Passing On

Last week I sold the last of my huntseat show clothes on ebay. I saved my navy blue huntcoat until the very end, because I had a great deal of sentimental attachment to it. I loved that coat. I had saved up money just to buy it: a top-0f-the-line brand made of fine wool herringbone, complete with special lining. I was fortunate to get a good price from the winning bidder, but honestly, I wasn't selling it for the money. It was time to face reality and move on. And that was a bittersweet moment.

You see, my navy blue huntcoat has been hanging in my closet, tucked away in its garment bag with a pair of breeches and a couple of show shirts, since my last horse show. And what was special about my last show? You guessed it. That was the one where I was badly injured and carted off by the paramedics to the trauma unit. Also in that garment bag, cloistered in the zippered compartment, was an envelope of hairnets, my black leather gloves, my favorite "lucky" belt with my one and only trophy buckle, a number string and my pair of show spurs. It was as if my show clothes were waiting-- patiently yet hopelessly-- for me to saddle up and compete. It was a time capsule of my past life. All I had to do was unzip the garment bag and I could literally smell the faint aroma of about a hundred horse shows: the hay, the saddle soap, the boot polish.

Letting go of the contents of that garment bag was finally fully admitting that my life in the show ring was over. But it was time. When I sent the huntcoat to the winning bidder, a gal who lives in Oregon, I included a short note. I didn't go into any details, but I told her that I hoped she'd win lots of blue ribbons in the coat. She seemed to sense my melancholy, because she emailed me that the coat had arrived safely and that it was indeed lovely. She also added, "I promise you it'll have a good home."

I know it sounds odd to say this about an inanimate object, but I do hope that my huntcoat has a good home. And that it serves its new owner well.

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Another Day in the Judge's Booth

Yesterday I judged a county-rated hunter & equitation show near Los Angeles. For those of you living east of the Rockies, you're probably not going to appreciate this comment-- because I know from some of your comments and emails that it's still cold and stormy in your area-- but it was UNGODLY HOT ALL DAY!!! Several times I trudged to the concession truck, grabbed some paper napkins, dunked them in my bottled water and then sponged the dust and sweat off my face and arms. Lovely visual image, is it not?

I enjoy the chance to be Judge for a Day. After all my years of competing, judging gives me a new perspective on showing. I always come away with the same observation: It sure is easy to tell which riders are properly prepared to compete, and which are not.

I'm not referring to tailored clothing and high-dollar tack. Anyone can go to their local tack store, plunk down their credit card and buy all the garb and gear to "look the part." But if you climb in the saddle and cannot ride, the judge doesn't care which brand label is stuck on your breeches or which emblem is glued on the front of your helmet. Honestly, judges really are judging your horsemanship, not your fashion sense. Being able to bend your hunter around its turns or place it to the center of each jump counts far more than whether or not you have a sheepskin girth or custom tall boots.

That was the case yesterday with three particular riders. All three of them had the right "look" and their horses were clean and well-fed. But they had not mastered the very basics of huntseat riding. Oh, they could sit on a horse alright; they seemed fearless as well. And I'm sure they were very dedicated, competitive young horsewomen, because by the second round, when it was apparent that they could not guide their horses smoothly and accurately over the jumps, their expressions turned quite dour. They were not having fun. At all.

For example, the turns in each corner were taken as if they were running a barrel racing course, not cantering around a hunter course. This sort of kamikaze approach to the jumps led to refusals and awkward jumping efforts. I wanted to stop judging and start teaching. We could begin our lesson with, "How about we learn how to ride a STRAIGHT LINE TO THE JUMP?"

Second lesson? That would be, "Introduction to the Crest Release," whereby the rider learns that it's much easier for the horse to jump when it's given a small amount of freedom with the reins.

These three riders were standouts compared to the rest of the participants who, despite facing their own struggles and challenges, had solid basic English riding skills built on a secure, correct position.

So, what's the difference between these two, disparate groups of competitors? They're all trying hard, they all want the blue ribbon. But why were the three I singled out so "different" from the others? I think it's the instruction they are-- or aren't-- receiving. Everyone makes mistakes at a horse show. Horse shows are a test. Horse shows are where we learn what we need to work on at home. But a good instructor would never put their students into a class that is far above their current skill level, and then blame it on the horse when things don't go well.

Of course, that's just my opinion.

As always, feel free to add your thoughts by clicking on "comments" below or emailing me at: hc-editor@bowtieinc.com

Hay, Dudes

The price of a bale of hay out here in Southern California is getting absurd. In a little over one year the price has skyrocketed from about $11.95 a bale to over $20. One of the reasons is that some of the hay growers in our state have opted to sell their water rights to other farmers. Right now that manuever is more profitable than keeping their water allotment to irrigate their own fields. Add to that gasoline prices for transporting the hay to the feed store. As my friend Linda says (she owns one of the largest feed stores in town), "There are so many horses for sale right now because people can't afford to feed them."

A look at the bulletin board in Linda's feed store verifies that fact. It's plastered with ads and snapshots of family type recreational horses. Few of them are remarkable in their beauty or conformation, but they all appear well-loved and sweet-tempered. Prices range from several thousand dollars to open ended comments like, "Must Sell/Please Make Offer." The saddest cases? Pretty young yearlings and unbroke two-year-olds that were hand-raised in someone's backyard. Now, without money to pay the mortgage-- we have countless homes in foreclosure around here-- there's even less money to pay for training. And $20 a bale for hay? Forget it.

From my viewpoint, the high cost of feed becomes even more infuriating when the gourmet "meal in a bale" includes more than I bargained for. For example, few things irk me more than getting halfway into a bale and discovering some kind of artifact that makes the rest of the bale unfit for equine consumption. I'm not just talking about clumps of suspicious weeds but also about bizarre things like clothing (I found a stained man's t-shirt once) and dearly departed dead animals. You can read about the dangers that might lurk within a bale of hay in this Horse Channel article:
"Hay! What a Surprise!"

The botulism poisoning mentioned in the article is a real concern to horse owners. It was only a couple of years ago that a number of horses at several Southern California boarding stables died of botulism toxicity. The culprit? Alfalfa hay cubes that were all milled at one particular company. Turned out that squirrels had been "incorporated" into several batches of the cubes. The horses ate the cubes and were infected with Type C botulism. That's why any bits of animal hair or even feathers should serve as an alarm to toss out any remaining hay in a particular bale. It's simply not worth the risk.

Anytime I find something unusual in a bale, I return it to the feedstore for another, less exciting one. I can't blame the feedstore owner or even the young guys who load the bales onto the delivery truck. Much of the time the hidden treasures are so compacted within the flakes that they aren't revealed until feeding time. Maybe my diligence at dinner time is why I usually come in from feeding with a dusting of alfalfa and orchard grass all over my clothes. My husband makes me brush myself off with a whisk broom that's kept stationed at the back door. Ah, the troubles we go to in order to keep our horses healthy!

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"Got Halter?"

As you can see, we don't waste any time getting a halter on our foals. Cowboy readily accepted it, probably because he's being handled several times a day and also because his dam-- the orphan we raised-- thinks she's just another human member of the family. I apologize for my head being cut off in this picture. But my mother was holding the camera and she is not exactly known for her photographic talents. Plus, have you ever tried to take a decent snapshot of a foal? It's kind of like trying to herd cats: Just when you think you've got them cornered they squirt off in another direction. Camera shy or not, I must admit I'm already pretty fond of the buff-colored colt. I can't wait to see what color he turns out to be. Already he's getting dark eyeliner around his eyes, which have become more of a dark hazel brown instead of the smokey blue eye color he was born with. I'll take another photo in a few days so we can all watch the color transformation. Of course, I'll have to get him to stand still first.

More from the Foal Front

The palomino colt has been christened with the nickname "Cowboy." My sister came up with that one, and actually I think it's rather cute. The funny part about it is that my sister and I convinced our mom to breed April-- the Oldenburg/Trakehner/Thoroughbred mare-- to an American Quarter horse because we both wanted something smaller and less "warmbloodish." Guess what? As of now Cowboy is lookin' pretty much like the standard sized warmblood foal. In other words, he ain't no Quarter pony. In fact, he's so leggy and growthy that his front tendons were a little tight. Not outright contracted, so that he was knuckled over, but just too upright and rigid. That can be a problem for big, fast-growing foals. In simplistic terms, their leg bones in particular grow faster than their tendons. The tendons can only stretch so much before they're damaged. Plus, contracted tendons can lead to conformational faults.


Fortunately, since we've bred and raised warmbloods before, this was something we'd dealt with. And our vet, Jennifer, arrived armed and ready. She infused intravenous tetracycline into Cowboy. Yes, that's an antibiotic. But for some reason it also has the side effect of relaxing tight tendons in newborn foals. How someone discovered this side effect is beyond me, but in 24 hours Cowboy's front legs looked darned near normal. By this afternoon they were fine. However, he has to live in the foaling stall for two weeks before Jennifer thinks his tendons will be stretched and limber enough for him and his mom to live outside in the paddock.

In the meantime, Cowboy is being handled every day. He really is beautiful... at least we think so. Originally I would have described his pale palomino coloring as mauve or lavender. But now he's darkened a bit and I would call it "champagne."

Now there's a name for you: Champagne Cowboy.

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I Thought I Was Done with the Whole "Foaling Thing"

This was me last night-- or very early this morning-- serving as midwife to a palomino colt. You're probably wondering what the backstory is to this tale, so here it is:

The dam of this colt is the last of our homebred warmbloods. Her name is A Kiss for Luck because her mother died shortly after she was born. We nicknamed her April, although her orphan-induced idiosyncrasies have caused her to be labeled other nicknames, one of which is "Monkey." At any rate, my sister and I tried to talk our mother out of ever breeding any horse ever again-- because our mantra had become, "You've seen one placenta, you've seen them all"-- but when April suffered a bad tendon injury during jumping training we were left with a gorgeous, well-bred, 16.3-hand warmblood lawn ornament. Ultimately my sister Jill and I capitulated and gave our blessing to the breeding of April with one caveat: She could NOT be bred to a warmblood. Why? Because we didn't have the commitment, desire, emotional fortitude, enthusiasm... whatever... to breed yet another potential performance horse. Jill and I are more into recreational riding now. Plus we're considerably older and creakier than when we were first breeding horses.

So April was bred to--- hold on to your hats--- a 15.2-hand cremello AQHA stallion known for his versatility and sweet disposition. The size was appealing because neither Jill nor I are thrilled about riding huge, thunderous warmbloods anymore. And that double-dilution factor guaranteed some sort of color, probably a palomino or possibly a buckskin. We all figured that if the genetic gamble paid off we'd get a lovely hunter-type English riding horse that might some day be show-worthy for the smaller circuits. Worst case? We'd have a nice all-around riding horse for the trails.

Or I should say JILL would have such a horse, as I am chalk full of horses and can't foresee myself riding a green anything several years in the future.

At any rate, Jill was scheduled to start her shift on Foal Watch on Friday night, when April would be 11 months and 9 days. In the meantime, our mother was staying up at night, checking the video foal monitor between catnaps on the couch. She made me promise to be available if needed and I blithely replied something like, "Yeah, yeah, yeah... Whatever."

So of course, you know what had to happen: I got the phone call at 1:30 a.m. that April had decided she couldn't wait one more night for my sister. That meant I had to stumble out of bed, jerk on some barn clothes, drive across town and help deliver a foal. Precisely what I had sworn I'd never do again!

I had no intention of aiding April. But being a maiden mare, she seemed to be struggling. The foal was only out to his knees. After about 20 minutes of not making any more progress, I went inside and did what I'd done with some of the big ol' warmblood mares birthing big ol' warmblood babies: I crouched down in the stall, grabbed hold of both front legs of the foal and gently pulled down toward April's hocks in time with her contractions. (By the way, here comes one of those, "Don't do this at home" disclaimers: I've foaled out probably 30 of our foals so this was rather routine for me, but if you ever find yourself in the same situation, I'd suggest calling your vet on speed dial).

Once the foal's shoulders were free from the birth canal I made sure the amniotic sack was broken and I cleared his nostrils with a clean towel. Then my dad snapped the photo and I stepped outside of the foaling stall so April could finish the delivery process on her own. The colt was healthy and vigorous. He gave a soft nicker and April pricked up her ears. Even in the dim overhead light I could tell he was a palomino. In his earliest attempts to rise he broke the umbilical cord and my mom-- the retired ER nurse-- stepped in to disinfect the cord's stump.

And that's when my sister arrived.

"You can oversee the nursing, pooping, peeing and passing of the afterbirth part," I said. "My job here is done."

I got into my truck and drove back home with the scent of fresh straw and Baby Horse on my hands. I knew that I wouldn't be able to sleep right away. Even after all the foals I'd seen born, I guess I never get over being amazed at the miracle of it all.

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The Wally Wagon

I'm often excusing Wally's obnoxiousness on the ground by praising how wonderful he is under saddle. He really is the best trail horse I've ever ridden. He might not be everyone else's dream trail horse, but for me, he's perfect. I love his comfortable gaits, his flashy coloring, his response to my aids and his macho attitude. I swear, sometimes he swaggers! Part of that is due to his bravery combined with a dose of curiosity. There are only a few things that upset him on the trail. One is a small house on a side street near me that is home to several flocks of fowl. Wally cannot get over his fascination with the assortment of chickens, pheasants, ducks, peacocks, geese... well, you get the idea. I'm not sure if it's the smell of the feathered fiends or the fact that as we ride past they emit a cacophony of odd clucks, quacks and screeches. Oh. And they flap their wings. A lot.

Wally also has trouble figuring out any sort of wheeled vehicle pulled by a horse or horses. Wait. Expand that to include "any sort of wheeled vehicle pulled by a donkey, mule, pony or Miniature Horse." Why? Because lately we seem to be encountering them all. I think it's because our town's annual Horseweek Parade is this Saturday and traditionally all the members of our town's driving club participate. Of course, they have to practice, and where else to do that but down the wide, quiet streets that wind through my neighborhood?

Recently I saw a Haflinger pulling a chariot. Yes, I said "chariot." Fortunately I was merely out gardening when that came by. But last weekend I was aboard Wally when he came face to face with a vintage hay wagon being pulled by a matched pair of lovely cremello geldings. The look on Wally's face was priceless! He stood his ground; he did not spook or bolt. But I could just tell he was mentally going through every object he'd ever seen in his life trying to connect the wagon to something he'd already identified. Yet since he spent all of his life before I got him-- all 6 years of it-- at a show stable or in the western pleasure show ring I'm quite certain he'd never seen equines hitched to a wagon before.

So now Wally's been introduced to horse-drawn wheeled vehicles. We can add that to our list that includes llamas, pot bellied pigs, motorcycles (still not a favorite of Wally's), garbage trucks and leaf blowers. Really, for living in a quiet, semi-rural neighborhood the trails around here are quite exciting!

Apparently I'm not the only one who has encountered some excitement on the trails. If you click on this link, you can read about other trail riding sagas on Horse Channel: Terror and Trauma on the Trail

It's part of Horse Illustrated's HI Spy series, where we ask horse lovers to share their thoughts and experiences with us. After you read that short piece, share your trail riding adventures with other Horse Channel readers by clicking on Submit a Comment at the end of the article... not here! Some of the comments will be chosen to appear in a future issue of Horse Illustrated.