Always Look a Gift Horse in the Feet

Last November, a friend called to ask if I wanted a filly.  My friend Heather has been breeding horses for a number of years.  She was well-aware that I have always admired her horses. They are athletic, versatile, and intelligent but nearly extinct Cheval Canadiens, better known as Canadian Horses.  I love this breed! They are the national breed of Canada -- sometimes called Little Iron Horses.  It is an ancient french baroque breed originally sent to Canada by Louis Quatorze (King Louis the XIV).  They jump like deer, are calm, well-rounded (I have cut cattle on them), and are generally sweet-natured. They are hardy, short-coupled easy keepers with great bone, and, most importantly, fantastic hard, strong feet -- something with which I have grown very unfamiliar in the last few years.

Don't Throw Out That Sock!

                         

Last week’s horse trials were sunny and beautiful. A soft fall day, with sparkling water reflecting fluffy white clouds in a dazzlingly azure sky.  Only one layer of polar fleece outer ware was necessary, unzipped of course.  What joy - sitting in a chair, chatting with friends as they passed while walking the course - shooting away while gleaming horses swept by for hours?  It was the kind of weekend that reminds you just why you started loving this sport.

This weekend, however, I attended the last horse trials of the year. To be clear, it wasn’t the last horse trials of the year, just my year. The sky was grey, the sleet was flying, the horses’ coats were either dull from winter wool, or clipped.  No shiny, glossy bodies flying around this day.

Three Good Legs

                                                            
    My resident Stable Boy calls my horse Ping and I Barn Warriors.  When I first heard myself so described, I thought he was saying Barn Worrier (something not too far off the mark come to think of it).  But, he really meant warrior. Stable Boy says Ping and I are entitled to this honorary title because both my trusty steed and myself are just a couple of walking wounded, both lame on the same leg - plus one.
     Ping (a.k.a. Pool Boy), my little New Zealand Thoroughbred, has been a rather gimpy throughout our brief association. Together, we have battled several trim-happy farriers, abscesses, a colic, upward fixations of the patella, sore stifles, touchy bruised soles, a half gainer over a pasture fence, and more recently, the absence of rather large portions of the hoof wall of his left hind foot!  I estimate that in the 15 months since I received this gift, he has been sound for approximately six months give or take a month or two (mostly give - at least when it comes to money changing hands).

The Weather Report

  Over the past year, I have lived and died by the weather report.  I have faithfully watched the weather during news broadcasts at 5:30 am 6:00 pm day after day in order to have the most accurate information possible in which to make my most important decision of the day.  One might think that as I often work out of doors, I need to know whether to wear a jacket when heading out to a farm call.  One might also think that this decision is something that runs along the lines of should my daughter wear her raincoat when heading to the bus stop. Granted, while these are very important decisions that should never be made frivolously, the decision to which I am referring is of a much more grave nature, one that haunts me day and night (my husband can attest to the fact that I literally wake up in the middle of the night pondering this question) - should I turn my horse out or keep him in the barn?