh well.  We go about grooming and working.

Apparently the Sorority of Mares had a secret nomination and a hazing plan.

Guess which mare drew the short straw?

Returning her to her stall, I quietly pull the blanket over Miss Least Likely’s head, adjust it, and reach under her belly for the strap to fasten her blanket, pleased her ears are momentarily forward.

(I’m making progress! She likes me!)

A flash of movement and a searing pain on my butt instantly told me that while I thought I was cooing this message: “Its safe, you can trust me.” She received this message: “YOU can be the Alpha Mare, I, Jane, am a wimp, please take over.”

You could do a dental ID on this mare by photographing my rear. It’s clear she’s had excellent dental care. Beautiful teeth. Nice and even grip.

Mares 1. Jane 0.

Luckily, she was self-correcting. She had a violent reaction to biting me: assuming (somewhat correctly) I was going to beat her to death, she backed up, reared, and hit her head, looking shocked and startled. She was convinced I’d somehow managed to correct her from afar. I glared at her, to reinforce her mistaken idea I’d actually done the correction. It’s hard to glare when you are mad at yourself for being stupid, not the glare-ee for acting horse-like. But I took one for the team.

Before I shut the stall door behind me, I notice every single mare in he barn is on high alert. Our interchange had been closely monitored. Oh. Good. Miss Least Likely’s huge reaction did me a favor: they all believe I aggressively turned on her and instantly dealt out alpha mare justice.

I’m not about to set them straight. I glare at them too, until they turn away, or put their heads down.

I calm Miss Least Likely by ignoring my throbbing butt, forcing myself to relax, and unnecessarily adjusting her blanket until the tension drains from her body. When she pins her ears, I get in her face. Her ears go forward, relieved. She didn’t really want to be the boss.  She lowers her head and nudges me: I had to. I drew the short straw. Sorry? Do over?

I rub her face.

Do over.

Global Solutions for Positive Directive Implementation

There. That title should satisfy your boss, should they walk by on a Friday, when you are reading doing research at TLH.

You may have seen this already, but I missed it the first time around.  It’s worth muting the ad and looking extremely busy until the video starts. You’ll need the sound on low (or better, ear buds), and a way to keep yourself from laughing out loud.

Drinking beverages past minute 3 are not advised. That’s when “The Riding Instructor” begins to get side-splitting.  I mean, informative.

Disclaimer from your International Response Manager:

do not try this super fun title generator at work if IT tracks which sites you visit. (BS is in website title)

Some People Call Me Maurice…

The Pompatus of Love.

This may or may not horrify you, but I watch TV.  I think of it as an exercise in marital understanding. We’re all different, right? For some of us, TV is entertainment. For others, it’s a tool we use to get through the flu without actually killing ourselves.

Shaun and I baffle each other. How did we ever get married? How has it lasted 16 years?

We stare at each other a lot. And then something unexpected happens.

I don’t understand you, but here: I bought you a horse.

I don’t understand you, but here: I bought you this ugly giant flat screen TV.

We try to bridge the divide.  Occasionally, Shaun volunteers to come to the barn.  Encased in a ton of metal with the doors locked.  What she’s thinking:  ”Why would I want to be outside? In the dirt? With bugs? Is that…poop?  Ewwwwww. Didn’t you come home with a black eye recently?”

Shaun asks me to watch TV with her.  ”Sure!” I say, stuffing my reluctance deep into an old, unused, neuron.

I stare at the TV. I stare at Shaun. What I’m thinking: “Why would I want to see Inside San Quentin? Blech. I also watch, through my fingers, relationship dramas acted out above anesthetized, bloody bodies.  Is that a LIVER? Ewwwwww.”

Enter American Idol: I love all music, Shaun loves all TV reality shows. It should be win-win.

Keith Urban had to screw it up. (Dang it all Keith, you’re my favorite judge.) This week he wore a T-shirt printed with “Some People Call Me Maurice”. I burst out laughing, and giggled every time the camera panned to the judges.

It looked a lot better on Keith. I suspect this is probably true of clothing in general.

(I had to laugh at something. The contestants were instructed to sing a Beatles song. Beatles? Who are the Beatles?) 

“What’s so funny?”, Shaun asks, mystified.

“His shirt!”, I gasp, as disturbing memories, mostly involving a dorm room at UC Berkeley and Alex’s make-up from Clockwork Orange, un-spoll in my brain.

“What does it mean?”, she says.

“Space Cowboy?”, I say.

“Himalayan Dental Assistant?”, she says, trying to figure out this wacko game of bizarre careers.

“The Joker?”, I say, certain this will make my point crystal clear.

“The Green Lantern?” she says, baffled.

Shining the light of truth, justice, and rock music. Also rocking the Abs. Why do superheros get the best abs?

We’re in trouble. We go back to the show.

I Play My Music in the Sun

The next day, I bring up video of The Steve Miller Band on YouTube.  Shaun listens with that look on her face.

“You like this?”, she says, stuffing her incredulity into a vacated synapse.

I’m so busy processing how innocuous this song seems in 2013, (it felt very counter-culture in 1974), that I have to make her repeat her question.

“Well, yeah, don’t you?”, I say.

“Not exactly?”, she says, searching for something that won’t hurt my feelings: “I was more in to Motown.”

I can work with this: I like Motown.

Problem: I also like Metallica. Led Zepplin. Janis Joplin. Bach. Jay-Z. Lady Gaga. Loretta Lynn. Mozart. Brooks and Dunn. Eminem. Itzhak Perlman. Barbara Streisand. The Village People.  (Did I say that last one out loud?)

I”m gay, therefore I’m genetically predisposed to liking the Village People and Abba. I am dance-spastic. But hand me a pink feather boa, and I’m definitely not sitting out Dancing Queen. Even though I should. Really.

Sure Don’t Want to Hurt No One

My dad used to say two things weren’t for sissies:

1. Getting Old
2. Love

Getting Old: I nearly had a heart attack listening to some really GOOD musicians say they’d never heard of the Beatles.  Not for sissies.

Love: I don’t think Dad meant actual love?  Love is easy.  Blammo. Love slams you, whether it’s your wife, husband, kid, or fur family.  It just flattens us. Getting up over and over, that’s the hard part.

I’m pretty sure Dad meant sticking to a relationship in which the other half doesn’t like rock and roll.

THAT is not for sissies.

Happy Birthday Barbie!

This is Daisy’s mare, (and my niece) Barbie,  hopefully in order of age progression. She turned 8 years old on Sunday.

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Barbie is Murphy’s mom, for those just joining us.  She needed to be retired early, but shines on: she is a wonderful mother.  This is a mare you’d want to have a foal by.  She was very strict with Murphy, saving humans a lot of work, which is probably partly why his manners have remained decent into the terrible two’s.

She’s one of my favorite horses of all time.  I just love this horse. Barbie is an eye magnet.  You can’t help but want to watch her.  (Stare, produce cookies, groom, hug, massage, dream….)

Happy Birthday Barbie!