Fireworks

    The dreaded Fourth of July relentlessly approaches.  Of all the USA holidays it is the one I intensely dislike.  I feel it has become sanctioned animal abuse.  I'm talking about the fireworks that proliferate in many communities, and certainly in mine.

    Perhaps I should point out, to those who do not know me personally, I am a green-card carrying Canadian.  Because I am a grey-haired pacifist grandmother of mostly Celtic decent, I'm not yet on ICE's target list, and if I become one, I will happily return to Canada dragging my family with me.  I don't look forward to moving given my age, and I am very, very content on our little horse farm, but I will go if I have to.  Anyway, I grew up in an area in British Columbia where most private fireworks were banned.  I didn't miss them.

    Let's return to the Fourth, the present, and the fireworks in our immediate vicinity.  I admit to enjoying the new shows that use drones and other modern, quiet technologies accompanied by music.  It is the noise of the fireworks that are so common in our town that start long before the Fourth that bother me and my animals.  The explosions may not be legal, but I hear them in the latter part of June.

    So does my dog.  He is one of the 50% of canines who are terrified by the noise.  I use a Thundershirt and chemicals, but he is still a wreck.  Lately, at age 14, he has become a little deaf, so I am hopeful that this year will be a bit more endurable for him. 

    But about the horses:  Sure, I have seen pictures of war horses, but I am perfectly aware they are an exception; the booms are nothing horses willingly tolerate. 

    Most of my horses and ponies are in pastures with access to shelter.  People who don't know horses would think they are okay.  I know better.

    Horses are flight animals.  For horses, running away is a go-to method of avoiding disturbances.  That is why I don't teach lessons around the Fourth.  Even the most placid pony can suddenly spook at an unexpected boom.

    Rarely do my horses start running when the fireworks are detonating about their heads, but it has happened.   There have been years when they frantically gallop around their enclosures until they realize they can't avoid the noise or the lights above their heads. 

    In some cases fireworks are the cause of death in horses.  I can't find the statistics for horses in the United States, but a British study recorded 98 injuries and 20 fatalities over a nine year period.  I would guess the numbers are higher in the United States.  Although there is no hard data, various veterinarian on internet sites mention the problems that arise because of fireworks.

    Stress caused by excessive noise causes horses to get colic.  Colic can be a killer.

    We are fortunate we did not lose one of our best lesson horses to explosions.  Skeeter would never win any beauty contest.  She was a sturdy brown pony large enough to carry most adults, and small enough that children were not intimidated by her size.  Her features were coarse with large ears, and she was blind in her left eye.  Beauty, as often quoted,  is only skin deep.  Inside, Skeeter was beautiful.  Anyone could ride her.  She was much loved and appreciated.

     She was also terrified of loud noises.  I have wondered if she lost her eye in a hunting accident, and that added to her fear of explosions.

    Regardless, the first year we had her, our city had no limitations on fireworks.  It was so bad, one of our cars suffered burned paint caused by burning firecrackers and other incendiaries set off in late June.  People in the neighborhood had a habit of aiming their noisemakers towards our property since we were/are one of the few open spaces in town.  (After we sent a letter to the city, the explosions directed at us have somewhat stopped.)

    That year was Skeeter's first Fourth of July with us, but by the end of June, after days of booms, she was severely ill with colic.  She was so sick we had to trailer her to a veterinarian's property outside of the city limits where he could monitor her, and keep her marginally more comfortable.  Fireworks were well on their way to killing her.  She was saved, but it was a near thing.  I've estimated that her hospital stay cost us the same as a week in a luxury hotel. 

    So it goes.

    Skeeter lived to be in her late 30s, perhaps in her 40s since we never learned her exact birth date. Cancer finally forced her across the Rainbow Bridge.  In the years before her death, we learned to take care of her, and we catered to her fear of loud noises. Weeks before any fireworks were exploded, we hooked up a sound system into her stall.  We would gradually increase the volume as the Fourth approached.  I am a fan of symphonies so we played the local classical radio station for her.  Although I am not an aficionado of most opera, it turns out Skeeter enjoyed the singing.  She seemed to be especially rapt when a tenor voice performed.  By the time the Fourth rolled around we were pumping up the volume as high as it would go.  I didn't care if our neighbors didn't appreciate her choice of music blasting across the pasture.  They had their unmelodic booms, and Skeeter had her opera.  (Actually, no one complained about the music; maybe they shared Skeeter's taste.)

    Since Skeeter passed years ago, we have developed methods of discouraging the fireworks to stay away from our farm.  We leave the barn and arena lights blazing all night.  Our vehicles get tucked out of the range of most of the pyrotechnics.

    Still, I worry about my dog and the equines.  This year we have a new horse and pony.  I am hoping they will be able to stand the stress.

    As usual, I am not looking forward to the Fourth of July.

    Incidentally, happy Canada Day on the first of July.

    May your day be safe and quiet.

     

     

 

Jodee

     The name on her registration papers stated: April Star Jodee.  She was the best horse anyone could want.  Her glossy coat shone a dark chocolate brown, with a black mane and tale, and a white star on her forehead.  Jodee was a Quarter Horse.  She had the kindest brown eyes that were mirrors to her gentle, ageless soul.

 

    Steve Mark, and I felt privileged to have her come into our lives.

 

    To a small extent, I believe she has come back to us, even though it is about 15 years since she crossed the rainbow bridge.  I'll get back to why I feel that way. 

 

     Jodee came into our lives because Steve and I decided it was time we acquired horses.  Steve had recently survived a life-threatening accident, when a slash from Devil's Club on his arm became infected.  There is nothing like a stint in the hospital to remind you that life is finite.  What we had intended to do "someday" became "today."

                                                                     Jodee

 

    I began a search for horses.  I think I found the number in The Little Nickel classified ads.  Does anyone else remember that ubiquitous little yellow paper that was stacked for free at every retail outlet?  The paper predated the internet.  Is it still published?  I believe it is online now.

 

    I called local phone numbers and landed on an extension and an address close to us in Kent.  Steve and I, along with a very young Mark, headed out to find a horse, and at the same time we met new friends.  For the purposes of privacy, I won't mention their names, but I will say we met a wonderful couple with children close to Mark's age.  They were life-long riders, and they competed in barrel racing.  Jodee was for sale because her peak racing days were over.  Also on the market was a young Paint palomino filly.  We made arrangements to bring both equines home to Auburn.

 

    I can't remember what we paid for the pair, but whatever it was, it was a bargain.

 

    Even though Splash, the filly, wasn't a year old, she settled into her new home as comfortably and quickly as Jodee who was an old pro at accepting new situations.  Jodee, we quickly realized, was a natural mother.  She had had foals, and although Splash was not her own, Jodee's maternal nature kicked in.  It made the new environment an easy adjustment for both equines.

 

    I promptly began to enjoy Jodee under saddle.  Steve and Mark climbed on in turn.  At first I restricted myself to a sedate walk with an occasional trot, but Jodee, as she would with all her riders, determined when it was time to increase the pace.  She had, after all, been a racer.  However, she was always careful to keep her riders seated. 

 

    Given the many years we partnered with her, I don't ever remember Jodee losing a rider - except once, and that time she lost three in one go.  Jodee had been in her pasture that afternoon when Mark was entertaining a couple of his elementary school friends.  My son coaxed a willing Jodee to the fence, carefully avoiding the top rail where an electric wire ran.  Mark swung himself up on the horse and urged a second boy to follow.  Both boys waved over the third.  That child clambered the fence, the same as the others, but Jodee, without any physical restraints, had angled her hind end away from the fence.  The third youngster had more of a stretch.  As he did the splits to land behind the other two boys, his foot touched the wire. 

 

     Poor Jodee!  The jolt sent her spinning, and three boys unceremoniously hit the dirt.  No one was hurt, but the gentle mare seemed genuinely upset that her patient tolerance had been rewarded with a burst of electricity.

 

    Years Passed.  Jodee became a lesson mount for us.

 

    She would have two foals of her own, but she mothered every foal on the property.  When a young, first-time mother was uncertain of the the procedure with a new baby, Jodee stepped in.

 

    The only creature Jodee mistrusted was dogs.  Probably she had cause.  As a mother, she didn't want those "wolves" messing with her precious babies.

 

    As she aged, and her health deteriorated, Jodee still was a treasure.  At some point we stopped riding her, but her human friends realized she still liked to get out and about.  Most evenings, someone would come to take her on a walk in the neighborhood.  Although we had a halter on her, the rope usually remained in our pocket.

 

    Our veterinarian, at the time, was a crusty chap who had put down many equines.  He knew the drill.  Yet, he fought to keep Jodee alive because he admired the mare.  When the day came to let her go he, too, had tears.

 

    We all knew one of the great ones had left us.

                                                            Jodee

 

    Now, to explain why I think a part of Jodee has come back.

 

    Two new horses are in our pasture.  One is a red roan pinto pony.  The other is a glorious golden gaited mare, only slightly older than Jodee was when she came into our lives.

 

    The reason the palomino girl reminds me of Jodee..? 

 

    It is because a couple of months ago we got a phone call.  The woman on the recording called herself, "a voice from the past."  Indeed.  It was the woman who had sold us Jodee over 30 years ago.  We had lost touch as she and her husband left the state, then returned without our knowledge.  Now a widow, she was back, located only an hour from us, and she thought of us, and took a chance on our old phone number.

 

    We reconnected.  We felt as close as we had when we first met her.  Weeks later she confided that her health was slipping Tentatively, she asked it we would be interested in buying her horses.  We knew her.  We knew any animal of hers would be stellar, and spectacularly well-trained.

 

    So, once again, we have a new brilliant mare, and an adorable pinto pony.  The personalities are not the same; the old pony is not my Splash, and the palomino is not Jodee.

 

    Yet, when I look at the golden mare, and she stares with her remarkable amber eyes, somehow I feel as if a part of Jodee has returned. 

     

     

     

The Way It Used To Be

     Sometimes I feel diminished.  

    I remember the way it used to be, back in the days when we had Miniature Horses, and the freedom to share time with the rest of the world.  today, the minis have crossed the rainbow bridge, and the insurance companies dictate what we can do - which is very, very little.

    There was a time when we visited nursing homes, attended festivals, lectured at libraries, and even marched in parades.  (I admit parades were never my favorite - but anyway...)  For a few years the Puyallup Fair paid us to present our Exmoor Ponies to the public.  That was exhausting, but memorable fun.  We spread the word about our wonderful rare breed animals. 

    It wasn't always the Miniature Horses who were trailered out for day trips.  Our Shire draft horse, Mac, was a special hit with the nursing and assisted living homes.  The minis are adorable, but Mac could brighten the face of many seniors living his or her last years in a facility.  We discovered there was noting like a draft horse to create delight, and bring out memories of days farming with the big animals. 

    Today we don't have a draft horse, any more than a Miniature or an Exmoor.  Bonnie was our last draft and she passed away a year ago.  She never made any outside visits.  I think she would have enjoyed the attention.  Draft horses are big loves.  

    I remember a number of festivals where we were invited at the last moment.  I think it was a Federal Way City festival where I was expected to bring a cart and pony.  A week before the event I suddenly realized that the two minis I had intended to bring were unavailable.  Shadow had come up lame, and Peach was pregnant.  I looked out in the pasture.  I had eight days to train a mini to pull a cart, then present the horse in public.  Mischief, a sorrel pinto, was my candidate.  She was an apt pupil.  She took to driving as if she had been born to it.  (Maybe she was.)  A week later we were surrounded by people and booths in a large park.  Mischief never put a wrong foot forward, after that single, intense week of training. 

    Sometimes the events were more popular than we expected.  On one memorable library visit the librarians realized the crowd exceeded their expectations.  We were asked to move our program outside.  Fortunately, I had enough helpers to manage the three minis who were part of the program we had planned.  I can't recall the other two horses, but I do remember that Peach was with us this time.  She was a bright chestnut, class B Miniature.  (The B indicated she was more than 34 inches, but under 38 inches at the last hair of her mane.)  I think I had completed the story part of the performance when I realized Peach had disappeared.  I could see the student who was supposed to be holding her lead rope, but Peach was invisible.  I peered closer.  There was a mound of children.  And just barely, I spotted a small patch of red fur.

    Peach was completely covered by children!

    And she was patiently standing completely still.  She might even have been enjoying the attention in a bemused sort of way. 

    Horse shows used to be part of our program, too.  Yes, I competed.  I took dressage lessons at Fox Ridge Farm.  Steve took a few lessons, too, although he never entered a show.  I rode my beloved little PeeChee, and later I showed the draft horse, Mac, under saddle.

    But more than my own outside equine activities, my students took part in some of the local horse shows.  They got some treasured ribbons presenting the Miniatures to the public.  I was proud of them.

    Not only do we no longer have the Miniature Horses, nor the draft horses, nor the Exmoor Ponies, but the world has far fewer venues for people to show horses.  Subdivisions have taken many of the places that were once sites for horse events.

    And the insurance company has taken away our right to show our horses in public anyway.  We are restricted to our property, and even than what we can do is extremely limited.

    Talking to an insurance agent, I was told his company blames the lawyers.  

    Whatever.  The United States is a country that points fingers. 

    The bottom line is, people cannot be educated about horses, nor can those of us who own them, share them without Big Brother stepping in. 

    I admit I don't have the energy for the multiple programs that were part of our past, but I would like to think I could pass the torch to others.  Legally, it is doubtful.

    We still attend the Black Diamond Labor Day festivities, as we have done for almost 30 years.  However, gone are the days when we take a mini or two.  Twenty years ago we offered cart rides, and we participated in the parade.  I can still see Donny, our one-time herd stallion, and later our remarkable little gelding, going up and down a series of eight concrete stairs.  I didn't know horses could navigate steps.  Now we participate in the celebration with only a cardboard cut-out horse that looks remarkably like our Arab, Bay.  I hope the insurance adjusters don't decide that is too much. 

    Going to places without a horse in tow is the best we are allowed to do, and sometimes I worry that will be taken away from us, too.

    Yes, I feel diminished, and a little angry - certainly irate.  Horses need to be shared. 

                                                                Peach

    The mission statement at Friendly Horse Acres is: Horses and humans healing each other physically, emotionally and spiritually.  We will fulfill that mission as long as we are permitted.