Donny and Splash

      Over my living room sofa hangs a painting of two old horses, and every time I pass beneath it, something in me softens.  A dear friend painted it, her brush somehow catching not just their shapes, but their souls.  A palomino Paint and a tiny Miniature stand dozing before a barn that, like them, has surrendered to time.  Donny and Splash.  Two names that still echo in the tender corners of my heart.

 

                                           Painting by K. Jenness

       They are an unlikely pair, stitched together not by logic, but by some quiet intuition I barely remember making.  Yet, once they were side by side, the world seemed to nod in approval.  Donny and Splash.  They loved each other with the uncomplicated devotion that animals offer so freely, and that humans spend a lifetime trying to deserve. 

    Splash was the elder, born with a hind end that never quite obeyed her.  A horse's power lives in the rear, and she had been shortchanged at birth.  Still, she tried.  She carried riders in her youth, pulled a carriage for a time, and then settled into the role she was born for; my golden-spotted companion, my gentle watcher in the covered arena where the footing was soft and the world was kind.

    Donny, by contrast, was a spark wrapped in a tiny palomino body.  Thirty-two inches of purpose.  He had been our Miniature Horse stallion, but, later, as a gelding, he was also a teacher, a cart-puller, a toddler carrier, a visitor of libraries and nursing homes.  Donny was endlessly willing, and endlessly good.  He was a little horse with a heart that seemed to glow from the inside.

    Why did I pair him with Splash?  Perhaps because Donny loved everyone, especially mares.  Perhaps because he was too small to harm her fragile hindquarters.  Perhaps, because Miniature Horse manure is a blessing to anyone with an "apple picker."  But whatever the reason, the result was something far beyond practicality.

    They became each other's beloved partner.

    Their grooming sessions were a kind of choreography.  Splash would stretch her neck to reach Donny's withers while he worked diligently on her upper leg.  They adjusted for their differences without hesitation, as if love had its own mathematics. 

    When I toss hay, I always plan for disagreements over which pile is superior.  However, I soon learned Donny and Splash shared without quarrel.  Splash, despite her size, never claimed dominance.  She simply made room for her dinner mate.

    On stormy Pacific Northwest days, when the rain blew sideways through the open arena, Donny would tuck himself beneath Splash's belly.  She never minded.  Perhaps she even welcomed the warmth of him under her.  I sometimes wondered if his small body steadied her when the wind pressed too hard.  And on hot days, she offered him the favor of shade in the shadow of her broad, golden-spotted frame.

    Time, as it always does, moved forward.  Splash grew older, her hind end weaker.  Donny, too, began to show the gentle wear of years.

    Some days Splash struggled to rise.  She slept more.  During lessons, she would lift her head from the ground as a lesson horse trotted by, but she no longer bothered to stand.  She was too tired.

    Then the afternoon came when she couldn't rise at all.

    I called the veterinarian.  My students and grandchildren gathered.  My son drove miles to be with her.  Donny stood with us, steadfast and solemn, as Splash began her journey across the Rainbow Bridge.

    Afterward, thinking I was doing him a kindness, I moved Donny to a pasture with his Miniature Horse family.  He ignored them.  He stood as close as he could to Splash's covered body, refusing food, refusing comfort.

    I realized my mistake.  I brought him back to the arena, back to her side.  He nibbled a little hay.  He breathed easier.

    Two days later the rendering truck arrived.  Donny watched as Splash's body was removed. Only when she was gone was he willing to rejoin his herd, though he cried for her.  Horses grieve.  Anyone who has lived among them knows this truth.

    More years passed.  Donny remained remarkable: steady, caring, endlessly willing.  But eventually, his time came too.  It was nearly midnight.  The world was quiet.  He was in my arms when he slipped away, leaving pain behind, and I wept for the little horse who had given so much.

    Through my tears, I whispered to him that he wasn't going to be alone.

    Donny and Splash.  Together again.  Now Splash is strong, and Donny is young and somewhere beyond our sight they are running, manes flying, hooves drumming.  They are two golden spirits finally free of the the weight of time. 

     

     

Paper chase

      My relationship with registration papers has evolved considerably over the years.  At this stage of my life.  I no longer feel compelled to chase down documentation for every horse on the farm.  Of the seven equines I currently care for, three could be registered if I were willing to pursue the paperwork.  I am not.  My priorities have shifted.

    This was not always the case.  When my husband and I acquired our first horses, I was genuinely delighted to learn that they came with papers.  Jodee was a registered Quarter Horse and my heart horse, Splash, was initially registered as a Paint.  Later, I even had Splash double-registered as a pinto.  (Paint horses trace their lineage to Quarter Horses or Thoroughbreds, while pinto registration is based on color rather than breed.)  Splash qualified on both counts and I took pride in that.

    The prevailing theory in the equine world is that registered horses possess greater market value.  This is true in a broad, generalized sense, but the reality is more nuanced.  A horse is only worth as much as a buyer is convinced they are worth.  Registration papers can certainly aid in marketing, and they provide verifiable lineage witch is an asset in breeding programs where genetic predictability matters.  Yet papers alone do not confer quality, temperament, or suitability for a particular rider or purpose.

 

One registered, one unregistered  

 

    Draft horse owners especially, tend to be pragmatic.  Geldings, being outside the breeding pool, are often left unregistered.  My own gelding Shire, Mac, eventually received papers - not as a Shire, but as a dressage competitor.  His value lay in his performance, not his pedigree.

    My enthusiasm once extended to the point of obsession.  Even my little PeeCheeYoureSoCute acquired papers - from a mock registry, no less.  At the time, the symbolism of documentation mattered to me.

    When we were marketing Miniature Horses, registration became a practical necessity.  Most of our minis were registered with the American Miniature Horse Registry (AMHR), which operates in conjunction with the American Shetland Pony Club (ASPC).  The AMHR has two sections.  'A' minis are under 34" with the 'B' animals 34" - 38". The American Miniature Horse Association (AMHA), by contrast, accepts only the smaller, 34" and under, animals.  I used both registries where appropriate.  Although the shorter minis often command higher prices, I have always preferred the slightly larger ones: they present a more balanced appearance in harness.

    My memories of AMHR shows remain fond.  The culture was collegian, supportive, and genuinely enjoyable.  When registering foals, the office staff even noticed my naming pattern.  For example I would call a foal Friend Abby or Friend Leonard, always using the word "Friend."  They kindly asked whether I wanted exclusive rights to "Friend."  I declined.  Generosity seemed more fitting than ownership.

    All of our Exmoor Ponies were registered, not for prestige but for preservation.  Exmoors represent one of the most ancient and genetically significant equine types.  Their rarity makes responsible breeding essential to maintaining the global gene pool.  Although we hoped to contribute foals to the breed, nature had other plans.  the best we could do was provide a  home for the four animals, and do promotional work to inform people about the ponies.  Stewardship, even without breeding, is still meaningful.

    With time, my priorities have changed.  I am no longer inclined to rush paperwork through registries or insure that my name appears on every certificate.  Age, experience, and a shift away from breeding and showing have all contributed to this change.  Registration now feels less like a necessity and more like an optional formality. 

    My most recent acquisitions - a registered Kentucky Mountain Pleasure Horse named Summer, and her unregistered companion pony, Rosie - illustrate this shift.  Summer's papers are in my possession, and she could even be double-registered as a palomino since she is a glorious golden girl. (Palomino is another color registry.) Yet, I have not pursued the transfer of papers.  The friend who sold the horses to me shares my indifference toward paperwork, as neither of us felt compelled to complete the process.

    Rosie, by contrast, has no papers except my bill of sale.  Short of genetic testing, her ancestry is unknowable.  Does this make her less valuable?  Perhaps in a market sense, but Both Summer and Rosie are important to me and my business.  Their worth lies in their work, their presence, and their relationship with me - not on a registry database.

    Registration papers do provide a form of proof of ownership, but only in a limited sense.  I currently hold papers for several horses whose certificates do not bear my name.  The documents exist, but they do not fully reflect the lived reality of care, responsibility, and relationship. 

    In the end, my evolving attitude toward registration mirrors a broader truth: the value of a horse cannot be reduced to lineage charts or official seals.  Papers may document ancestry, but they cannot capture personality, partnership, or the quiet daily work of stewardship.  Those qualities, arguably the most important ones, reside outside the margins of any registry. 

  

Bosley

         I had no intention of adopting him.  None.  I had enough Miniature Horses, enough responsibilities, enough hooves to pick and harnesses to polish.  I certainly didn't need another horse, but...life has a way of slipping small miracles into the spaces where we aren't looking.

    For years I had been teaching horse care, riding, and, somewhat unusually, carriage driving.  It is a niche skill, one not many instructors offer, but the the rise of popularity of Miniature Horses breathed new life into the art.  Most of my students have been children, but more and more adults  had begun seeking the quite partnership that comes from working a harness horse.  I taught many of them, including a woman who had once come to me as a beginner and blossomed into a devoted driver.

    When she called, her voice carried the weight of change.  Life was shifting for her; she needed to downsize.  She had a gelding she was marketing.  Was I interested?

    I told her no.  Firmly.  I had enough driving minis.  I did not need another one. 

    "I'll give him to you," she said gently, as if that might tip the scales.

    It didn't.  Or at least, it shouldn't have.  But then I made the mistake of mentioning the call to our barn manager, Tee.  Tee's eyes lit up like a child hearing sleigh bells.  "Let's go look.  I'll go with you." 

    And so we went.

    There he stood - Bosley.  He was a class "B" Miniature Horse with a pintaloosa blue roan coat that shimmered like storm clouds, and bright blue eyes that seemed to hold their own weather.  He was striking, almost otherworldly.  His papers, once something I chased with enthusiasm, meant little to me now.  His registered name was S&T Spirit of Shaman, but he went by Bosley.  Why?  I never found out.  Somehow, the mystery suited him

    His owner explained that he had been bred and trained for the show ring, but she had never clicked with him.  I wasn't sure I had either.  But Tee?  Tee was smitten.

    We were told buyers were coming that weekend.   I was certain he would be sold.  So, with the kind of careless promise one makes when convinced it will never matter, I said, "Okay, if they don't take him, I will."

      I walked away believing that was the end of it.

    But on Monday, the phone rang.  "I'll be bringing Bosley to you tomorrow," the voice informed me.

    "The people didn't buy him?" I asked, stunned.

    "Oh, I told them not to come.  I want you to have him."

    Tee was ecstatic.  I was bewildered.  Bosley, when he arrived in the back of a converted SUV, looked equally confused, as if he, too, was wondering how fate had shuffled him into this new chapter. 

    However, he settled in with the quiet confidence of a soul who knows he has finally landed where he belongs.

    He became one of the hardest working equines on the property.  He pulled a cart with pride, learned new skills with eagerness, and proved, yet again, that the larger minis are every bit as worthy as their shorter cousins.

                                   

                                                        Pretending to be a unicorn

    He carried small children with a gentleness that made parents exhale.  Before I rolled out of bed, he became the early-morning jogging companion of a professional woman who adored him so much she bought him expensive boots to protect his feet on the town's concrete streets.  Later, she taught him agility, and he took to it with the same earnest heart he brought to everything. 

    He was unflappable - except when he wasn't.  During one parade, we discovered he was terrified of bubbles.  Not horns, not engines, not flags or loud music.  Bubbles.  And goats.  Goats, in his opinion, were suspicious creatures.  We worked with him until both were tolerable, but he never fully trusted either. 

    Bosley became an ambassador.  For years, he attended a festival at the local campus for disabled folks, soaking up attention with a serenity that made him beloved by all.  He
calmed nervous horses, charmed nervous humans, and accepted adoration with the grace of a seasoned celebrity.

    I had not intended to bring Bosley home.  But he became a treasure, one of those rare beings who quietly stitch themselves into the fabric of your life until you can't imagine the weave without them.

    He spent many, many years in my care.  And when he finally crossed the rainbow bridge as an old fellow, he was mourned by many people, including me.

    Some horses arrive because we seek them.  Others arrive because they are meant for us.  Bosley was the latter: a  gift I didn't know I needed, wrapped in blue roan and bright blue eyes.

Free Flow with Horses

     This is the beginning of a free-flow blog post, and I have no idea where it intends to take me.  I only know it will involve horses; because, of course, it will, and it will join the ever-lengthening continuum of equine tales that seem to multiply whether I ask them to or not.  Horses and ponies are forever producing new stories, like furry, four-legged printing presses.

    I have also entered a new era of writing: the AI Era.  Artificial Intelligence has trotted (pun intended) into my creative life, ears pricked (another pun), ready to help.  The last two blogs have had an AI touch, and I plan to continue.  I have always said I needed a critique group and an editor; well, now I have both who don't require snacks or scheduling.  However, don't worry, the ideas, the voice, the direction are still mine.  I am simply using a new tool, like switching from a pencil to a pen that occasionally winks at me.

    So then - free-flow with horses.

    This weekend we held a party to celebrate the fact that I am, quite miraculously, still alive.  A dear friend brought me a coffee mug with a horse on it.  I do not need any more mugs (my cupboard is already a precarious game of ceramic cups,) but since my shoulder rotator cuff was injured a month ago - a pony-induced incident; they were fighting, I didn't move fast enough, gravity won - I have been using my left hand.  That weak hand dropped a mug with sentimental value.  I wasn't even reaching for it.  My friend must have remembered the story, because she arrived with a replacement; a mug featuring the image of a horse I had not thought of in ages: Chester.  He was a bright chestnut Morab with a personality as warm as his coat.  He was a delightful gelding.

                         

    Which leads me to a mystery: why don't I have more geldings?  Statistically they should make up about half of the horse population, yet mares keep showing up like determined door-to-door saleswomen.  Of the seven horses currently on the property, only one is a gelding - Spice, holding the line for his entire gender.

    We have had some wonderfully steady geldings over the years: Chester, of course; Buddy the Arab; Mac, the Shire (who mistrusted most human males, but adored women with the devotion of a Victorian poet;) Shilo, who now lives with his trainer and tries his best, although he failed spectacularly with my husband.  Spice cannot be omitted, although he is less than steady in his temperament.  Also on the list are the Miniatures: Bosley, Shadow, Donny, William and Leonard.  They were all tiny geldings with big opinions.  Yet somehow, mares dominate the farm like a well-organized matriarchal council.

    Bosley, admittedly, was a donation.  So were Buddy and Chester.  In fact Chester was a double donation - first to a Christian horse camp, then to us when he could no longer manage overnight trail rides.  He proved to be a solid partner for my students in our arena.  Then he was diagnosed with Cushing's Disease.  We cared for him until he crossed the rainbow bridge.  He died surrounded by a handful of mourning fans.

    Back to my recent part.  The horses watched us from the lawn - mostly mares, with old Spice representing the geldings.  They looked mildly offended that they were not offered cake.  And I had oodles of cake left.  The confection was cherry flavored, just like my mother used to make.  Plus we had gooey cookies and a few donuts.  I don't need the extra pounds.  I would have happily shared the sugar with the horses if equine nutrition weren't a thing.

    I guess I take better care of my equine's diet than my own.  The goodies remained in my kitchen, not in their tummies.

    It was a lovely party.  Sorry you missed it.  The mares and Spice would have enjoyed seeing you...though mostly, I suspect, in hopes you would drop a cookie. 

What is Old is New

      Anything worthwhile will happen again - and again.  Often a new idea is just a recycled old one.  Even this blog is a recycled newspaper column, which makes me feel downright futuristic.

    This story began because I butted in on two women chatting in a line somewhere.  I don't remember where.  Possibly it was a grocery store, post office or the DMV.   The details have evaporated because my brain is periodically mush.  I do remember the pair marveling over the new innovation of ordering groceries online and having them delivered.

    Naturally I couldn't resist.

    "Actually," I informed them, in the tone of someone about to ruin a perfectly good conversation, "that isn't new at all.  My father delivered groceries nearly a hundred years ago." 

    They blinked.  I beamed.  History had been served.

    I've sometimes claimed my parents were horse illiterate, but that is not entirely true.  My dad, as a pre-teen, was the designated delivery boy for the family grocery store.  He would load up the wagon, hitch up Bill, (I seem to remember being told that was the horse's name,) and off they would go.  Dad wasn't thrilled  about the job, and Bill was a bit cantankerous, which is a polite way of saying the horse had opinions, and they were not always in line with that of his driver.

    My grandmother, meanwhile, was not delighted watching her youngest son disappear down the road behind a horse she didn't trust.  (Pop had three much older brothers as well as a sister,)  Grandma was especially worried Bill would balk at the Canadian National Railway tracks.  I think she imagined the horse going on strike over the tracks as a train rumbled toward my father.

    Fortunately Dad's career as a reluctant teamster was short-lived.  His oldest brother came home from university with a car, and that was that.  Horse power gave way to horsepower, and Pop happily retired from the Bill-and-wagon delivery service.  I have often wondered what became of Bill.  Hopefully he found a second job somewhere that appreciated his boundaries.

    Years later, when I got interested in driving my Miniature Horses, Pop finally admitted he had a fleeting familiarity with horses.  Fleeting indeed.  He also confessed that harnessing had been a challenge for many folks.  Novice farmers would have to chalk the harness outline on their horses, he told me.  I have never verified this, but considering I own five harnesses and none of them resemble each other, I tend to believe it.  I've had moments where I have stared at a piece of tack like it was a cryptic IKEA part.

                                               

                                          Bosely, in harness, imitating a unicorn
 

    Dad watched a lot of Westerns.  The movie theaters were full of them, and there were many TV programs featuring tales of the West in the 60s and 70s.  At home, Pop would loudly correct film makers.  Whenever the pioneers crossed the plains with horses pulling their prairie schooners, he would harrumph, and declare, "Most of them did not use horses.  It was impractical.  It was usually oxen that brought the wagons west."  He was right, I discovered.  Oxen were strong, ate scrub, and were easy to harness.  Yes.  They were practical.

    So, back to the delivery of groceries.

    My husband continues to go to the grocery store in person.  He insists on inspecting the produce himself, as though he is auditioning for a role as The Tomato Whisperer.  It gives him somewhere to go, and he gets to grumble about the quality of his meat purchases without blaming someone else.  Retirement hobbies come in all forms.

    My goddaughter and daughter-in-law, on the other hand, fully embrace deliver services.  They have full-time jobs.  They don't have time to fondle avocados. 

    While I don't have regular grocery delivery, I have been ordering dry goods online for years.  It makes sense.  I don't have a young man or woman with a horse and wagon bring food to my door, but I do appreciate the trucks (especially the electric ones) pulling into the yard to drop off my order.  It's an old idea, recycled.

    Bill would be proud.  Or at least he would pretend to be, before refusing to cross the driveway. 

     

     

     

Report on Spice

     I had planned to do another interview with Spice.  I enjoy the ritual of me asking questions, him flicking an ear, shifting his weight, offering the kind of answers only a pony can give.  But this time, he wasn't in the mood.  He turned away, not rudely, just quietly, the way an old friend might when he is too tired to talk.  His reluctance was the its own message.  My old man is slowing down.

    I knew it would happen eventually.  Horses in their thirties move differently, rest more, let the world pass through them instead of charging at it.  But knowing something and watching it unfold are two different things.  We have been together since 2002, when we both had more spark - when he trotted everywhere and I didn't yet feel the stiffness in my own joints.  We aged in parallel, but suddenly he seems to be pulling ahead.

    A few weeks ago, I looked out my kitchen window in the late afternoon and realized something was wrong.  Spice was colicking.  Even from a distance, I could see the restless cycle: lie down, get up, pace, lie down again.  A choreography of discomfort.

    My reaction was instinct.  I moved as fast as my nearly 80 year-old legs would move.

    The grass between the barns was damp and cool under my boots as I moved him there, hoping it would ease him.  I called the veterinarian with one hand while caressing him with the other.  I gave him electrolytes and TTouches.  I murmured to him.  I tried not to let my voice shake.

    Dr. S. arrived within the hour.  The first treatment didn't quite take.  She left, then returned.  The second treatment, plus an ultrasound, finally did what we needed.  Spice passed a massive turd, and gradually felt better.  Relief passed over us, though only one of us had produced the offending object.  It was well past midnight.

    When the crisis passed and the adrenaline drained, I stood beside him and felt the weight of the moment.  He was eating less.  Chewing slowly.  Something deeper was going on.

    I called the clinic again and scheduled a dental appointment.  Spice's regular vet, Dr. L. came out to see both him and Boudicca.  Spice's session was long.  Boudicca's was routine.  One of Spice's teeth had to be extracted.  I kept the tooth afterward.  It's an ugly, decayed-looking thing, and I sympathized with him more than I expected...I'd  had a recent extraction myself.  Aging is humbling for all species.

                                                   

                                                       Spice's offending tooth
 

    Dr. L. put Spice on a strict mash diet.  He has been on mash for years  (soaked beet pulp and alfalfa pellets) but ever since we started hiding his Cushings's pill in it, he has been suspicious.  He has always preferred alfalfa flakes.  He knows what he likes, and he has earned the right to have opinions.

    Keeping Spice away from alfalfa has been a challenge.  I put him on the short, moist grass between the barns to reduce the risk of choke.  But he still wants the good stuff, and when he sees Boudicca getting her half flake, he looks at me with a mixture of longing and indignation.

    So, yes, I admit it: he gets hay.  I choose only the leafy bits, never the stiff stems.  After so many years, I trust him.  He's a canny old man who knows his own needs.  I watch him select each mouthful with care, his soft nose sorting through the options.  So far, it's working.  He hasn't lost much weight, and although his coat is dense, it lacks the curls typical of a pony struggling with Cushing's.

    He did have a couple of bouts with horse lice.  (Horse lice are species specific.  Although they can get on people, and spread to other equines through our clothes and grooming tools, they can't live off the blood of people.)  I dusted both him and Boudicca thoroughly.  The powder works, but none of the equines enjoy getting sprinkled.  Spice tolerates it with the stoicism of someone who has endured worse indignities.

    Just a few years ago, Spice was a ball of energy.  Walking wasn't his preferred gait. He trotted or cantered everywhere.  He loved to jump.  When I let him out of his enclosure, I would lower the top two rails, but he didn't wait for the bottom rung to be removed.  He jumped over.  It was a signature move, a small act of rebellion and joy.  Now he scrambles over at a walk or waits for me to lower the rail.   

    He takes long naps.  His world has softened.

    And yet, when the light hits him right, I see the horse he was - the spark, the mischief, the pride.  Age doesn't erase those things; it just tucks them deeper inside.

    According to the Guinness World Records, the oldest living horse is 37.  Spice isn't registered, and his exact age can't be proved, but by my calculations he is 30 or 31.  I once imagined he might be a contender.  Now I know that is unlikely.

    As I age alongside him, I'm confronted with my own mortality.  I once though he would outlive me.  That belief was comforting in a strange way, as if handing him the final chapter of my story would spare me from writing his.

    Life rarely follows the script we draft for it. 

    Now my goal is simpler: to keep Spice comfortable, content, and as Spicey as possible.  I want to honor the years we've shared, and to walk with him, slowly, into whatever comes next.

Mud

     Mud happens, especially if horses live in the Pacific Northwest.  Every year, when the rains come (and they do come in our area,) we know mud is going to be created.

    Towards the end of September, when the weather reports start to threaten rain, we call our local supplier of wood shavings.  We have used the same business for over 30 years, and the employees and my husband have formed a friendly relationship, enough so that I know the dumping of the shavings will take longer than the process of emptying the truck.  Who says women are the ones who gossip?

    Anyway, we order enough piles of shavings to create eight or nine (sometimes more,) four foot tall stacks along the driveway fence-line where we routinely toss hay.  Many people are startled to learn that we don't spread the chips.  Spreading creates mud that much faster.  If we allow the stacks to stand, the horses gradually flatten them.  Before they are leveled, the animals have dry places to stand and eat.  That is the idea.

    However, the stacks do not last.  When spring approaches, as it is now, the wood chips are history; in fact, they have become part of the mud.  Sometimes we will take advantage of frozen ground, and add a few more piles of shavings.  There are many years, like this year, when the weather is not conducive to more shavings.

    So we have mud.  Mud that is composed of wood and horse manure.

    I actually prefer the mud after a deluge of wet.  The odor is less.  (I'm immune to the smell of horse manure after 70 years of smelling it, and fortunately the neighbors have never complained.)  Soggy. muddy surfaces are slippery, but at least I know my boots are going to stay on my feet, as long as I keep my balance.

    Less moisture means the mud will get sticky and often the odor is stronger.  Cloying mud makes walking become an exercise in leg weight lifting that develops strong thighs.  Muscles have to be applied to get the feet moving.  Occasionally, if boots are a looser fit, the foot moves, but not the boot.  Children, especially, like to move fast, and they will run through the muddy ground.  Suddenly, I hear a yelp, and look to find a child hopping along holding up a foot with a saturated brown sock.  Behind them is a boot poking up from a mound of mud.  At least the human did not do a complete face-plant in the muck.

    Boots are essential.  When they are purchased the stores identify them as rain boots.  Fine.  They work in puddles.  However, we need proper footwear to plow through mud.  I tend to go through a pair every few years.  My last pair gave out right at the beginning of autumn.  Suddenly, I was experiencing wet socks inside my boots, and when I carefully inspected them, I found a crack in the rubber above the sole of the right boot.  I borrowed another pair up until Christmas when my daughter-in-law asked for my wish list.  Boots were on the top of my Santa requests.  I got them a bit late (Amazon was running slow,) but they fit perfectly, and comfortably.  I was delighted with the horses dancing across the boots.  They have been in service most days this winter.

                                                 

 

    I have had volunteers appear without boots.  I usually turn them away, although I do have a collection of old boots in the tack room.  Most of them have leaks.  That can be temporarily remedied with a plastic bag inside the boot; however, I do tell people to get their own appropriate footwear.  On rare occasions, rodents have snuck past the cats and nested in old boots. 

    The horses have to contend with the mud on a daily basis, and they can't put on boots.  They dislike the muck as much as humans.  We do the best we can to mitigate the problem, knowing that mud can cause thrush, abscesses, and scratches (fungal hoof infection.)  We work diligently to keep the stalls dry, as well as the main arena.  Unfortunately, the areas in front of gates tend to stay overly moist.  Once again, we try to bring in fresh wood chips to absorb the moisture. 

    I'm not sure why, but some of the horses seem to delight in mud baths.  Please explain to me why it is the horses with lighter colored coats who enjoy a roll in a patch of mud.  Summer is a glorious palomino.  Some of the golden ones have a darker coat, but Summer is a paler version, especially in the winter.  The children will spend hours grooming her.  An hour later I step outside to discover she has had an exuberant roll that has smeared her in a dark brown paste, and her four white socks are hidden in mud.  Sigh.  Keeping her clean is a constant chore.

    We live in an area noted for wind storms.  Although the wind can bring in the rain, often we get a major blow for days, without the moisture.  As long as the power grid stays intact, I am happy to get a few days of wind over 10 mph.  The mud will start to dry.  I appreciate nature's natural "hair dryer".  I think my horses do, too.  Most horses are fidgety in the wind, but mine have learned to accept it.  It means we don't have to scrap off mud, or pick out mucky hooves, although we do have tangled manes and tails to comb.

    We have had a relatively dry autumn and winter.  That is not good for the water reservoir in the mountains, but it has made the ground easier to navigate.

    We have mud.  It's manageable, as long as I can keep my boots on my feet.