05/06/2023
THE RANT OF THE JADED FARRIER (Advice in last stanza)
My phone rang late last evening;
Was a woman with a horse…
“I’m lookin’ for a Farrier,
Before his hooves get any worse”.
“I’m pretty much full-up.” I said.
But curiosity had me piqued…
“When did you trim him last?” I asked.
“Four months ago, last week.
His toes are pretty long.” she said.
“Otherwise, he looks OK.”
I ran my hand down o’er my face,
As I debated what to say.
“But…” she continued quickly,
“They just won’t come out to my home…
And I never get an answer
To my messages on their phone.”
“You mean you can’t find a Farrier?”
I asked to clarify…
Already pretty sure I knew
The many reasons why.
So I told her most won’t come back,
If she kept leaving trims so long,
Of if her horse was dangerous;
But she said I’d got it wrong.
So I booked her for next Tuesday,
And I carried on with Life…
Grumbling ‘bout the bu****it in
Our Industry that’s rife.
Spring’s an awkward time for horses;
Hooves buried fetlock deep in mud…
Saturated, overgrown, and
Flare grooves crammed with crud.
Warm weather and their winter coat
Divert their heat-making trait,
Into a sudden wall growth spurt
That collapses ‘neath their weight.
As I pulled into her driveway,
My eyes confirmed what I had thought…
A mud pit for a paddock on
A sloping, wooded plot.
“Where abouts is your work station?”
I asked as I grabbed my tools…
“My what?” She asked, with worried eyes;
As we sloshed from pool to pool.
“Where do you pick your horse’s feet?
Or brush him before you ride?
Where do you work when the Vet is here?
Or shoeing him, where’s he tied?
We stopped beside a leaning gate
As she pointed towards the horse…
“In there.” She said, staring back,
“But you can tie him up, of course.”
Unfortunately, I was old;
Disillusioned, tired, and pi**ed
That Owners expected quality work
In an environment like this.
And…before I had a chance to think,
I heard myself explaining…
“No way a Farrier can work in there.
No wonder they’re complaining.”
“We need a place that’s dry and flat;
With light, and room to move…
It’s impossible to see a thing
If he keeps burying his hooves!”
“Well the last Guy didn’t seem to mind!”
She shot back with a smirk.
“In fact he was quite polite…”
She clearly thought I was a jerk.
In for a penny, in for a pound;
“Well I’m not some two-bit Hack.
We’re accountable for the job we leave.
No wonder Folks don’t come back.
You’re torturing your horse out there.
He’s suffering constant pain…
Stressing the navicular bursa
From the flexor tendon strain.
And the tearing of the lamina
From the leverage of that toe…
It’s not enough just feeding him.
There’s so much more to know.”
I dragged the stall mat sections
From the back of my pickup truck;
Laid them out and waved my arm,
“Bring him here, outta that muck.
The poor ol’ Sod hobbled over;
Pigeon toed, with drooping neck;
But at the sight of the black stall mats
He slammed his brakes and stood erect.
They were a hole into the bowels of Hell:
I’m sure was what he thought;
As he spun around in circles
Trying to avoid them at any cost.
Then he wouldn’t keep his foot between
My knees as I trimmed his frog…
But the hoof-stand had him frantic -
That first foot was a half-hour slog.
He’d yank it away, and slam it down;
I’d fight it up, now packed with ice,
Mixed with mud, and I’d squeeze my knees
Like a geriatric vice.
I’d start all over, and get it cleaned,
And line my nippers up with the toe…
When he’d crab his hinds beneath his gut,
And rearing skyward, up we’d go.
Now, I could always blame the Handler,
But that wouldn’t be the truth…
‘Cause it’s pretty hard to hold a horse
If he don’t want you near his hoof.
By the time I had the near front done
My three mats had been ripped apart…
Squashed in a hoof-mashed crater
And I’d barely made a start!
I thought about a Scotch hobble,
But we’d both end up on our face…
And I knew that if I mentioned twitch,
She’d likely run me off the place.
So like the definition of insanity
I just went back for more…
Didn’t bother with a leg strap,
Or if the Owner was keepin’ score.
Eventually, I got him finished,
Watched him plod back through the slop…
Dragon slayed, but the price I’d paid
Showed me why the Others stopped.
Back at home I worked the numbers -
An hour there and an hour back,
Plus two hours pain for forty bucks gain,
Before that Devil threw his slack.
Yet they think that we’re over charging…
Sing the blues like Aretha’s choir…
But since my patience cracks as fast as my back,
It’s prob’ly time that I retire.
So the takeaway, if you’re listenin’…
And you want your horses’ feet well-treated -
Flat, dry, and clean, and light so they’re seen,
With Winter bonus points if it’s heated.
(My thanks to the clever author, whoever you are.)
