05/06/2023
The last time I was brave enough—or stupid enough—to post something about hobbling my horses, the outrage was such that I vowed never to do so, again.
I’ve stood by my word, until this morning.
I’ve got a road trip planned and as I walked out into the white winter wonderland—for it snowed again last night—to feed in the early dawn, I knew something wasn’t right. Tee was missing. I chucked out some hay for the others who are travelling with me and went in search of my old friend.
There he was, in a tight spot, where it seems he had discovered a coil of old wire in a hedgerow that is next to the yard. It’s a reality when one lives in an once-abandoned farmstead with decades and generations of old stuff. We clean up continually, but still. Like rocks in the fields, some forgotten treasure is always working its way up. The wire had slipped and bound his front pastern with two wraps, so tightly that I couldn’t at first see where he was caught.
Tee was standing, worried and shaking but sure that I would come and help. I eased in, said the W-word quietly and got to work. The manure pile behind my horse told the tale of a long and uncomfortable night, spent in stillness in the teeth of the storm. Thank goodness I was moved to go out unusually early and begin to get ready for my journey. Thank goodness none of the other horses had chased my submissive friend while he was caught by the front leg.
Thank goodness Tee knows how to hobble.
This is one of the skills he rocks, despite loud voices braying about learned helplessness and the cruelty of outdated methodology. Despite their knowing best, today, I am still going on a fun road trip with my horse and not, in a panic, hauling him to the vet.
In this time of all or nothing thinking—of absolutely knowing what's right and what's wrong—more than ever, I am seeking that beautiful thing called balance.