But it’s not all pokes and giggles. Sometimes they get sick. Or slightly hurt.
Dezi, my old show horse, spent most of his 25 years as a
highly competitive show jumper, doing Grand Prix in Europe. By the time he
came to me his prime years were long behind him, but he was still showing in the lower divisions. He was a
slave; when the bell rang he lit up. Pulling made him go faster. He was also
extremely head shy. Someone had smacked him around hard.
The first time I took him out to eat grass, he didn’t know
what to do—he’d never been allowed to graze on a lead before. He learned
quickly. He also figured out that he always got a
peppermint when he left the arena. He’d slam on the
brakes and swing his neck into my lap waiting for a treat and refusing to move
until he got it.
Dezi’s been retired for almost three years now. The hardest
thing he has to do is figure out whether to nap in his stall or the
paddock. During that time something else
has happened: he’s turned feral. Not
completely, mind you. He still comes waddling up to me three times a day for
his meals and stands quietly to have fly spray applied. Pull out a halter
though, and he’s off.
Recently Dezi developed a small cut just above his coronary
band, where his foot meets his hoof. He probably whacked it when he was lying
down, which he does a lot. The first
time I spotted him splayed out flat in the pasture, I was sure he was dead. I went out to check and yelled his name.
Nothing. After a minute I went into the
paddock and poked him. He lifted his head and gave me a dirty look for waking
him up.
I didn’t think much of the injury; I knew that a quick squirt
of silver spray would cover the wound and keep the flies away. So I went up to him and started to put it on.
Faster than I thought was possible, the old coot was gone. I finally cornered him and tried again, this
time picking up a foot so he (theoretically) couldn’t get away. You’d be
surprised how fast a three-legged geriatric horse can move. I was.
Eventually I realized that I needed to put a halter on him
and tie him up. Maybe that would remind
him of 22 years of good manners. A
friend also suggested that the noise was scaring him; that I should spray some
cotton and rub the cotton on his foot. That made sense. Not to Dezi.
First it took a good 20 minutes to corner him to put on a
halter. Then I tied him to the barn and
walked away. Far away, where he couldn’t
hear the sprayer. It didn’t matter. When I came near him, he sat down on his
hind end and splintered his very fancy leather halter with the brass nameplate
on it. Fat luck catching him after that.
It was like the O.J.
slow-speed chase. Rarely going faster than a trot, Dezi circled the other horses,
making sure they were always between him and me. If somehow I did get near him, he’d trot
away. I think he broke into a canter once.
After an hour of this in the 93 degree heat I gave up. I was afraid he’d
have a heart attack. Or I would.
I couldn’t quit for long, because I could see that the flies
were turning the little cut into a nasty summer sore. After an expensive (is there any other kind?)
trip to the tack and feed store I came home armed to the rafters. There was a
powerful antibiotic that I could tap soundlessly onto the cut, as well as fly boots
that covered his front legs from hoof to knee, and fly masks that enshrouded
his whole face from ears to nose with mesh.
I realized that he might be a better target while he was
eating dinner, and though it took a while, eventually his greediness overpowered his obstinacy.
Finally I treated the foot and got the booties on. It’s embarrassing to
admit how proud I was of tricking an aged, creaky, old equine. But I admit I did a little happy dance.
Also, dressed up in their fly gear, my geezers look like war
horses. Which makes me snicker.
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