01/14/2024
We are here for your horses 365 days a year - because that’s how often livestock needs us. ❤️🤠 Come board with us!
I’ve got a half-formed theory about horses and I’d like to let it out for a canter, so bear with me. (This means: I may not make any sense at all.) The theory is: there is some kind of weird cultural category error when it comes to horses.
I was thinking of this today as I was mucking out Tern. The two most acute senses of satisfaction I got were: the filling and arranging of many, many haynets and the sight of the muck heap as I poured my third load onto it. (I should probably explain that the filling and arranging of the haynets is because I offered to do that for the rest of the horses who are on box rest at Tern’s temporary billet. I’d like to be doing all of them but, to be brutally honest, I’m knackered after I’ve done about eight. But at least the HorseBack crew, who are kindly stabling my mare for me, will find full nets when they come into the hay barn. It’s a small thing, but it means a lot to me.)
And I started thinking, as I hefted the big nets, and pushed the full wheelbarrow, and lifted heavy water buckets - this is quite proper work. Yesterday, I wrote about having some subzero temperatures. I meant a low of minus six. The North American contingent of the red mare crew reported temperatures of MINUS FORTY-SIX DEGREES CENTIGRADE. (I don’t apologise for those shouty capital letters. It’s the least I can do. I can't even imagine such cold.)
But my impression - and I may have this wrong - is that horses are regarded as a mildly effete, whimsical hobby. There’s a slight shade of: it’s all women of a certain age, clip-clopping about, living their pony girl fantasies. I really may have this wrong. It’s just a little whiff of the zeitgeist I catch in the air. Well, I thought, clip-bloody-clop to the zeitgeist. I know I write endlessly about the love and the beauty and the joy and the Place of Peace. But I worked like a Trojan to get to that Place of Peace. I can write about it because I spent nearly ten years changing my entire self in order to make my red mare happy. And that wasn’t a matter of clicking my red slippers and eating my magic beans. It required facing all my flaws and having conversations with shame and looking fear in the whites of its eyes.
I don’t write about the stuff that all of you know, day in day out - the muck and the dung and never, ever being clean; the hay and the feed (which must constantly be monitored and adjusted and learned about); the worry about the weight or the rotation of the paddocks or the hooves, which so often seem to have something wrong with them. I don’t write about the physical work and the heavy lifting. I rarely tell the stories of the poulticing when the abscesses come or the endless discussions about how to keep the water running (and the attendant frets over the possibility of impaction colic) or the bright fear that comes when there is a cut, because the terror of infection is always lurking in the back of the mind. I don’t think I tell the stories of sitting bolt upright at three in the morning because one of the mares isn’t quite right, and the doom-demons come and tell me tales of death and disaster.
I don’t tell those stories because you’d all lose the will to live. And I also don’t tell them because those of you with horses know them, off by heart. They are your stories, and you live them.
The pony girls - and the pony boys too - aren’t just flibbertigibbets, gossiping at the yard, doing elaborate plaiting, spending fortunes on matching bandage sets. They have to be tough. We all have to dig deep for our steely core, to do that relentless painting of the Forth Bridge, because horses don’t take days off, or recognise weekends or national holidays. It’s every day and every day, and you’ve got to be dedicated and devoted and dauntless.
For some reason, I wanted to mark that. I wanted to tip my hat, to all of you, because I know what it is you do, even if most people don’t.