Birds

     I'm not what anyone can call a formal bird watcher, but I do love to watch birds, and I have noticed, in the last few years, that there are far more varieties than when I was younger.  Or, perhaps, it is just that I am now looking.

    When I was a child, the first bird I recognized was a robin,  According to my parents, they were a harbinger of spring.  That is no longer true, at least not is this part of Western Washington.  I see robins all year around.  (The barn swallows indicate the changing of the seasons now.)  I also could name a crow, and probably I saw enough English sparrows to name them.  In fact, I think I called all small brown birds sparrows, including wrens and some finches.

    Now I recognize a lot more birds. I think because of the horses and the barns, we attract birds.  I have hay and grain laying around, and for the predator birds, well, barns unfortunately attract rodents.  I'm happy to see the falcons and eagles soaring and diving over our fields.

    In fact, some studies have shown that birds and horses have a somewhat symbiotic relationship.  I'm always amused when I see a bird perched on one of my equines.  I used to assume that they were always cow birds, but I have since learned that many types of birds go for a ride on an available steed.  Yes, birds are equestrians, as the 2026 Budweiser commercial demonstrates. 

    My knowledge of the birds around me has expanded.  I have seen towhees, juncos, and many starlings.

    Sometimes the birds I see give me a rush of excitement.  Only once have I seen a meadowlark or a goldfinch or a mountain bluebird.

    I thoroughly enjoy the times I have seen red-winged blackbirds.  They are striking in the contrast of their black feathers and the brilliant red on their wings.  

    I am delighted by the black-capped chickadees.   It seems that if I see one, I will see a banditry.  (The name of the group is as delightful as the birds.)

    A few years ago I looked outside to spot a smallish bird strutting in front of the barn where we had dropped a lot of grain.  I thought, "That looks like a quail."  I got out one of my bird books to confirm the sighting.  And then there was a whole covey of about twenty between our house and the barn.  Two days later they returned, but I have yet to see them again. 

    In the summer we have barn swallows and house finches making their nests in, and round the barns.  I have noticed there are fewer than we enjoyed when we moved in over 30 years ago.  All the housing development around us is probably making us less hospitable.

    The development, with all the domestic gardens, has ensured that all summer long, when I look out the kitchen windows, I will see a hummingbird.  They especially appreciate our bright scarlet "Lucifer" plants. 

    One of my favorite visitors is the occasional blue and brown scrub jay.  The birds are loud in voice as well as color, and since blue is my favored color, I welcome the sight of the jays.

    Occasionally, I will hear a woodpecker, and catch a glimpse of them, but since we no longer live in the woods, I rarely see them.  When our son was a grade schooler, they were a preferred bird. As a middle-schooler, he successfully rescued, raised and released a barn swallow.  

    We have had a problem with flooding in our pastures.  The city accepted some responsibility and dug a low spot in one pasture.  In late fall, winter, and early spring, it becomes a shallow pond.  The water attracts ducks, and more recently Canadian geese. I have seen as many as a dozen pars of ducks on "Lake Harris."  Usually it is only one pair; the ducks are regular visitors.  The geese are a little less common, but we have had half a dozen visiting at a time.  Autumn before last we had one goose who, alone, stayed for weeks.  I was beginning to wonder if we had a permanent guest, but one morning the bird was gone, and did not return - yet.

                                                       Ducks on Lake Harris
 

    About 15 years ago we saw the first Eurasian collared dove.  They quickly became ubiquitous.  Human guests often mistook their loud, repetitive cooing for an owl's whoo-ing.  I had to correct them.  Since the doves are not indigenous, I hope they are not frightening off our native feathered friends.

    I mentioned owls.  I have heard them in the evening, but never sighted one, and I would appreciate attracting one to our barn.  They are better than cats at catching rodents.  An owl would be an asset.

    I enjoy hearing the outside birds, but I am not proficient at telling one chirp from another.  I can tell a few, like the doves, or crows, or chickadees, but usually I just appreciate the sound. 

    I still often can't tell one brown bird from another.  In the past few weeks little brown birds have been hopping around my main barn.  They rub their bodies in the fallen alfalfa, and they peck around the farm vehicles.  They seem only marginally concerned about me as they go about their business.  As I did as a child, I call them sparrows, but that could be wrong.  Like all birds, they are welcome.  They seem to know it, too. 

     

Stallions

     Women should not handle stallions.

    Yes, that is what I heard 40 years ago.  Females were solemnly informed they were too weak to handle an intact male horse.  Not only that, but a stallion would smell when a woman was menstruating and become unmanageable.  (The horse, not the woman - but perhaps, now that I think of it, the condition was often associated with both.)

    The sentiment has been disproven so often that the myth that women cannot deal with stallions has been almost forgotten, but I certainly remember disapproving looks when I handled our colts.  My husband, the less experienced horseman, took them into the show ring until they were gelded.  That was the way the system worked. 

    Yet, my relationship with our stallions has routinely been a positive one.  For a short time we bred Quarter Horses, although we did not own a breeding stud.  We always took our mares to the stallion. 

    Then we bred Miniature Horses.  We had stallions.  Finally, we acquired Devon, an Exmoor stallion, when we attempted to increase the number of Exmoor ponies in the world.

    Although we had a couple of Miniature stallions, we ended up gelding my favorite, Shadow.  Donny became the primary gene donor to our mares.  The decision to geld Shadow was not an easy one, but he tended to have progeny that was taller than desired in a breed that valued height more than temperament.

    Temperament in stallions is not always a condition that is desired as much as I think it should be, although owners do take it into some consideration.  Certainly draft horse people do not want a ton or more of horse who can be difficult to control.  Even Thoroughbred owners demonstrate sense.  Chinook Pass set a North American record at Longacres in 1982.  I believe it is a record that still stands.  Chinook Pass raced as a Thoroughbred gelding.  Years later, he was boarded at a facility where I had my mare, Splash, trained.  He was involved in a second career as a dressage horse, and he was noted for his friendly demeanor.  Apparently, he was a nasty, unmanageable stallion, but a model equine gelding.  At least his owners and handlers realized he would be more valuable as a gelding.

    The stallions under my care have always been gentlemen with an emphasis on the gentle.

    Donny could certainly be handled by anyone, even children (although I didn't encourage it when he was a stallion).  He was small, but powerful.  Donny loved and trusted his people, perhaps more than he loved his mares.  He was a fertile little guy.  He was also a showman, demonstrating that horses are thinking animals, anxious to please.

    We did geld him when we decided that breeding Miniatures would no longer be part of our business.  I have to admit that I am not comfortable selling the animals who come into our care.  Passing them on for money feels like a betrayal, especially when I am not sure of the homes that they will be getting.  We did try to sell Donny as a stallion, but when no one wanted him (their loss) we decided to keep him as a gelding.  He more than made up for his lack of breeding potential.  Donny, with his amazing temperament, became an ambassador for the equine world.  He did it all.  He traveled to events.  He pulled a cart.  He carried toddlers.  He did it with a cheerful disposition, the same disposition he exhibited as a stallion.

    Later we tried breeding again.  This time it involved Exmoor Ponies, those amazing equines that have survived history, and several extermination attempts.  We had a couple of Exmoor mares, and they were almost too old to have foals.  We wanted to try to get them pregnant.  We were offered a stallion from Canada.

    Devon had been used to breed Exmoor mares in Canada and on the United States East Coast.  He had been suffering from Canadian winters.  He needed a climate where he wouldn't have to stay in a barn for months at a time.

    He arrived with a commercial hauler, and he promptly endured himself to all who met him  He was a beautiful fellow, and always well mannered.

    No, he did not manage to get our older mares pregnant, and not for lack of trying.  Age or the equines involved was probably the primary barrier.  Certainly, it wasn't Devon's fault.  He had proved himself, and he left some Exmoor foals in the world.

    Devon didn't leave us with any progeny, but like Donny, he left with people knowing that even if Exmoors are direct descendants of wild horses, they have manners.

    Donny and Devon were known for their wonderful personalities, and they were trained and shown by women.  I'm not sure either of them exactly favored women, but both of them usually behaved better for females.  Maybe it was because the mares had taught them respect.  Men might be competition, but women were to be esteemed.

    Perhaps we should start a new "myth."  Stallions should be trained and handled by women.  

     

     

         

Boyd

 

    Boyd was supposed to be a barn cat, or at least and indoor/outdoor cat.  That was my plan.  Life had other ideas.

    I had stopped by the veterinarian's that day, over 15 years ago, probably to pick up some medication for a horse or my dog.  On the counter was a poster of a large grey tabby.  Suddenly I teared up.  "Neffy has been gone for six months," I explained.  The staff all knew my beloved old tortoiseshell cat.  She had been our working barn cat, as well as my evening lap companion for over 14 years, but her health had been failing when she disappeared.  Neffy was independent, opinionated, and a superb hunter of rodents in the barn.  She was also my buddy.  I missed her.  Her absence left a hole in my being.     

    The receptionist glanced at the photo.  "He's looking for a home.  We put him in a local rescue last night.  He was an outdoor cat, and the family brought him in with his sick sister to be put down.  We kept him because there is nothing wrong with him except he needed his shots, and to be treated for fleas.  We did all that.  He's only a couple of years old.  He's pretty big.  Oh, and he's a Manx."  Then she explained when she saw my slightly puzzled expression, "He doesn't have a tail - only the tiniest stub."

    Something felt right about this cat.  "I'll take him," I said impulsively, but firmly.

    We made arrangements for me to come back in a few hours with a cat carrier.  Over the lunch period, the staff would transport him to their office from the rescue home.

    I walked in, and the receptionist put a bewildered big tabby in my arms.  He allowed me to stroke him as he nervously shed hair all over my clothes.  "What's his name?"

    His last owners didn't give him one.  They called him "boy."

    When I brought the cat home, it was my husband, Steve, who decided we wouldn't confuse the new pet by radically changing his non-name.  We would call him Boyd.  He answered to it immediately in a shy, confused way.

    As I have down with most of my new cats and kittens, I left him in the bathroom for a few days, with a litter box, and I brought him out in the evenings to sit with me as we watched TV.  He quickly adjusted to the routine in a tentative, timid manner.  Boyd never ventured far from my side.  I soon released him from the confines of the bathroom, and his litter box took its place in the laundry room with Boyd enjoying the run of the house.  He even got along with Snickerdoodle, the dog.

    There were a couple of mishaps.  He had accidents with bowel movements, and the vet explained that was not uncommon for Manx cats.  A careful diet took care of the problem most of the time.  Boyd also thought he could scratch his claws on Steve's recliner.  He accepted that as a no-no when I dusted the two cat trees with catnip.  At one point he believed he might stalk my pet budgies, but when the plexiglass side fell on him, he decided they didn't really exist, and he ignored the flight cage.

    So, living in the house was going well for Boyd.

    It was the outside that bothered him  Boyd wasn't bold like Neffy.  He always moved cautiously, especially when he was beyond the walls of the house.  I would bring him out with me, and he would sit by the door or slink under bushes.  I tried to explain to him that living on a horse farm meant he had a job.  Boyd was never convinced.

    Eventually, he did manage to establish himself as a hunter in the barn, but I learned to leave my bedroom window open.  The leap to the sill was about four feet.  He made it every night, returning to the house in the wee hour of the morning.

    It might have gone like that for more years, except construction began by us.  What had been a dairy farm with one old home, became a development with no cows and 65 new homes.  Our dead end street became a thoroughfare.

    Boyd had no traffic sense.  I watched him amble across the road, oblivious to the cars, and I decided I didn't need an outdoor cat.  The neighbors had cats.  They could maintain the rodent population in my barn.  Besides, I had always worried about the bird population.  Boyd could live in the house.

    He didn't seem to mind at all.  In fact, I think he was relieved.  Sometimes he sat on the bedroom window sill and gazed outside, but usually he was content to laze around the house.  He played with his toys, especially his purple ball that I had crocheted for him.

    Years passed, with Boyd my constant inside companion.  He would press against my thigh, or stretch his upper body across my lap because he was too big to lay his whole body on me.  He seemed to enjoy the company of Snickerdoodle, too.

    If I left for any length of time he was stressed.  I could tell.  He would shed.  Boyd, in many respects, was more like a dog than a cat.  He didn't pretend to be independent.  He always wanted to be near me.  He had beds in every room of the house, some of them meant for the dog.

    As he aged, Boyd put on more weight, and he got diabetes. I had to learn to adjust his diet, and to give him shots.  He was an ideal patient, and he even lost enough weight that I didn't have to continue poking him.  He enjoyed his wet, fish Friskies.

     The vet warned me Boyd's kidneys were failing him.  I was cleaning his litter box often, at least twice daily, but he never had an accident.

    Then he wasn't interested in his food, or his toys, although he drank a lot of water.  He hardly lifted his head as I stroked him.  We all knew our time together was ending.

    My beloved daughter-in-law is a veterinarian's technician.  She was with me as I held Boyd to cross the rainbow bridge.

    For years my little dog looked for his friend, quietly wandering from room to room, inspecting all of Boyd's resting places.

    I often dream of Boyd.   He haunts me.  My journal is full of stories about him, and I don't have a cat any longer.  Perfection can't be replaced.

    Somewhere in my house is a purple crochet ball.  Boyd hid it before he left, and I have never found it.  I wonder....  

     

Call the doctor

       I have liked every veterinarian I have met.  Good thing.  I need them for my cats and dogs and birds, and certainly for my horses.

     When Friendly Horse Acres began with only two horses I knew that the veterinarian for my cats and dogs also treated large animals.  Fifty years ago, that was common.  Veterinarians did not specialize in species, but they certainly had favorites and strengths depending on the type of animal.  Our veterinarian (I will call him Doctor J to give him some anonymity) was a crusty older man known for his short fuse and biting tongue.  He, also, was an excellent veterinarian with a devoted staff.  His office workers assured me that when it came to large animals, his personality brightened.  He delighted in horses, and he was our first vet when we acquired young Splash and wonderful Jodee.  Indeed, when he inspected and helped us with our equine purchases, he was a different man; affable and joking.  I was sorry when he retired, passing on his practice to a veterinarian who only accepted dogs and cats and birds as his patients.

    By that time, we had established ourselves in the horse community, and we found Doctor S, who only treated horses.  He was a fantastic vet, and much in demand in our area.  

    In fact, he was so much in demand that on one memorable occasion, after we had acquired our first Miniature Horses and begun breeding, he was not available.  We had a pregnant mare in labor, and it wasn't going well.  The hour was late.  I don't remember where I got the number for the back-up vet (probably Doctor S).  I do remember that she lived a distance away, but she promised she would get to us as soon as she could.  She was not fooling.  Probably she broke every speed limit between her home and our farm because she was at our door in record time.  Good thing it was late in the evening, and the traffic was light, especially 40 years ago.  She worked for hours, and as she warned me, "I can save the mare, but not the foal."  So it happened.  The foal had a foot hooked over our mare's pelvis, and by the time the vet arrived he was gone.  Our mare went into shock, but Peach (her name,) survived, and would have other foals, and become a confident riding and driving pony.  I remember telling our elementary-aged son, he wouldn't go to school the next day.  He had had a lesson in life.  I don't recall using that vet again (her normal practice was farther north than our farm,) but I will always remember her.

    When we moved out of King County into Pierce County we lost Doctor S.  He wouldn't cross the bridge into the next county.

    Quickly, we found a new veterinarian less than a mile from our house.  Doctor R was like Doctor J in that his practice included all animals.  He was everything we wanted in a veterinarian, and we treasured him for years.  He tried to be available for us, and I realize now he gave up a lot of his lunch hours to get to us when we needed him.

    Occasionally, Doctor R would have an assistant veterinarian.  Late one afternoon one of our treasured Miniature mares, Abby, went into labor.  All went well.  The colt was contentedly nursing, and I had carefully laid out the intact placenta for inspection.  Although it was a few minutes past closing time at Doctor R's clinic, I called expecting to leave a message.  The doctor who answered was the current veterinary assistant.  I don't remember her name.  She didn't stay long with the practice, but I do recall her weary voice.  "I'm coming, " she assured me.  When she arrived, she inspected the new baby, pronouncing him perfect, and she praised Abby for a splendid job.  The she confessed to me, "I've had a horrible day.  I wanted to end with a pleasant appointment.  Thank you."  She left with a smile.

    I had learned my lesson about only having one veterinarian to call.  We found Doctor C.   Doctor C's practice only included horses, and he was especially noted for working on Thoroughbreds.  However, we were accepted as clients.  Good thing, too.  Doctor R retired, and sold his practice to a small animal vet. (She still sees our dog.) We leaned heavily on Doctor C.  I found it interesting that I enjoyed the man, but many people confided they found him difficult to like.  I suppose, in many respects, he was like Doctor J.  Crusty.  Blunt.  Doctor C did not curtail his words.  I liked and appreciated him - enormously.

    Yet he, too, retired. 

    For a brief time I was without veterinarian care for my horses.  I had a list of other vets that Doctor C had shared as he faded from the veterinarian scene, but none of them were willing to take us on as regular clients.

    Then I remembered a young veterinarian who had come to our farm a couple of times in an emergency, over the years.  He had a traveling van.  He, along with his future wife, was building a practice.  In fact, his practice must be flourishing because he was seldom available, but I still had his number.

    When I called Doctor D, the call connected.  I was surprised to find I had called an association of veterinarians.  I was delighted to find they were accepting clients, and I was within their practice's accepted geographic area.  Yes, I could see Doctor D, but would I be willing to see any other of their veterinarians who could be available more quickly?   I would.

    I now longer have to worry about getting help for my horses.  I've got a handful of veterinarians on speed dial, including Doctor D.  As I've pointed out, I've never met a veterinarian I didn't like.  Northwest Equine Veterinary Associates is not an exception.  I like them all.  

    It is a relief to know that I can always call the doctor to get help for my equines.

                                                      sketch by Angie Blanchard

The Routine of Happiness

         Starting this summer, up until today in November, I have been in and out of the hospital four times.  It's depressing.  I'm restricted in my activities.  It's a struggle to get outside and remind my horses and ponies that I love them.  I can't even feed them because the motion of tossing flakes of hay might rip some stitches.  The poop scooping is another motion that is forbidden and I have to leave it to my family and friends.

    I am reminded to a book from my childhood:  Album of Horses. Marguerite Henry wrote the script and Wesley Dennis did the brilliant illustrations.  My copy was published in 1957, although the copyright is 1951.  The book is still in print, and in my opinion, it will never be outdated.

    Album of Horses, ostensibly for youngsters, provides  information, with words and pictures, about various horse breeds.  The list is far from complete, but the book has inspired a love of horses in several generations - starting with mine.  Towards the end of the book is a chapter titled The Routine of Happiness.  I will not spoil the story by summarizing it here, because I feel any horse lover who has not read the book should go out and find a copy.  Older readers will enjoy the book as much as young ones.

                                                            

 

    Right now, at this point in my life, I can relate to the message in the story.  I am not ready to retire, and I want to return to my own routine of happiness.

    My routine is one that my husband does not share with delight, but for me the daily chores make me happy, and at this juncture of life I cannot engage in them.  It's depressing.

    Of course, if you know me personally, you know I work with youngsters and a few adults who want to learn to ride.  However, I am always more concerned with teaching folks how to communicate with horses.  I especially enjoy seeing the animals engage with people who have learning disabilities.

     The lessons are only a small part of my pleasure, and are not always part of my routine.

    My routine begins when I wake up.  The first thing I do, after I take my prescribed pills, is feed my animals.  My dog gets the first meal, but the horses follow immediately.  Most of the equines get their flakes of alfalfa, but three of them get medication.  I prepare a doctored mash I have soaked overnight.   While they are eating I do the first round of pooper scooping.  My husband, especially, hates the manure gathering, but I find it a relatively pleasant way to stretch my muscles and relax my mind. (See the older blog Zen of Poop.)  Before I leave the barn in the morning I set out food for the next feeding.  Then I call the dog, and pluck some chickweed and/or clover for my pet budgies.  Back in the house with my old pooch, I will finally have my own breakfast.

    Some days I will teach lessons or train a horse, but not every day.

    The equines are fed again mid-afternoon.  Two of them get mash as well as alfalfa.  Again I scoop.  Checking the manure is a good way to assess the health of my animals.

    The last feeding occurs before I go to bed.  I get to tell them all I love them.  That final feeding is sort of like reading a child a book at bedtime (maybe an excerpt from The Album of Horses,) and tucking them in.

    The next morning I will start the same routine all over again.  It makes my happy.  I admit that weather can curtail some of my pleasure.  I am not a big fan of extreme heat, and the rain can be a damper. (Pun intended.)  Ice has been a challenge in the past years.  However, the act of caring for my animals is always satisfying.

    These days I have to leave my chores to other people.  Sure, I go outside as often as I can, but I have been instructed not to lift a flake, and certainly I have been told the motion of hefting a manure fork could be dangerous to my internal healing.

    People who care about me tell me to relax and enjoy the time off as I heal, but I have to admit watching someone else perform my chores and interact with my horses makes me anxious.

    I want the routine.  It is central to keeping my heart beating.  I feel useful when I care for my animals, but I know, for now, I need to let them care for me.

    My goal is healing; to get back to work; to return to my routine of happiness. 

     

PeeCheeYou'reSoCute

     Usually we called her PeeChee, but often she heard, "PeeChee, you're so cute, said very fast, as if the expression was one word.  So when it came time to get her registration papers, her official name became PeeCheeYou'reSoCute.

    Some horses and ponies in my care are dearer to my heart than others.  It can't be helped.  People are emotional.  I love all my animals, but PeeChee has to be listed with those who became especially dear.

    I had purchased her on a whim, intending her for a child sometime in the future.  (See the whole story in my book The Hoofbeats of My Heart.)  I discovered I was the child in the pony's future.  At the time, I weighed no more than many preteens, and PeeChee was young and full of vim and vigor.  She was what we describe as a "forward thinking" horse because she was constantly trying to move into a faster gait.  A rider didn't ask her to go faster; they let her. She was not, by most standards, the perfect children's pony.  However she suited me well, and I discovered a love of the smaller breeds.  A pony who was only slightly over 11 hands could be more of a challenge than a 15.2 Quarter Horse.

    White horses are usually described as grey.  So, even though PeeChee was mostly white, her papers call her grey: "Grey with sprinkles of Appy mottling and whispers of golden spots on her rump."

    Thirty years ago, when PeeChee and I were forging our partnership, I was engaged in breeding horses, especially Miniature Horses, but almost all of our animals had registration papers.  For some reason, I seemed to think papers were important, and in many respects, that was true.  When it came to breeding, having registered animals kept us viable in a competitive market.  In fact, some of our horses, like my darling Splash, were double registered.

    Now, many years later, I haven't bothered to transfer papers on any of my horses who are registered.   Bills of sale are all that matter to me.  I have no intentions of breeding or selling, I only want proof that the animals are part of my family.

    However, in PeeChee's day those papers wee important.  PeeChee was of uncertain ancestry.  She was an example that papers don't make the horse.  I was taking dressage lessons, riding her, and showing her.  To me she was perfection.

    I wanted her to have papers.

    I don't remember where I saw the advertisement for the Universal Perkehner Society.  Apparently, I wasn't the only person chasing equine registration papers.  This organization had decided that they would register horses with mixed bloodlines for fun.  I believe they based their business on a personality-plus horse called Perky owned by one of the founding owners. For a small fee, they were willing to create a certificate for horses or ponies with extra personality quirks.  My PeeChee certainly qualified.

     The registration came, and PeeChee was now officially a part-Perkehner.  I was pleased.  In fact, very pleased.  All of the other registration papers and bills of sale for my equines are jumbled together in a bureau drawer.  PeeChee's certificate is framed, and hangs proudly displayed on my computer room wall, along with my scholastic degrees. I smile through tears as I look at it.  PeeChee was so incredibly special.

    She gave me joy.

    She definitely qualified as a part Perkehner.  I had no trouble listing three personality qualities that set her apart from most horses.  First of all was her insistence that her riders sat with a balanced seat.  Perhaps, because she was small, she did not want to carry a lop-sided load on her back.  She only protested about my weight alignment once, but she sure would take advantage of any of my students who were not centered or focused.  Incorrect posture, or indulging a wandering mind were enough for her to deposit a rider on the ground.  Secondly, PeeChee did not like human males.  She avoided them, and she was nimble enough to stay out of their way.  Females, though, were okay with her, but she did expect them to carry treats.  Her last peculiarity had to do with male equines, either geldings or stallions.  She attracted them, more so than other mares.  I had to keep stallions away from her, but the geldings were devoted followers.  PeeChee appeared to encourage them, too.  She was a constant flirt.  Perhaps I should have let her have a foal, but that is hindsight.

    PeeChee's certification came in 1995.  I can hardly believe 30 years have passed.  I did wonder if the Universal Perkehner Society still exists.  Apparently, it is gone.  Too bad.  It served a purpose for people like me with delightful mixed breed equines who deserve recognition.

    PeeChee passed away from cancer at least 20 years ago.  I still mourn her, and she haunts my barn.

    PeeChee started me on a love affair with ponies - any pony.  Before PeeChee I was not aware that huge personalities come in the smaller sizes.

    I love you, PeeCheeYou'reSoCute.

 

Healing

         I have heard it three times now.  Medical professionals have assured me, "The horses will help you heal.

    I am facing surgery.

    I definitely will be in need of healing.

    Friendly Horse Acres exists to help heal, especially learning disabled folks.  The mission statement is: Horses and humans healing each other physically, emotionally and spiritually.  I have run the organization for over 30 years.  I have seen the healing work.

    The business started by accident.  My husband and I didn't know we were helping young people in the community until the local school representative notified us with a personal visit.  A counselor reported that we were making a difference in the lives of some troubled teens, especially those with high functioning autism and ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder).  Originally, the school even paid us to work with a student.  The encouragement was incentive enough to take steps to become a non-profit.

    Over the years we have found equines can make a difference in lives.

    Children who have trouble focusing become quiet and less anxious as they learn how to please the horses.  Grooming the animals, especially, seems to make a difference.  This is apparent with children and young people who don't usually like to be touched.  They relish the opportunity to be with the horses, and to have physical contact.  Some of them enjoy riding, but not all.  When they do ride, these individuals often prefer to ride bareback.  The contact with an equine partner is important.  These riders don't want the interference of a saddle.

    For some young folks with physical disabilities, the opportunity to work with large animals is a confidence booster.  Although we are not equipped to work with wheelchair bound folks, we do work with some physical challenges, and these youngsters have become devoted fans of the horses.

    In today's challenging, contentious world, people who suffer from depression come to the horses to feel better.  Young people, especially, benefit.  The horses are a source of comfort.  I have regularly heard that our horse farm is a "happy place."  Touching a horse has been a way to lower blood pressure and remove depression.

    Children are not the only people who benefit from the horses.  I had a woman,who was coming to our town to attend AA meetings, become a regular visitor.  She asked to stop by on her way home to be with the horses.  Her favorite was our Exmoor stallion, Devon.  I would isolate him from his mares, and leave him with his human.  She stayed with him for at least an hour.  I don't know what they talked about, but both the pony and human were happy to be with each other.  When she left, she pointed out, "He does more for me than the meeting."  She spoke truth.  She remained drugs free until she passed away years later.  We always stayed in touch even when she left the state.

                                                                  Devon

I know there has been a great deal of literature about how horses can heal.  I certainly can't dispute it, but I do need to point out that horses do not always create a cure.

    I have had several children, and even adults, who do no react positively to the horses.  Some are indifferent, and some are frightened, even by the Miniature Horses, let alone a full-sized or a draft horse.

    I had at least one student who, as a very young child, seemed to react positively to the horses.  However, as she matured, she became increasingly agitated.  The horses did not calm her.  Eventually, she  became violent.  She kicked and punched the horses and pulled their tails when we lost control of her.  I had to put an end to her visits.  The animals' safety is my responsibility.  Horses do not heal everyone.

    I the past, when the insurance companies permitted us to make visits, we took animals to various venues where they could offer their presence to the public.  Did they pass along healing vibes?  I'm sure they did.  I do not think they consciously try to comfort humans.  They just do.

    I know they have been good for my health over the years.  People have pointed out that my numerical age by no means matches my activity age.  With as many as 21 equines to care for at any one time, I have to be very active.  Right now there are "only" seven horses and ponies in my care.  They require that I am out with them a minimum of three times a day, and usually more often than that.  Sure, I have help on occasion.  But, I don't have to worry about being inactive.  There are days, when the weather is blustery, I would sooner stay in the warm house.  I can't.  I have chosen to make my horses my responsibility.

    I get to pat them and reassure them that I care every day.  They know me.  They trust me.

    They keep me young.

    Except the years have rolled along, and my numerical numbers have finally caught up with me.  I may move like I am still in my 40s or 50s, but my body is wearing down.

    So, my health is not what it used to be.  My immune system is not as strong as in years past.

    I need an operation.  I will need help.  I am counting on the equines in my backyard to help me heal.  The medical professionals indicate that can happen.

    Horses are healers.