Chance the Middle-aged Morgan: A Stallion-type Dude Even in the Blizzard of '10

Vermont. We here in the Northeast are getting utterly DUMPED with heavy, wet snow. It is the most we’ve had all year—two feet in 24 hours! And it’s supposed to continue like this for another two days. Luckily the power is still on and the temperature is in the mild mid-30s.  But I just broke out the snowshoes for future treks to the barn.

Chance the Middle-aged Morgan seems unconcerned with the blizzard and the crust of snow encasing his mane, ears, head, eyelashes, whiskers, and long tail. He is wearing his rain jacket to protect the rest of his body, but atop that sheet, along his spine and big butt, there have accumulated small snow mounds that I have to shake off every few hours. 

What a funny animal he is, our Chance the Middle-aged Morgan. Before he arrived at Thanksgiving, Jim built him this gorgeous run-in shed attached to the barn, and I put down comfy rubber mats (anti-mud) and installed a hay rack so he could get out of the elements on inclement days like these and live like a king.

But as I wrote in these pages before, Chance the Middle-aged Morgan is an outdoors kind of guy, a stallion-type dude (minus his ba two important appendages) who prefers to camp under the stars, in the torrential rain, a howling blizzard, or in a lake of mud. He hates his stall, pacing nervously and pawing when tied, so we’ve reserved the tortuous imprisonment for times when he absolutely needs to be enclosed.

For some reason, probably due to a nasty event in his mysterious past, even Jim’s open-ended run-in shed feels suspicious to him. With his delicious hay (thanks to Edie at Trumbull Mountain Farm) protected in the run-in during this extended storm, he has to work up the courage to enter the shed, then grab a mouthful of hay, spin around and position himself at the open end of the shed, getting snowed or rained upon while chewing his mouthful. When done, he spins back around, snatches another mouthful, and returns to his wet/snowy spot at the entrance to chew some more. I watch him from the house and laugh as he disappears and then reappears to thoughtfully chew the next mouthful.

I think this routine has to do with Chance’s prey status, meaning that horses are prey animals. This biological fact is primary to understanding horse and, indeed, most animal, behavior. Everything horses do is based upon this: they are prey animals vulnerable to predator animals. A prey animal is always on the lookout for danger from predators. A predator is always on the lookout for tasty prey animals to eat . . .  like Chance the Middle-aged Morgan.  Predators might be lurking just outside Chance's enclosure and trap him without recourse to safety.

The horse’s primary tool for escaping danger is flight. Their consuming instinct is to sense possible danger and RUN AWAY AS FAST AS POSSIBLE. This is their survival technique. A horse will run to escape a perceived threat (mountain lions, wolves, etc.) and only stop to further assess the threat at about 50-100 feet away, their exquisitely developed senses in high gear. They exhale and inhale with loud nasal drama both out of fear and also to detect odors that will give them possibly life-saving data about the threat. They prick their ears forward to hear better, hold their heads as high in the air as possible, the better to see with, and remain motionless while they try to determine whether their next move is more flight, relaxation (O phew!  it was just a twig/piece of paper/snowmobile/Jim's chain saw/neighbor's mailbox), or sometimes curiosity, generally to do with happy opportunities for food or fun.

Once we humans who love horses can put themselves into their horse’s minds and GET the prey/predator thing, we will have a lot easier time training and riding them safely. Overcoming survival instincts is a tough task, even for us “smarter” humans! Horses need to develop a lot of well-earned trust to make that leap of faith when we ask them to do certain things. Think about it. 

A couple of good links to further understand animal psychology are http://extension.usu.edu/files/publications/equine2.pdf and http://www.gentlehorses.com/the_nature_of_horses.htm. 

Now take a look at the snow overhang above Chance's head in this photograph. When it melts, what will happen? I think his natural wariness is absolutely brilliant!

No dummy, our Chance the Middle-aged Morgan.

Ya Just Gotta Scratch It!

Our recent water crisis was solved with 3 lengths of garden hose in a not-so-icy midday hour that allowed me to fill the water tub to the brim, enough water to last the rest of the week. The following day, whatever was frozen in the standpipe, unfroze.


Two days ago, Chance and I went out to tour our little village, frigidity notwithstanding, as the cold sunshine was irresistible. After some good groundwork to work out the bucks and farts (by lunging) and when he had softened and become respectful, it was time to spontaneously saddle up and head out.  All horsepeople know that sudden itch. Ya just gotta scratch it.

Though only a resident of my backyard for two months, he has become comfortable enough with his neighboring surroundings that I now feel safe riding alone. If we turn to the west from the barn at Mt. Pleasant, we head down to the small, historic village that is clustered around the beautiful Peter's Brook. Its waters come from high in the Green Mountains and the waterfall that tumbles over the cascading rock ledges behind the old Candle Mill becomes dramatically engorged and furious at times of severe rain or snowmelt.

Bundled up in a down jacket, gloves, scarf and wearing fleece-lined britches, I look like a puffy black butterball.  We walk slowly on the right of the road, checking out any changes in the landscape, listening to the birds, and wary of approaching vehicles. Chance is stable in traffic, but if some idiot decided to rev his engine or, heaven forbid, blast his horn, we'd both freak, so I am ready, sitting deep and balanced in my Wintec saddle. Most drivers pass carefully, some slow or even stop until I wave them on.  And yes, some are just plain assholes. I mutter creative, dark imprecations about their asshole-ness through my fleece neck gaiter.

We pass by my old riding friend Kathy's house. She and her Morgan moved far away to Pawlet, and I very much miss having a buddy to ride out with looking for adventure.  We walk past the spot where Remember Baker, one of the Green Mountain Boys, is said to have built the village's first grain mill, right next to the photogenic waterfall, then pass the maple tree I planted in 1992 in memory of my mother; it looks like a giant now. Every season, I duck under its branches and give the tree a hug, whispering my status updates to Mom.  I am delighted to tell her how happy my life has become.

Then Chance and I cross the empty street, passing the antiques shop and the chocolate shop to mosey up to our friend's Ez-Pz Cafe. Anna is a horse lover and always comes outside to greet us, no matter how icy the temperature. Despite the flapping flag, Chance loves these social visits and the admiration he receives.  When Anna can no longer tolerate the weather, we turn and head south on Ice Pond Road toward the town's dominant, historic homestead and the pond where they cut ice in the old days.

Ancient maples still dot the landscape but their dead or rotting limbs indicate they are at the end of their long lives. Back in 1992, I planted 28 young "memorial" trees (lindens, crabapples, and maples) along the main roads of this village, and they are now sturdy, full-branched residents of the townscape that increase the pleasure of inhabitants, visitors, and middle-aged women on horseback!

Once on the empty road, I urge Chance into a good trot. He is shoeless and just a tad ginger on the pavement, but when he gets going his ears prick forward, he moves briskly out, and we find our rhythm. I lost all my riding muscles after Athena died, but they're coming back now and I can post for quite some time. Chance hadn't been ridden but once in an entire year before he came here, so both he and I are getting fit and muscled again.

We finish the village circle and start back up the hill, past the fire station, Leslie's quaint framing shop, the post office, the Ez-Pz Cafe (which Chance tries to visit again), and the waterfall and historic buildings of the former Candle Mill toward our home at Mt. Pleasant.

When I ride, I find nearly complete peace and happiness in my world. It's just always been that way for me.

How about you?

Global Colding: Frozen Barn Water

Yes, it finally happened. The Vermont cold was so sub-zero yesterday that my water line froze out to the barn. This never happened once with Athena. Jim says it's due to "global colding." And to the lack of insulating snow cover.

What to do? The line comes from the house and is well underground, unreachable. The house end is not frozen; we tested that. There's a working heat tape on the standpipe at the barn end.  So it's got to be below. Ack.

All I know is that we've either got daily bucket brigades ahead of us until the global warming cycles back in a couple of weeks or we use a garden hose stretched out from the house, a tentative solution at best until a thaw arrives.

I wish I owned a 100-foot length of my friend's new product, the Pirit Heated Hose. The inventor, Willie Ferrone, lives right here in Vermont, a couple of towns north, raises Labs at his Skyes Hollow Farm, and has a barn full of horses. After going through Frozen Barn Water over enough winters, he decided to design and manufacture a heated hose. And now you see it everywhere including on Amazon.  Go Willie!

Guess I'm off to rig up the hose. Those of you who can, send some warmth up to Vermont!

Do you have any frozen water pipe stories?

Stalling

Is our horse unusual? Chance, the Middle-Aged Morgan, does not like to go in his stall. He's an outdoor guy. But this icy Vermont night, it is currently 17 degrees at only seven o'clock, the wind is howling, and there were snow flurries all day so Chance has mini-icicles studding his coat, mane, tail, whiskers, and eyelashes.

Feeling sorry for him, I brought him into the sheltered, roomy box stall but Jim made the executive decision for an overnight stay. We know he'd rather be out, but we'd rather he stay in tonight . . . in the confined, protected stall where the pushy, noisy wind won't ruthlessly drive him around the pasture all night.

Since his arrival here on Mt. Pleasant two months ago, he has reconciled somewhat with the stall thing, I have to admit. Our place is familiar to him now, and as long as he has his premier hay (thanks Edie at Trumbull Mountain!) he doesn't pace so frantically anymore. Some fresh shavings and water, a thorough brushing and hoof check by his main man and devoted attendant, Jim, a pre-bedtime visit for pets, hugs, and one last flake of premier hay (thanks Edie!), and he is good to go for the time.

Chances are he will be rested, warm, peaceful, and eager to greet the day in the pasture tomorrow morning.  MORNING UPDATE: shavings all over his face, throughout mane & tail, and on his right side. A nice sleep...not standing up, very calm when led out to paddock. Good decision, Jim. We'll see what the weather is tonight.

What does your horse think about being in a stall?

Spending the Thunder

     Yesterday's torrential rains and high winds have passed through New England and are well out to sea. The freakish warmth of nearly 60 degrees and the warm rain erased most of our snow cover. My daffodils have emerged but their  brave pointy heads are in for a big shock when the Vermont winter says it's not over yet, baby!
     Chance is nearly beside himself now that the back pasture and lawn are exposed, revealing still-green, still-tender green grass. As yesterday's frightening winds have abated, this morning I knew it was time for some overdue groundwork to exercise the piss and vinegar out of him. Get the respect back. So I hooked him up: halter, my beloved double-sided lunge attachment that allows me to lunge from both sides without relocating the line around his head, lunge line, and my bright blue lunge whip with the long tail.  I am not sure I needed the whip because his piss and vinegar moved quickly up the scale to thunder level as soon as I turned him loose into a circle, but ready access to the whip (I only wave it and once in a great while give him a gentle reminder tap on his butt) is part of earning all-important respect from a 1,200-pound beast. Luckily, he is such a well-trained guy and I know enough to stay far away from  thunderous bursts of piss and vinegar, that he could safely blow out most of his pent-up energy with some good bucks, explosive farts, squeals, and short canter/gallops at the end of the taut line.  Then he put his head down, got down to business, and trotted beautifully, as usual.
     His reward? A good graze on the green grass with me atop bareback, guiding him to the spots I imagined he'd prefer. His teeth never stopping ripping the yummy blades, his rubbery nose and whiskers searching out the next tidbits, efficient as a machine, taking only one baby step when he'd finished clipping the arc his head could define, like a minesweeper.

     Now he's having a paddock nap in the weak midday sunshine with a tummy half-full of fresh grass. The thunder is spent. All is well here in this Vermont backyard where the mountains loom above us.

Freaky Winds

      Today a giant warm front barrelled into Vermont at about 50 m.p.h. The high winds sound like a roaring freight train with spooky overtones of whistling and whirling noises. I can't begin to imagine what being in a hurricane is like.
     The melting snow has uncovered last fall's leaves and branches which are being blown across the lawn and pasture where Chance is currently freaking out. He's a pretty stable fellow generally, we discovered as he's settled into his new home here with us over the past 2 months, but he most definitely does not like wind.
     Like all prey animals, horses survive by being alert to possible danger and by being able to run away from it. Today's wind sounds like a bad customer indeed, and invisible at that!  Can you imagine how nasty are the Tasmanian Devils he thinks are about to jump on his back and sink their claws into his neck? 
     The poor guy couldn't even finish his hay this morning. He'd rip out one quick mouthful and whip his body around to face the wind, chewing frantically but absentmindedly, with half of the clump of hay blowing away in the gusts. Just as he'd work up the courage to go back to the hay rack, another mini-tornado would arrive and the scene would repeat itself. When a particularly frightening burst howled through, he'd abandon his hay post and skitter around to the larger back pasture where he felt safer in the open space. I could put him in his stall, but he hates being confined even more than he hates the wind, so there it is. Hope he doesn't go through the electric rope.
     He's going to be 10 pounds lighter tonight from all his nervous activity, that's fer sure. Wish I could say the same about myself!
     What is your horse frightened of and how do you calm him?

Saying Hello: New Horse in Town

     Vermont. There's a new horse in my backyard, four long years since Athena's death. I hadn't intended to get another beast: all that work, you know, mud season, frozen water buckets, flies, endless manure. And the final heartbreak of saying goodbye.
     But my live-in mate blew my mind the week before last Thanksgiving, asking me to look at a photo on his computer.
     "Whaddya think of this picture?" he asked casually one morning, bringing his laptop over to me where I sat on the couch with my laptop and my tea.

     "Which one? Oh, well, it's a horse." 

     "Whaddya think of him?" he pushed. 

     "Well," I looked closer. "It's a very nice horse, a Morgan." I turned back to my screen.
     "You want him?"

     "Wha... ?" Shocked pause. "What did you just say?" 

     My mouth gaped open. He started to giggle. Then I narrowed my eyes and shook my finger in his face. 

     "Don't mess with me, that's not funny, mister. Don't. You. Mess. With. Me." I gave him a final, firm wag of my finger.
     "Really!" Jim said with delight creasing his face. "You want him? You want to go see him?"
     With that, I jumped on him, both hugging and punching him. For the rest of that day week, our house was punctuated with alternating screams of joy and stern warnings from me.

* * *

     And that's how suddenly I reopened my heart and took a chance on "Chance," the sturdy, middle-aged Vermont Morgan. Whom you shall meet in subsequent posts as well as read my other stories about these creatures, and about my wild, loving, fun, scary, and unforgettable experiences in the Horse World.
     Would you tell me about your horse? I'd love to hear from you in these pages.

     Thanks for tuning into this first post. Hope you'll check in again.