The magic truck arrived at 10:45 pm.
For weeks I have heard about the "mystery truck" that would suspiciously pull up to Barb's house late on a random night. What was exchanged between Barb and the driver of the truck was the source of constant speculation and intrigue. We joked about the ridiculous possibilities: Barb had a secret trucker boyfriend that stops by on occassion; she's an underground druglord in Termo (she only says that's alfalfa growing in that field...); and so on and so forth.
Well, the truth was far less sinister than all that. The mysterious truck that pulls in late in the night is the Schwan's man - a frozen food delivery service. He drives around in a truck that is essentially a well-stocked freezer on wheels and has a catalog from which you can order everything from sirloin steaks, to shrimp scampi, to strawberry shortcake ice cream popsicles (all items on my list, by the way). You simply tell him what you want, and he'll go from one door to the next collecting your wished-for items and making your dietary dreams come true. Equating him to the ice cream man would be doing him a disservice. This is the Santa Claus of the food industry.
Mary has been ranting and raving about the "magic truck" for weeks now and I'd be lying if I said she hadn't gotten us all worked up into a bit of a frenzy about his impending arrival. Last week she stole the catalog from Barb and it has been sitting on the coffee table with her list tucked in it since then. It has become increasingly crumpled as day by day each of us flipped through its pages of edible wonder and wrote and rewrote our lists of desired items. Yesterday I seriously spent over an hour calculating the number of days left here, and from that the number of meals left, and wrote my list accordingly. The magic truck is no joking matter.
All today Mary was in a state of anxious excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning before her parents released her to tear into the stack of presents beneath the tree. I think the first thing I heard her say this morning was "Today's the day the magic truck is supposed to come!" and before she left for work at two she took me aside and very seriously said, "If the magic truck comes while I am still at work I want you to get these things for me," and she handed me a list and some cash. With the degree of gravity in her voice, I felt as though she had just placed her first-born child in my hands.
Alas, the Schwan's man had not yet come when Mary got home from work at 10 pm, and thank goodness because the pressure I felt to get her order completely and correctly was no light burden - I think all her future happiness rested on this evening's success. She burst wide-eyed into the house and the first words out of her mouth were, "Has the magic truck come yet?!" I told her no, and from that moment on she was standing at the window with her hands clasped together, watching the road and commenting every few moments:
"Barb said she thought he had come last week, but she must not haev seen the note that he'll be here today."
"What day is it? The 28th? Yes, that's right, he's coming tonight."
"He'd better not be out of my ice cream. We're the last stop on his route, you know. Sometimes people hog all the good stuff so he's out of some thigns by the time he gets here. Don't worry though, I'm sure he'll be well stocked."
Claudia and I sat on the couch just watching her and laughing at how excited and nervous she was about his arrival. Her enthusiasm was such that when Barb finally walked over and said, "The Schwan's guy is coming, he's turning down the driveway as we speak," even I felt my heart skip a beat. The magic truck was here!!
And what a magic truck it was. It was stocked with every kind of food anyone could ever want and the thing was lined with lights like a ride at a carnival. Mary stood grinning and eager with her list and money held out in front of her like a child who was next in line with a ticket to ride the Scrambler. She chatted giddily and incessantly to the man about how wonderful the magic truck was and how we'd been talking about it for weeks. Claudia and I stood back and were dying of laughter behind the catalogs we were holding in front of our faces. The hilarity of the situation was almost too much to bear - here we were, at 11 o'clock at night in the middle of absolutely nowhere, standing next to a carnival-esque truck stocked with food, making small talk with the driver about where we were from and how long we were staying, while Mary chattered on about every single thing that came into her head, and one by one we each collected our bags full of goodies and scampered back inside to see how we would make it all fit into our freezer.
It was truly a memorable moment, and I'll be sure to think on it every day for the next few weeks as I eat my 24 strawberry shortcake bars, 12 cream cheese stuffed graham cracker coverd soft pretzels, bourbon grilled steaks, shrimp scampi, broccoli and cheese filled chicken breasts, and fire-grilled vegetable medley mix. Magic truck indeed.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
life goes on
When the old mare died, she left behind a piece of herself in her two young foals - and what spirit they possess! The female foal she rejected was adopted by another mare, and Barb said she saw her the other day pushing her way through a crowd of adult mustangs, determined to get herself a drink out of the water tank.
As for the orphaned boy foal, we paired him up with one of our domestics, Jelly, who has wanted a baby for some time now. Each time a new baby was born at the sanctuary she'd hang around it, staring longingly as thought she wished it was her own. When we finally united the orphan and Jelly, she was obviously nervous, but quickly warmed to him and let all the other horses know that this baby was hers.
The two twins are now doing fantastically - the little girl out with the mustang herd out on the 800 acres, and the boy in the barn with Jelly and the domestics. Both have fireball personalities and not the slightest fear of people. We've named them (appropriately I think) Rocky and Adrian; Two healthy, spunky little fighters that do their mother great justice as continuations of the spirited life she passed on to them.
As for the orphaned boy foal, we paired him up with one of our domestics, Jelly, who has wanted a baby for some time now. Each time a new baby was born at the sanctuary she'd hang around it, staring longingly as thought she wished it was her own. When we finally united the orphan and Jelly, she was obviously nervous, but quickly warmed to him and let all the other horses know that this baby was hers.
The two twins are now doing fantastically - the little girl out with the mustang herd out on the 800 acres, and the boy in the barn with Jelly and the domestics. Both have fireball personalities and not the slightest fear of people. We've named them (appropriately I think) Rocky and Adrian; Two healthy, spunky little fighters that do their mother great justice as continuations of the spirited life she passed on to them.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
apologies to those with weak stomachs
Two in the same week.
Yesterday we noticed that there were suddenly two newborn foals out in the mustang pasture, one with a mare that we had thought might be pregnant, but ultimately decided wasn't since she'd not yet given birth, and the other with a mare that had foaled only a couple months ago. After a great deal of speculation and bewilderment, I suggested maybe the one mare had given birth to twins and rejected the one which was then taken in by the other mare. It was agreed that, though extremely rare, this was the most logical explanation, and it was accepted as the ruling theory.
My theory was further validated the next day when the mare that we guessed had birthed the twins started looking very unwell. It was later in the evening before Barbara and I realized it, but as we went to feed we noticed she no longer had a baby with her. We then saw it had been taken away by a "baby stealer," another mare that had no foal and, unfortunately, also had no milk for the baby to drink. We managed to get the real mother into a catch pen, and it was then that we noticed her feet were dragging and she was stumbling as though simply standing was an unbearable struggle. While we were feeding, the mother laid down and didn't get up. We knew that was a very bad sign. We also knew that if we didn't get that baby away from the baby stealer and back to its mother so it could nurse, we'd risk losing it too. After feeding, we managed to get the baby stealer and the baby in with the mom and we eventually got the baby stealer out, leaving the baby to nurse with its mother. Before long though, she collapsed again.
Barb said she doubted the mare would make it through the night and she went up to get some medicine (morphine for horses) for her. She asked if I wanted to go, but I opted to stay with the mare. She was obviously in tremendous pain and was terrified, so I thought if I could stay and simply stroke her face and nose while she lay there it would at least be some other kind of sensation that might to some slight degree distract from the immense pain she felt. It was well after 9 pm by this time, the sun was completely set, and after Barb left all was silent except for the mare's loud, unnatural breathing. I was all alone in the dark with just the mare and her foal, and as I sat in the dirt next to where she lay her head, stroking her face rhythmically and telling her everything would be ok and that all the pain would be over soon, I thought the sound of my voice might help calm her and further distract her from the hurt.
I tried to think of a song to sing. I rarely sing aloud, and never do in front of other people unless it's along to the tune of the radio, but here in the vast silence where my only audience was the mustang herd, the desire felt natural. Besides, even if they thought my voice was terrible, I at least knew I needn't worry about them telling anybody about it. So I racked my brain for a song and, of course, when I tried to think of a mellow song to sing I drew a blank. After a few minutes I came up with one to which I at least knew the chorus and some of the first verse. I thought of the way my mom used to sing to my brother and I when we were young, and I tried to mimc her tone, singing to the mare low and soft, humming when I didn't know the words, barely brushing her face with my fingertips, and searching her frenzied eyes for some indicator that my attempts might be bringing her the slightest relief. I could find find none, but continued nonetheless, perhaps as much for my sake as hers so I could reassure myself that I at least tried to ease her pain. Barb eventually returned with the medicine, and after injecting her with a large dose and waiting fifteen minutes for the drugs to take their effect, we retired for the night. It was 10:30 pm and I silently hoped that she would be gone when I woke in the morning.
At 8 am the next day I stepped outside and my heart sank. She was standing in her pen, still with us, and I felt awful. I felt I lied to her the night before by telling her the pain would be over soon. She lasted the rest of the day, and that evening when Adam and I got back with the first load of hay to feed, we saw Claudia waving us down from the mare's pen. When I saw her I thought she was already dead. She was laying on her back and her legs were all tangled in the pipe panels that made up one side of the pen. Unfortunately she was not yet gone, but was clearly in her final, tortured moments. Claudia said something was coming out of her back end, possibly organs or the placenta of yet another baby horse. I felt my teeth grit together and my jaw tighten with the realization of what it probably was. Barb had said that giving birth to these two had most likely torn up the mare inside and she was probably bleeding internally. I feared that what we saw was in fact the remains of her uterine wall. Barb was gone, so I left Adam and Claudiato watch the mare and keep the foal away from her, and I ran up to make some formula for the baby and call Barb. She said she was on her way back, so after grabbing cell phones and making sure Claudia was alright, Adam and I ran out to the hay barn to get the second load for the evening's feed. By the time we got back Barb was there with Claudia who was clutching the foal, and and the mare had passed.
Barb told me that I was right in thinking it was likely her destroyed uterus that we saw coming out. I watched Adam and Claudia tow her down the same path to the bone yard they had taken Annie down only four days before. Claudia told me later that evening before she went in her room to sleep that I should be glad I wasn't there for her last moments. She said she'd never seen anything like it - the mare's tongue had been hanging out and she'd been flailing about in a frenzy. Claudia said it was an image that would be sure to haunt her forever. I thought back on the ends of the two old horses we lost this week - one leaving peacefully without pain, the other after days of suffering - and I marveled at the unfairness of life.
Yesterday we noticed that there were suddenly two newborn foals out in the mustang pasture, one with a mare that we had thought might be pregnant, but ultimately decided wasn't since she'd not yet given birth, and the other with a mare that had foaled only a couple months ago. After a great deal of speculation and bewilderment, I suggested maybe the one mare had given birth to twins and rejected the one which was then taken in by the other mare. It was agreed that, though extremely rare, this was the most logical explanation, and it was accepted as the ruling theory.
My theory was further validated the next day when the mare that we guessed had birthed the twins started looking very unwell. It was later in the evening before Barbara and I realized it, but as we went to feed we noticed she no longer had a baby with her. We then saw it had been taken away by a "baby stealer," another mare that had no foal and, unfortunately, also had no milk for the baby to drink. We managed to get the real mother into a catch pen, and it was then that we noticed her feet were dragging and she was stumbling as though simply standing was an unbearable struggle. While we were feeding, the mother laid down and didn't get up. We knew that was a very bad sign. We also knew that if we didn't get that baby away from the baby stealer and back to its mother so it could nurse, we'd risk losing it too. After feeding, we managed to get the baby stealer and the baby in with the mom and we eventually got the baby stealer out, leaving the baby to nurse with its mother. Before long though, she collapsed again.
Barb said she doubted the mare would make it through the night and she went up to get some medicine (morphine for horses) for her. She asked if I wanted to go, but I opted to stay with the mare. She was obviously in tremendous pain and was terrified, so I thought if I could stay and simply stroke her face and nose while she lay there it would at least be some other kind of sensation that might to some slight degree distract from the immense pain she felt. It was well after 9 pm by this time, the sun was completely set, and after Barb left all was silent except for the mare's loud, unnatural breathing. I was all alone in the dark with just the mare and her foal, and as I sat in the dirt next to where she lay her head, stroking her face rhythmically and telling her everything would be ok and that all the pain would be over soon, I thought the sound of my voice might help calm her and further distract her from the hurt.
I tried to think of a song to sing. I rarely sing aloud, and never do in front of other people unless it's along to the tune of the radio, but here in the vast silence where my only audience was the mustang herd, the desire felt natural. Besides, even if they thought my voice was terrible, I at least knew I needn't worry about them telling anybody about it. So I racked my brain for a song and, of course, when I tried to think of a mellow song to sing I drew a blank. After a few minutes I came up with one to which I at least knew the chorus and some of the first verse. I thought of the way my mom used to sing to my brother and I when we were young, and I tried to mimc her tone, singing to the mare low and soft, humming when I didn't know the words, barely brushing her face with my fingertips, and searching her frenzied eyes for some indicator that my attempts might be bringing her the slightest relief. I could find find none, but continued nonetheless, perhaps as much for my sake as hers so I could reassure myself that I at least tried to ease her pain. Barb eventually returned with the medicine, and after injecting her with a large dose and waiting fifteen minutes for the drugs to take their effect, we retired for the night. It was 10:30 pm and I silently hoped that she would be gone when I woke in the morning.
At 8 am the next day I stepped outside and my heart sank. She was standing in her pen, still with us, and I felt awful. I felt I lied to her the night before by telling her the pain would be over soon. She lasted the rest of the day, and that evening when Adam and I got back with the first load of hay to feed, we saw Claudia waving us down from the mare's pen. When I saw her I thought she was already dead. She was laying on her back and her legs were all tangled in the pipe panels that made up one side of the pen. Unfortunately she was not yet gone, but was clearly in her final, tortured moments. Claudia said something was coming out of her back end, possibly organs or the placenta of yet another baby horse. I felt my teeth grit together and my jaw tighten with the realization of what it probably was. Barb had said that giving birth to these two had most likely torn up the mare inside and she was probably bleeding internally. I feared that what we saw was in fact the remains of her uterine wall. Barb was gone, so I left Adam and Claudiato watch the mare and keep the foal away from her, and I ran up to make some formula for the baby and call Barb. She said she was on her way back, so after grabbing cell phones and making sure Claudia was alright, Adam and I ran out to the hay barn to get the second load for the evening's feed. By the time we got back Barb was there with Claudia who was clutching the foal, and and the mare had passed.
Barb told me that I was right in thinking it was likely her destroyed uterus that we saw coming out. I watched Adam and Claudia tow her down the same path to the bone yard they had taken Annie down only four days before. Claudia told me later that evening before she went in her room to sleep that I should be glad I wasn't there for her last moments. She said she'd never seen anything like it - the mare's tongue had been hanging out and she'd been flailing about in a frenzy. Claudia said it was an image that would be sure to haunt her forever. I thought back on the ends of the two old horses we lost this week - one leaving peacefully without pain, the other after days of suffering - and I marveled at the unfairness of life.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Annie
I should have known better to write an entry about death and be brave enough to state that we had not lost any horses since I’d been here.
On Tuesday, Barbara decided it was time to put Annie to sleep. The vet was coming to x-ray Emily’s hoof, and Barbara felt that she had delayed the inevitable long enough. Annie, a thoroughbred, one of our older horses at nearly 30, has been suffering from laminitis. It took some time before I really understood what it is, but at its most basic level it is a condition where the bone in the hoof rotates and begins pushing through the bottom of the hoof. It causes lameness in the horse, but more significantly, it is extremely painful and there is no cure. Laminitis is what caused Barbaro to have to be put down – the feet are just so crucial to the operation of all a horse’s basic functions that if something goes horribly wrong in the hoof, the options are apparently very limited. Annie had been operating for months now on high doses of crushed Bute tablets (painkillers), and apparently if laminitis didn’t kill her the Bute eventually would as it deteriorates the liver over time. So to put an end to her suffering, Barbara told the vet to plan on putting Annie to sleep when he came.
The evening before was a somber one. I was the one feeding the seniors that night and Claudia made mention that I could feel free to spoil Annie, giving her extra senior, some grains, and all the alfalfa she wanted. After feeding everyone, and giving Annie extras of all the good stuff, I’d found that I finished ahead of Adam and Claudia who were on hay duty. I stood outside Annie’s stall for a bit, resting my head and hands on the bars, and just watched the gentle old lady eat and I wondered if she had any idea what the next morning was to bring. I tried to think what I could do as a final gesture of appreciation for her. I knew that Annie was one of Claudia’s favorites and that Claudia was planning on coming down later in the evening to feed her carrots and groom her, so I wanted to do her some other kind of service. I decided that I would clean her stall for her. I went and got a rake, and another flake of alfalfa since she was finishing the first one, and I began to meticulously rake out her corral. It was not a lot, but I thought that at the very least she deserved to spend her last moments comfortably, and if when euthanized she should fall, she had the right to lay dignified in a clean space. After spending close to an hour scraping out every corner, and re-raking the areas where she had messed, I put up my rake and went to her. Claudia had told me that she loved to have her neck scratched, so I took this advice and did my best to give her the best neck rub she’d ever had. Mary had come down to the barn and started laughing as she watched me because Annie not only stopped eating to enjoy the treatment, but she stretched her neck out, let her eyes close, and she curled her lip in euphoria. When I finished, my nails were blackened with horse grime, and I felt contented to know that I did what I felt I could to make her final hours good ones. I stroked her mane and kissed the side of her face and bid her goodnight. After dinner I stepped out on our back deck and gazed down the hill to her stall and saw her eating her hay peacefully and content.
Tuesday was my off-day, but since the vet was to arrive at 8:30 am I was up early. I felt I owed it to Annie to be there, and I also felt it was something that I needed to experience. The vet first x-rayed Emily’s ankle (and it turned out the problem was just an abscess, not a fracture thank goodness), and when he was packing up and Emily was taken back down, I walked down to Annie’s stall. Again I propped my foot on the bottom rung and laid my arms and chin on the top and just looked at her as if concentrating extra hard on her in her last moments could really solidify her in my mind and might be able to communicate to her a level of concern that couldn’t be vocalized in another way.
The vet came down and, as this was the first time Adam, Claudia, and I were to experience a horse being put down, he explained the process. Holding a huge syringe filled with translucent pink fluid in his hand, he told us that it essentially shuts down her system starting with her brain. He said the only pain she would feel was the prick of the needle and that after a few moments she would collapse, but that before she even fell her mind would already be gone. He said that though she would feel nothing, he liked to try to keep the horses’ heads from hitting the ground when they fell and he would try to do the same for Annie. I stood close between Claudia and Mary as we all leaned on the corral gate, watching while Barb put a harness on the unsuspecting Annie. Barb stroked her and talked to her calmly as the vet stuck the syringe in her neck. I watched the pink liquid drain out of the needle, and then he removed it and he and Barbara stepped back.
Until that moment I’d held myself together. But those ten seconds after the injection, when she stood by herself as the euthanasia took her over, and she looked at each of us in turn with her gentle stare, I couldn’t help feeling horrible that she was alone in her final seconds – without fingers in her mane or a hand on her neck, simply standing there unaccompanied, possibly confused by the changes she felt in her body, while the rest of us stood around like an audience, waiting expectantly for the end she didn’t know was coming. Then she fell. Claudia and I were sniffling and I felt glad that we each had our sunglasses on so we could both fake a degree of strength that we didn’t really have. I knew I had tears cascading out below the frames of my glasses, but I felt a little more protected knowing that my eyes themselves were hidden. Mary took my arm.
A few minutes later, after Annie’s diaphragm released and her body had taken its final reflexive breaths, the vet checked her heart and told us she was gone. I then helped Claudia and Barbara take the harness off of her, and I lifted her back legs as they attached the rope around her hips so to pull her to the bone yard. After her body was securely connected, I stroked her face one more time, and then they took her. I watched as her body was towed away and the other horses turned to see her pass. I walked back up to the house thinking I might cry again. For whatever reason, I didn’t.
On Tuesday, Barbara decided it was time to put Annie to sleep. The vet was coming to x-ray Emily’s hoof, and Barbara felt that she had delayed the inevitable long enough. Annie, a thoroughbred, one of our older horses at nearly 30, has been suffering from laminitis. It took some time before I really understood what it is, but at its most basic level it is a condition where the bone in the hoof rotates and begins pushing through the bottom of the hoof. It causes lameness in the horse, but more significantly, it is extremely painful and there is no cure. Laminitis is what caused Barbaro to have to be put down – the feet are just so crucial to the operation of all a horse’s basic functions that if something goes horribly wrong in the hoof, the options are apparently very limited. Annie had been operating for months now on high doses of crushed Bute tablets (painkillers), and apparently if laminitis didn’t kill her the Bute eventually would as it deteriorates the liver over time. So to put an end to her suffering, Barbara told the vet to plan on putting Annie to sleep when he came.
The evening before was a somber one. I was the one feeding the seniors that night and Claudia made mention that I could feel free to spoil Annie, giving her extra senior, some grains, and all the alfalfa she wanted. After feeding everyone, and giving Annie extras of all the good stuff, I’d found that I finished ahead of Adam and Claudia who were on hay duty. I stood outside Annie’s stall for a bit, resting my head and hands on the bars, and just watched the gentle old lady eat and I wondered if she had any idea what the next morning was to bring. I tried to think what I could do as a final gesture of appreciation for her. I knew that Annie was one of Claudia’s favorites and that Claudia was planning on coming down later in the evening to feed her carrots and groom her, so I wanted to do her some other kind of service. I decided that I would clean her stall for her. I went and got a rake, and another flake of alfalfa since she was finishing the first one, and I began to meticulously rake out her corral. It was not a lot, but I thought that at the very least she deserved to spend her last moments comfortably, and if when euthanized she should fall, she had the right to lay dignified in a clean space. After spending close to an hour scraping out every corner, and re-raking the areas where she had messed, I put up my rake and went to her. Claudia had told me that she loved to have her neck scratched, so I took this advice and did my best to give her the best neck rub she’d ever had. Mary had come down to the barn and started laughing as she watched me because Annie not only stopped eating to enjoy the treatment, but she stretched her neck out, let her eyes close, and she curled her lip in euphoria. When I finished, my nails were blackened with horse grime, and I felt contented to know that I did what I felt I could to make her final hours good ones. I stroked her mane and kissed the side of her face and bid her goodnight. After dinner I stepped out on our back deck and gazed down the hill to her stall and saw her eating her hay peacefully and content.
Tuesday was my off-day, but since the vet was to arrive at 8:30 am I was up early. I felt I owed it to Annie to be there, and I also felt it was something that I needed to experience. The vet first x-rayed Emily’s ankle (and it turned out the problem was just an abscess, not a fracture thank goodness), and when he was packing up and Emily was taken back down, I walked down to Annie’s stall. Again I propped my foot on the bottom rung and laid my arms and chin on the top and just looked at her as if concentrating extra hard on her in her last moments could really solidify her in my mind and might be able to communicate to her a level of concern that couldn’t be vocalized in another way.
The vet came down and, as this was the first time Adam, Claudia, and I were to experience a horse being put down, he explained the process. Holding a huge syringe filled with translucent pink fluid in his hand, he told us that it essentially shuts down her system starting with her brain. He said the only pain she would feel was the prick of the needle and that after a few moments she would collapse, but that before she even fell her mind would already be gone. He said that though she would feel nothing, he liked to try to keep the horses’ heads from hitting the ground when they fell and he would try to do the same for Annie. I stood close between Claudia and Mary as we all leaned on the corral gate, watching while Barb put a harness on the unsuspecting Annie. Barb stroked her and talked to her calmly as the vet stuck the syringe in her neck. I watched the pink liquid drain out of the needle, and then he removed it and he and Barbara stepped back.
Until that moment I’d held myself together. But those ten seconds after the injection, when she stood by herself as the euthanasia took her over, and she looked at each of us in turn with her gentle stare, I couldn’t help feeling horrible that she was alone in her final seconds – without fingers in her mane or a hand on her neck, simply standing there unaccompanied, possibly confused by the changes she felt in her body, while the rest of us stood around like an audience, waiting expectantly for the end she didn’t know was coming. Then she fell. Claudia and I were sniffling and I felt glad that we each had our sunglasses on so we could both fake a degree of strength that we didn’t really have. I knew I had tears cascading out below the frames of my glasses, but I felt a little more protected knowing that my eyes themselves were hidden. Mary took my arm.
A few minutes later, after Annie’s diaphragm released and her body had taken its final reflexive breaths, the vet checked her heart and told us she was gone. I then helped Claudia and Barbara take the harness off of her, and I lifted her back legs as they attached the rope around her hips so to pull her to the bone yard. After her body was securely connected, I stroked her face one more time, and then they took her. I watched as her body was towed away and the other horses turned to see her pass. I walked back up to the house thinking I might cry again. For whatever reason, I didn’t.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Can I take him home and love him forever?
It took close to a month, but I've finally found a favorite. Joel is, I believe, the most comical horse on the ranch. He is a vividly red saddlebred that gets special treatment because no matter what we do we can't get the damn fellow to put on weight. Most horses get hay once daily, and the old or skinny ones will get two scoops of senior once or twice a day depending on the need. Joel gets three scoops of senior three times a day plus a dollop of corn oil with each serving. Were he a person I think we'd be one step away from intravenous feeding.
Joel's unusual appearance is accentuated by his other amusing features: an extraordinarily long neck that makes him tower above the other shorter and fatter horses, and an abnormally wide white strip down his muzzle that makes it appear as though he has a very large nose. Joel also has what I call "Disney eyes," large, dewy, doe-eyes that make your teeth ache from sweetness just by looking at him. When analyzing Joel from the side he still looks adorable, but it is when he's staring at me head on from across the ranch that his super-thin, gangly, big-nosed, Disney-eyed self just makes me grin.
Beyond the quirkiness of his physical appearance, the challenge of his personality draws me. Joel is what many would label "skittish." Some here might call that a bit of an understatement. Basically, he's afraid of everything and everyone. He also seems to fear being caged, exhibited by the "twinkle toes" dance he does at the front of the pen when he's done eating and wants to be released to dart across the ranch to the safety of his rather rotund horse girlfriend, Bonita. I asked Barbara if she knew Joel's story. She told me he was a show horse and that with saddlebreds it isn't uncommon for trainers to use cruel methods to get them to develop a high-stepping trot, including tying weights to their legs and utilizing pain-inducing mechanisms to get desired results. Joel was a victim of this kind of torture and as a result trusts no one and jumps at the slightests noise or movement - fearing it all might be the revivial of one of the nightmares of his past.
I think it is the difficulty of winning his affection and trust that makes finally befriending him all the more rewarding. He and I have reached the point where if I call to him he will walk over. He follows me with less and less hesitation into a pen, trusting that I will not be serving up devices of torture, but bowlfuls of food. If I walk slowly up to him I can pet his face and even hug his neck. He has let me groom him - both inside and outside of the pen. Having been here a month and being able to see the drastic progress I've made in befriending a damaged and difficult horse is absolutely wonderful, and I'm reminded of that each time I catch his goofy profile peering at me, as he wonders when his next helping of fattening-up food will be.
Joel's unusual appearance is accentuated by his other amusing features: an extraordinarily long neck that makes him tower above the other shorter and fatter horses, and an abnormally wide white strip down his muzzle that makes it appear as though he has a very large nose. Joel also has what I call "Disney eyes," large, dewy, doe-eyes that make your teeth ache from sweetness just by looking at him. When analyzing Joel from the side he still looks adorable, but it is when he's staring at me head on from across the ranch that his super-thin, gangly, big-nosed, Disney-eyed self just makes me grin.
Beyond the quirkiness of his physical appearance, the challenge of his personality draws me. Joel is what many would label "skittish." Some here might call that a bit of an understatement. Basically, he's afraid of everything and everyone. He also seems to fear being caged, exhibited by the "twinkle toes" dance he does at the front of the pen when he's done eating and wants to be released to dart across the ranch to the safety of his rather rotund horse girlfriend, Bonita. I asked Barbara if she knew Joel's story. She told me he was a show horse and that with saddlebreds it isn't uncommon for trainers to use cruel methods to get them to develop a high-stepping trot, including tying weights to their legs and utilizing pain-inducing mechanisms to get desired results. Joel was a victim of this kind of torture and as a result trusts no one and jumps at the slightests noise or movement - fearing it all might be the revivial of one of the nightmares of his past.
I think it is the difficulty of winning his affection and trust that makes finally befriending him all the more rewarding. He and I have reached the point where if I call to him he will walk over. He follows me with less and less hesitation into a pen, trusting that I will not be serving up devices of torture, but bowlfuls of food. If I walk slowly up to him I can pet his face and even hug his neck. He has let me groom him - both inside and outside of the pen. Having been here a month and being able to see the drastic progress I've made in befriending a damaged and difficult horse is absolutely wonderful, and I'm reminded of that each time I catch his goofy profile peering at me, as he wonders when his next helping of fattening-up food will be.
Monday, June 18, 2007
the inevitable
I've had one pleasant day after another for over a month, therefore my streak was bound to end. Not even in paradise could a person escape the inevitable bad day. They happen to the best of us. Today was mine.
I woke up this morning to find that I had started peeling from the "not too bad" sunburn that I got while hiking around on my day off last week. Stumbling into the bathroom to better assess the situation, I saw in the mirror what looked like a person who suffered from leprosy. I realized it would most likely take me the rest of the summer to undo the damage of losing those several layers of skin to four hours of California sun. Awesome.
Just before lunch I got an uppercut to the chin by the muzzle of a horse who suddenly wanted to be where my face was. The teeth on inner lip contact that resulted ended with the loss of a little bit of said inner lip. No big trauma, but I feel confident in assuming most people prefer to keep all pieces of their body parts attached and functioning, and they may get rather cross when a chunk or two goes missing.
Post-lunch I had horse conflict number two where I came between a one-eyed horse and her meal bucket. An accidental headbutt resulted. The horse obviously was not phased. I was merely startled and wondered what sort of new alignment my jaw had just taken.
Late this afternoon I had the good fortune to witness chaos ensue from my first real mistake on the job since my arrival. I had shut and slid closed the handle on the gate to the colts' pen, but apparently neglected to flip (or else flipped but not locked) the latch that keeps smarty-pants horses from sliding the lever over and opening the gate to the pen. My mistake was made aware to me by Barbara hollering to us across the ranch that horses were out. From where I was I could see the colts were the escapees. Twenty-plus pubescent, not yet "fixed" colts wrecking havoc freely among 100 other, mostly female, horses. Suuuuuuuper. Gold star for me.
Once the horses had been returned to their proper locales, and everyone was fed and happy, I quickly retired for the evening. It was one of those days where I realized the sooner I got myself quarantined, the less likely I'd be to cause myself any further damage. Thus, I called it a night and took a warm shower, trying to rinse the day away. Afterwards, thinking I'd escaped the day with a sore jaw, a swollen lip, a bruised ego, and a suit of skin that looked as though it had been exposed to nuclear radiation, I went to retrieve a spoonful of some much needed cookie dough ice cream. In doing so I smashed my thumb between the refrigerator and freezer door.
What a day.
I woke up this morning to find that I had started peeling from the "not too bad" sunburn that I got while hiking around on my day off last week. Stumbling into the bathroom to better assess the situation, I saw in the mirror what looked like a person who suffered from leprosy. I realized it would most likely take me the rest of the summer to undo the damage of losing those several layers of skin to four hours of California sun. Awesome.
Just before lunch I got an uppercut to the chin by the muzzle of a horse who suddenly wanted to be where my face was. The teeth on inner lip contact that resulted ended with the loss of a little bit of said inner lip. No big trauma, but I feel confident in assuming most people prefer to keep all pieces of their body parts attached and functioning, and they may get rather cross when a chunk or two goes missing.
Post-lunch I had horse conflict number two where I came between a one-eyed horse and her meal bucket. An accidental headbutt resulted. The horse obviously was not phased. I was merely startled and wondered what sort of new alignment my jaw had just taken.
Late this afternoon I had the good fortune to witness chaos ensue from my first real mistake on the job since my arrival. I had shut and slid closed the handle on the gate to the colts' pen, but apparently neglected to flip (or else flipped but not locked) the latch that keeps smarty-pants horses from sliding the lever over and opening the gate to the pen. My mistake was made aware to me by Barbara hollering to us across the ranch that horses were out. From where I was I could see the colts were the escapees. Twenty-plus pubescent, not yet "fixed" colts wrecking havoc freely among 100 other, mostly female, horses. Suuuuuuuper. Gold star for me.
Once the horses had been returned to their proper locales, and everyone was fed and happy, I quickly retired for the evening. It was one of those days where I realized the sooner I got myself quarantined, the less likely I'd be to cause myself any further damage. Thus, I called it a night and took a warm shower, trying to rinse the day away. Afterwards, thinking I'd escaped the day with a sore jaw, a swollen lip, a bruised ego, and a suit of skin that looked as though it had been exposed to nuclear radiation, I went to retrieve a spoonful of some much needed cookie dough ice cream. In doing so I smashed my thumb between the refrigerator and freezer door.
What a day.
Friday, June 15, 2007
"Hi! I'm Carolyn of Planet Middle Class! From where do you hail?"
(I retell this story at Barbara's request that I put it in writing.)
"Guess how much I got this for!"
Elena (the new intern that arrived the evening before) showed off the small black messenger bag on her shoulder as we waited in the grocery checkout. "It's real Prada." Sure enough, the small silver insignia sewed on the flap of the bag reflected at me as if determined to set itself apart, to not be lumped together with its essentially identical Walmart or Old Navy-produced counterparts. Elena gave me a hint. "I got it at a consignment shop!" I mentally formulated my guess:
Ok...Prada. I can do this. Just have to make sure I don't guess too low. I always ruin the storyteller's joy that way. Let's see...the most expensive brands I've ever come in contact with are Coach and Burberry. Though I've never actually owned anything by either of them, I'm fairly certain a small purse could cost around $150...and I bet Prada stuff runs at least twice that...so if she got it at a consignment shop maybe she spent...
"Fifty dollars?"
Elena pouted. Damn it. Too low. "Well, at (insert name of some store I've never heard of) it runs at five-ninety-five, but at the shop I got it ritzy women sell their designer stuff for cheap and they get a percentage so I go there somtimes and..."
I was confused and had to cut in. "Five-ninety-five? Five hundred and ninety-five dollars!?"
She in return looked confused. "Well yeah, it's Prada! You know, like Gucci?" Apparently I did not know. I had thought maybe I had, but I was mistaken. "Anyway, it's originally five-ninety-five, but at the consignment shop I got it for just one-seventy-five!!"
One hundred and seventy-five dollars for what was essentially an Old Navy bag with a shiny badge.
"Wow, that is a deal then..." I was dumbfounded. For the first time in quite a while I realized I had just entered a world in which I had absolutely no bearings whatsoever. As the cashier scanned my groceries, I took my wallet from my purse and remembered how I had agonized over whether to buy it or not. I wasn't sure I could justify spending $40 on a bag.
"Guess how much I got this for!"
Elena (the new intern that arrived the evening before) showed off the small black messenger bag on her shoulder as we waited in the grocery checkout. "It's real Prada." Sure enough, the small silver insignia sewed on the flap of the bag reflected at me as if determined to set itself apart, to not be lumped together with its essentially identical Walmart or Old Navy-produced counterparts. Elena gave me a hint. "I got it at a consignment shop!" I mentally formulated my guess:
Ok...Prada. I can do this. Just have to make sure I don't guess too low. I always ruin the storyteller's joy that way. Let's see...the most expensive brands I've ever come in contact with are Coach and Burberry. Though I've never actually owned anything by either of them, I'm fairly certain a small purse could cost around $150...and I bet Prada stuff runs at least twice that...so if she got it at a consignment shop maybe she spent...
"Fifty dollars?"
Elena pouted. Damn it. Too low. "Well, at (insert name of some store I've never heard of) it runs at five-ninety-five, but at the shop I got it ritzy women sell their designer stuff for cheap and they get a percentage so I go there somtimes and..."
I was confused and had to cut in. "Five-ninety-five? Five hundred and ninety-five dollars!?"
She in return looked confused. "Well yeah, it's Prada! You know, like Gucci?" Apparently I did not know. I had thought maybe I had, but I was mistaken. "Anyway, it's originally five-ninety-five, but at the consignment shop I got it for just one-seventy-five!!"
One hundred and seventy-five dollars for what was essentially an Old Navy bag with a shiny badge.
"Wow, that is a deal then..." I was dumbfounded. For the first time in quite a while I realized I had just entered a world in which I had absolutely no bearings whatsoever. As the cashier scanned my groceries, I took my wallet from my purse and remembered how I had agonized over whether to buy it or not. I wasn't sure I could justify spending $40 on a bag.
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