Horse Crazy (13 page)

It was about this time that Traveler
developed a startling loss of appetite. Startling because the
phrase "eats like a horse" was not developed for nothing. A horse
that loses interest in his food is a sick horse.

Fortunately, Traveler shook off this
particular malady about the time he began his bout with excessive
urination. Although worrisome to the new owner and, of course,
socially awkward on trail rides, this particular peccadillo wasn't
the dangerous symptom of something worse that I'd feared. Within
weeks, he was back on schedule, taking in and giving out the normal
amounts, with no hint as to what the month long deluge had been
about.

There are any number of things that can make
your horse sick or become unsound. If you ride him hard on the
weekend and then ignore him until the next weekend, chances are
he'll be sore and achy, much as you would be if you overdid it once
a week. If, on the other hand, he's exercised thoroughly during the
week and then allowed to loll around his stable for the weekend
with his feeding schedule intact, he's a good candidate for
azoturia or "Monday morning" sickness. (This is exactly as it
sounds, overdo it on the weekend and you'll feel like cow doodle on
Monday.)

Colic is another digestive disorder that
attacks horses and it's usually pretty serious. Because of their
unique one-way esophagus, horses aren't able to vomit. What goes
down, stays down. This makes overeating for a horse a potentially
fatal vice. Colic kills more horses than any other aliment, so it's
wise to read up on the symptoms, keep your feed bin locked and to
contact your vet as soon as you suspect it.

Horses also get colds--with runny noses, red
eyes, a cough, and general listlessness. Skip the chicken soup and
call the vet.

But mostly, taking care of your horse will
involve the odd eye infection, barb-wire run-in (here's where your
scab-pulling skills will be called into use) and girth sores (be
sure to carefully clean the belly and sides before you cinch up
your girth, it just takes a few grains of dirt trapped in a
soon-sweaty girth to turn into a raging sore. And although this
isn't usually lifethreatening, it can put your riding schedule on
hold--or at least in the bareback mode--for a few days or even a
week.

But when it's something more serious like
Swamp Fever2 (which brings up another important rule: try to avoid
boarding your horse near a nuclear-test site or a swamp), or
lameness, it's hard to maintain your original level of equine
enthusiasm.

In Traveler's case, his right ankle was
injected with a hyuronic fluid made to simulate the fluid that
should have been surrounding the inner workings of his hoof bones
and wasn't. After six weeks and many cold hosings of his ankle, the
shot kicked in and Traveler, with the help of full front pads, was
scampering, cantering and jumping about his pasture like a two-year
old. The shot's effectiveness usually ranges from about three
months to a year and costs around $100.

That is, if it works at all. There are no
guarantees. On the other hand, ask his owner the next time she
returns from an invigorating canter through the woods if she thinks
the monetary risk was worth it.

Chapter Eleven

Shying, bolting, balking, and other

interesting behavior to beware of on
horseback

Tacking up for a little hack alone or with
friends is never a matter-of-fact thing, regardless of how it may
appear to the untrained eye. Someone is climbing onto a horse
(read: a creature that nearly has a mind and certainly has a mind
of its own) to go into a field or pasture or the woods (read: lots
of uneven terrain, perhaps even other animals (cows, mice, foxes,
stray dogs)). The result is a lot more “anything can happen” than
when you bop down to the local bagel shop in your trusty
Toyota.

That’s because horses do odd things,
unpredictable things. They shy at dust motes. They balk at trails
they’ve been down a thousand times. They run when you don’t want
them to run. They don’t stop when you absolutely want them to.

One sunny morning, a group of us got together
for a trial ride to one of the neighboring farms. There were at
least three green riders in the group so it wouldn’t be a fast
ride, just a pleasant, quiet hack over and back. There would be a
brief warm up period of about fifteen minutes when we would all
just trot our horses but the rules of game are such that you must
announce to all when you’re going to trot and if that’s okay with
all. It was understood that no one would canter unless they first
asked or detached themselves from the group and did it so that it
would not incite the rest of the horses to join in. This is
especially important when you have green riders in your group but
is just good trail manners even with experienced riders.

In our trail ride, we organized the position
in line depending on each horse’s particular set of vices. The
horses that shied the most predictably and the worst (there are
varying degrees of shying from tremulous, soft, jerky stops to a
violent swivel on one hoof in the opposite direction to a double
take that simply and neatly unseats the rider) were put towards the
back of the pack. The ones that were the strongest in the field (as
in, difficult to keep back) were likewise tucked in behind the
leader.

In most cases, Traveler and I were in the
lead since he never shied, rarely had an interest in going too fast
(unless we were headed in the direction of the barn), and usually
didn’t concern himself unduly with obstacles such as mud puddles,
branches across the path or rusting car ruins on the sidelines--all
common horse terrors.

Unfortunately, I was almost never familiar
with the paths so there was much shouting over my shoulder: “Left
or right? Up the gorge? There’s a fork in the road...” With
Traveler in the lead, we would pass scary piles of manure, or
branches jutting out at awkward, threatening angles and the horses
behind us would usually follow without fuss.

If one horse shies, the others often will too
in a sort of equine chain reaction--even if they haven’t seen the
object that made the first horse shy in the first place. It’s
enough that one of their fellows has been frightened. They have a
lot of respect for each other’s judgment when it comes to the
question of when they should be afraid. Since Traveler rarely
became unnerved by noises or objects, the other horses tended to
relax a little more. Which isn’t to say that they didn’t still shy.
They did. But not as often and not as violently.

Laura’s horse, Shadow, will react so quickly
to a scary object (a bush, say, or someone’s jacket flung on a hay
bale) that he can single-handedly retard her chiropractor’s efforts
by two years. One fluttering leaf has been known to be the cause of
her having to endure endless weeks with an ice pack on the small of
her back.

As I’ve mentioned, shying is rarely
Traveler’s problem. His only flaw, really is his insistence on
going back to his beloved barn--at the speed of light--whenever
he’s judged that he’s had enough of the outdoor life and your
ride.

One particular autumn morning, I was riding
with a group of three other friends and I could feel that Traveler
definitely felt peppy. The cooler fall weather had all the horses
feeling pretty good. I feel compelled to add that this morning was
before I began using a pelham on Traveler. A pelham is a bit, in
this case, a hard rubber bit, but with a chain chin strap that can
be notched fairly tightly so that when you pull back on the reins,
you’re imprinting the chain--at varying degrees--into your
darling’s soft little chin. It’s often very effective in getting
your pet’s attention, and persuading him that the direction that
you want to go and the pace you want to go it will be less painful
for both of you.

This morning, as usual, Traveler and I were
in the lead. All of us felt up and happy and spirited because of
the weather, the condition of the trail which was firm and clear,
the healthy luster of our horses’ coats--too early for the fuzzy
lengths of bear fur they would all sport in another three
months--and their own contagious good moods.

At about the point where Traveler and I were
stepping over a small log and I was sharing a bit of a joke with
the rider behind me, Traveler decided it was time to call it quits.
Keep in mind, that it was not (presumably, because how would one
ever know?) because he wasn’t enjoying the weather or the company
or the activity that necessarily made Traveler decide to bolt--it
was the brisk, zip in his step that just made him want to run. And
if Traveler is going to run, he’s going to run to some place worth
running to: the barn.

He swiveled around on the narrow trail,
nearly dislodging me, and headed back for the barn. Very fast. I
hauled back on the reins and nothing happened. The brakes were
gone. I see-sawed the loose-snaffled bit in his mouth. Nada. The
ground roared by underneath me as we pounded back towards the
barn...separated from it, in fact, by only two wicked patches of
woods and one rather slippery creek bed.

A year before when I had been faced with a
similar situation on Thunder--a mad near-gallop and a slippery
surface ahead leading down a long hill and certain or at least
very-well-could-be death--I twisted Thunder’s head hard to the
right and as he slammed on the brakes, I went soaring over his head
to land with bone-thumping solidity on the ground in front of him.
Witnesses thought a body bag would be needed. And, although I’d
only knocked the wind out of myself, I knew I’d been lucky to have
walked away from that one.

Unfortunately, that memory and image came
screaming back to me as Traveler now picked his way home at a fast
canter. Timorously, I tugged on one rein--his left one--and saw his
ears lean in that direction. I pulled a little harder on the left,
determined not to tip us over or stop him on a dime (although that
possibility did seem less and less likely.) His legs thundered on,
but his head began to follow my direction. Miraculously, I felt him
turning, and as he turned, he slowed.

When I had him facing the opposite direction,
he dropped down to a trot, shook his head, snorted, and, seemingly,
tried to act like nothing had happened. I jumped off immediately, a
mistake since you’re not supposed to bail out once you’ve won your
point, they say it makes the horse think (in this case, quite
correctly) that he’s intimidated you, and stood shivering in my
rubber boots. Traveler stared at me balefully, almost as if to say:
“Well, I tried.”

My friends rode up to me: “Where’d you go?
Why’d you take off like that? How come you’re on the ground?” After
hearing my story, they all scolded me, to a woman, for dismounting.
As was proper that they should.

The first time a horse takes off with you is
terrifying. In fact, the second time is pretty bad too. The feeling
of helplessness as you’re borne too quickly in directions you don’t
want to go, is painful and unsettling.

Another interesting point to note, and you’ll
no doubt end up noting it while you’re clinging to your horse’s
back at break-neck speed, is that horses won’t always take the best
route to their destination. If he bolts, he’s not thinking: “now,
if I jag to the left here, I can catch the main trail leading over
to Buttercup’s pasture and then hang a right near the grain
room...” He’s going to crash into areas that are not big enough to
contain him (or you, on him) or soft enough to catch you when you
finally let go.

A young girl at our barn was out riding one
lovely spring afternoon after school on a borrowed and beloved
thoroughbred that she had her heart set on leasing for the summer.
Two frisky dogs put an end to those plans when they startled her
and her horse out on the trail, sending him flying into the deeper
part of the wood, crashing through branches and brambles. She
finally stopped him and she did not come off him, but fifteen
stitches to her face had her rethink her love affair with him.

A horse that won’t stop when you tell him to
is a horse in control. And given their brain limitations, that’s a
dangerous situation. Traveler took off with me often; defeated only
when I would turn him into the slow, wide circles that would
eventually bring him under control. Actually, as soon as I was able
to turn his head in the direction opposite that of the barn, his
eagerness for the venture began to fail. But riding in circles, and
struggling with your horse’s head while your friends are jumping
logs and enjoying slow, controlled canters up the field line, is
not the way to appreciate riding.

Some horse people will tell you that you need
to work with your horse and teach him--slowly, patiently,
gently--an end to his bad habits. But for the green rider, where
frustration factors can eliminate the will to ride altogether, and
the older rider, who doesn’t have the extra years to train a horse,
and the rider-with-a-day job-and-maybe-even-a-family, the answer is
usually (and thankfully) found in the form of a riding aid, i.e. a
stronger bit. It settled the matter for Traveler and me. I’m
careful not to tug needlessly on his dear little mouth, and he
doesn’t usually pick up speed unless invited. It’s a happy
situation for all.

For some reason, many horses are afraid of
water. They won’t naturally cross it and then only do so with much
whinging and resignation. Here was another instance where my horse,
Traveler, defied the norm and did me proud. He would splash into
creek beds and mud puddles with panache and energy then turn to
watch the other horses timidly and unhappily pick their way through
the shallow murk behind him.

On one trail ride on a drizzly November
morning, a group of us decided to brave the chill and the wet
trails and get a little exercise on horseback. As usual, I was in
the lead with Traveler when we came upon a large muddy pool that
the rains had created the night before. Traveler and I quickly
sloshed through it without breaking pace, turned and waited for the
rest of the group to catch up. One of the riders with us, although
not at all green, had warned us beforehand that her horse had a
problem with water.