The Aftersmoke

I came to smoking late and I probably won't stop early. I don't think smokers exhale as deeply as they inhale, at least I don't. You get duped by seeing the air you are releasing. But if you bear down and exhale again, you'll see a little more smoke, the stuff that was just hanging around in there. You should get it out.

That's what happened to me today, when I learned that the jousters had given Dar away. It's as if all of me clenched for a second, bore down on my heart. There he was again, lingering in front of me like smoke. Now the path I sometimes still crazy-dream is gone. Will I never forget him?

Who's the Demographic?

The brand new Hyundai Equus. Really? Does it come with tack, or no?

Squeal!

Saxony floated today.

I took a good, good friend to meet her this afternoon. We brought her into the barn for a once over. I picked out her feet and brushed away what little dirt she'd collected. For a horse who is outside as much as she is, unblanketed, munching hay all day and many nights in a large dry lot, she stays remarkably clean.

While I worked on her, she mugged shamelessly for treats from my friend. Someone gave me a bag of Gold Label German Horse Muffins for Christmas, and Saxony has lost her mind over the rich concoction of molasses, oats, sugar, beet pulp and who knows what else packed into the dark, dense muffins.

Though the cold was snapping at us, I decided to put Saxony on the longe line in the riding ring. The footing was packed hard under shallow snow and the ground was level. Saxony was ready to play. I sent her out on the end of the line, letting her set the pace, encouraging her to find her footing. Steps into the trot, she bucked and squealed, reared and twisted. I so wanted to let her go, but the fencing around the ring is too low to be sure of. I wouldn't want her to sail over it in an exuberant moment. 

And that's the word for it. She was exuberant today, snorting and prancing, high-tailing and peanut-rolling. Heading into one of the corners of the square riding ring, she lifted into a floating trot, beautifully rounded, natural and forward. "Wow," I heard from behind me. At first I thought it was an echo; it could have been, because I had thought it myself.

So, squeal. She squealed and I squealed. I realized in that moment how much I've worried about Saxony's diagnosis of arthritis, like it was the end of the world. But there's a horse under there, not just another problem. She was there, floating easily and happily through the bend. I caught myself in the act of making problems where they don't need to be by making them bigger than they are. We aren't destined for the Olympics, we're just destined for each other. I really enjoyed watching her playful antics for the rest of 10 little minutes on the longe line.

Afterward, we loaded her with muffins and turned her out. Leaving, I looked back and blew her a kiss. Somehow it was easy to imagine she returned the gesture.

Horses in Their World

Because I have to practice not rushing, I didn't head straight down into the barn for chores tonight. I stood outside first, surrounded by falling lake-effect snow. Just like Scout.

She was very curious about what I was doing, and kept close by, even though I wanted a distance picture.

She presented her muzzle, adorned with ice crystals.

 

And she took the time to tell Kee-pad to back off.

She has a way of looking at me that often seems to suggest an imperative. The imperative is treats. I broke up a whole two-pound bag of carrots, tossing them across the paddock in pieces, sending the snow ponies off in search of fresh treasure. It took time, and it gave me time.

Cosequin ASU - Our 90-Day Trial Begins

Because Saxony tends to be mouthy in the bit, fretting over and chewing my gentle French-link snaffle, I decided to have Dr. B come and check out her teeth a few weeks ago. Since another vet had done the pre-purchase exam, this was the first meeting between Saxony and Dr. B, who will be her regular vet. We ended up doing a full physical so Dr. B could assess her and create her file. I learned two important things. 

Turns out my nine-year-old mare still has her wolf teeth, which may have some bearing on the mouthiness. She's never resistant to the bit, but never quiet and comfortable with it either. She had been ridden in a fat, rubberized or plastic-covered loose-ring training snaffle before I got her, and the adjustment away from that to my Eggbutt French Link may simply be hard for her. Because she didn't need to have her teeth floated, we elected to wait until February, when she will be due for a float, to extract the wolf teeth under one sedation.

Before I bought Saxony, friends pointed out what they saw as a hitch in her right hind leg. I couldn't see it. I am not skilled at spotting subtle anomalies in the movement of a horse. I can see profound lameness, limping and some signs  of stiffness, but I couldn't see any of these in Saxony. Riding her, I felt nothing except the stiffness inherent in horses who are not regularly being suppled and flexed. The vet who did the pre-purchase exam noted something in her right rear pastern, but was reluctant to rate it even a 1 on the lameness scale, offering instead a point five, if there were such a thing.

In the few months I've had Saxony, I've done very little cantering with her. We cantered during the two rides I had on her before I bought her, and I still shiver at the delight and easiness I felt to be riding her, the joy of feeling unafraid. I've realized since then, though, that Saxony doesn't pick up the left lead. Because she needs a lot of suppling and gymnastic strength-building work to learn to carry herself through her body, our canter work will have to wait for some time, but I did want to know whether there could be a physical reason for her refusal to pick up the left lead. "Refusal" may not even be the right word; it's as if she doesn't know there is such a thing as a left lead.

I moved her out on the longe line for Dr. B. After big circles in both directions and Saxony offering a perfect demonstration of cantering on the wrong lead, Dr. B put her through a soundness exam. She found arthritis in both her right and left hinds, with emphasis on the right. I admit I wilted for a second, felt a sharp pulse of disappointment gulp up in me. Dr. B said, "You'll never do a third-level dressage test with her."

That's okay with me. For this horse's mind, her heart of gold, I will trade a lot. I'm not a dressage rider, not to say as much, anyhow. I just value the principles of classical dressage, realizing how they help horse and rider come together in work and then journey forward as a team safely, kindly, and in balance.

Dr. B gave me a container of powdered Bute, suggesting pain management might help Saxony find the left lead. I'll wait on that until spring. She strongly recommended putting Saxony on Cosequin ASU, which she uses on her own horse. I'm doing it via Smartpak, and we started the loading dose today. 

As someone who was born emotionally and intellectually resistant to hooey in whatever form, be it religion, fad diets, new-age gurus, age-defying moisturizers, swimming with dolphins or any of the million other ways humans find to kid themselves, I've embarked on the Cosequin experiment with great interest. If it doesn't work, has no impact, I'll say so. If, on the other hand, it helps my stiff mare, I'll say that too, and then see if Smartpak will make up a dose regimen for me.

Note to Self: Rushing

That there is a road ahead is certain. Beyond the bend, there's another bend, and beyond that the horizon, always beckoning. I only want not to rush toward it. I have to learn to stop rushing. Because I see the thing and before I know it, I've blown right by, left whiplashed looking back to grab what was there before it's gone. It's rushing that sees me chasing futures I cannot map while forgetting pasts that could have guided me.

Slow the fuck down.

Postscript: Caring Into The Void

I felt compelled to write an e-mail to John Burns, the author of the article in the New York Times, just after I had read it the other day.

"Thank you for your heartbreaking article about the horses  of Ireland. I can't help but wonder what moved you to write it, when there are so many other points of darkness you might have chosen to illuminate with your words."

And yes, Virginia, it seems reporters sometimes care what readers think, even when they happen to be the London Bureau Chief. He wrote back:

"I saw the horses on that hill from a distance, against that twilight sky, and thought that it was a tragic metaphor for all that has gone in Ireland, for the people AND the horses. And, like all the normal, well-adjusted people I know, I am an animal lover, and feel that we humans owe, before God or Providence, a duty to look after them. I thought writing about them was the least I could do. I shall never forget the skewbald nuzzling her nose against my side in the Arctic wind, as if looking to me as the last court of appeal."