The Saga of a Free Horse

The old adage of “if it’s too good to be true, then it isn’t,” is the basis for this next scenario. If you’ve read any of my other wanderings you’ll remember that we had a horse called Lucky. I had built a corral and a two horse stall to ensure Lucky’s comfort during the winter months, which as I mentioned before, he never used anyway.

So here’s how the story starts. I guess I never realized how much alfalfa went in one part of the horse and came out the other. Some people call it fodder, but my definition is something less delicate. I got tired of going down to the local feed store and buying two or three bales at time. There was a riding club nearby that had a bunch of horses and I got the name of an outfit that delivered the alfalfa. I learned a lot about first cut, second cut and third cut alfalfa and pricing that is absolutely useless unless you have a horse or eat alfalfa. So anyway, I contacted this supplier, and made arrangements for a ton to be delivered to my house. When I built the stall I had considered storage and was able to squeeze in a majority of the feed, which would eventually turn into plant supplements. The guy that delivered it was extremely helpful, and we got talking. He said he had a horse that was an American Saddlebred, but it had been hurt and he was going to have to render it unless he could find a good home. Rendering is not something that you want to think about, because it would mean ending up in a can of dog food which we would’ve fed to Rusty-the-dog. Rusty-the-cat, by definition, would not eat dog food.

Anyway, this horse was located about 25 miles away in small rural area. So we drove down there on a weekend to look at this potentially soon-to-be rendered animal. The poor thing had been caught up in barb-wire when it was a filly and had severely damaged one of her hind legs, and under the circumstances had stunted her growth. If you’re not aware, you measure a horse by what’s called hands and she was maybe 12 hands fully grown. The guy said if I wanted, I could have it for nothing and the next time he came up he would bring the horse and drop it off at the house. My curtain climbers thought this was greatest thing since sliced bread and I figured, “Oh, what the heck, it’s a free horse.” We had lots of room in the corral and I figured Lucky would be happy to have some company. Wrong!

Lucky had been our new-found companion for approximately a year and was fairly well-adjusted to his new home. Facts are there were horses on both sides of the corral, so he had lots of equine conversations over the fences. Every once in a while I could hear them discussing their owners and what lousy riders they were. It seemed to me that we had a very tranquil horse environment. Enter a nearly two-year-old filly!! There is a song from My Fair Lady called “Let a woman in your life” and I could swear I heard Lucky humming it one morning.

We decided to name the horse Dickens, I assumed it was after Charles. Let me rephrase that – the urchins decided to name horse Dickens. First I thought that was fairly quaint, but as time went by I realized that the horse had assumed the personality of its name which was more akin to “Little Dickens” and not in the literary sense. She was a real hellion from the very beginning.

I didn’t realize it, but horses have a hierarchy in that they have to determine who is King of the corral, or in this case Queen. We estimated that Lucky was about 13 or more, so one would assume that by default he would be the master. Dickens, being truly right brain, decided otherwise. So for a period of about three weeks you could hear them arguing in horse talk, and in fact they would chase each other all over the corral. I went out a few times with the idea that I could do some mediation, but to no avail. They chased me around the corral and continued their deep disagreement.

They would harass each other around the corral, but Lucky was extremely disadvantaged because Dickens was quite a bit faster and had much more agility. They would bite each other, kick each other in the butt, hind quarter in horse talk, and just generally disagree on everything. Rusty-the-dog thought this was great fun and would often join the chase until he got kicked, which persuaded him to stay out of it. Rusty-the-cat ignored the whole thing and would go into the stall to see if the resident mice were still alive, not that she was going to do anything about it! When it came time for feeding, we had to throw the alfalfa at two different ends of the corral in order to keep them from having a food fight. However, after about three weeks, things began to settle down. I think they declared a horse armistice and just kind of ignored each other.

The corral was made out of Douglas fir, two by sixes, and for whatever reason, Dickens thought it was more interesting to eat the corral rather than alfalfa. Lucky soon picked up on it. I could see the top string of boards was disappearing. I asked the guy down at the horse place what was going on and he said that it was called “cribbing.” At the rate these two were going, they would eat the corral in less than two weeks unless I did something about it. The guy suggested that I buy chemicals that would derail their ferocious appetite for Douglas fir. So I got this stuff, put it all over the railings and assumed the problem was cured. Not so fast! It seemed to me that they enjoyed it even more and the corral was disappearing even faster. I then found out that there was a tree called hemlock and the horses did not like the taste of this particular wood, so I replaced the half-eaten railings with this distasteful wood. This did not stop them!

I got another suggestion of painting the rails with creosote, but realized that if the horses were stupid enough to keep eating the wood, the creosote would likely kill them. I thought about that alternative for a little while, but finally dismissed it as an inhumane although economically feasible solution. I got further input that said what I needed to buy was called a “zapper.” You mounted a wire all around the fence, hooked it up to this electrical device and it would send a harmless shock to the “cribbers” if they touched it. This worked wonderfully on the top rail, however was absolutely useless when they started eating the second rail. About this time, I was rethinking the creosote solution. After about a month of continuous chewing, they suddenly quit. However, by then they’d eaten half of the second rail, but at least they stopped.

One morning I heard what I thought was a renewal of their ongoing squabble and went out to the corral to see what the hell was going on now. For some reason Lucky had decided to jump the fence between our corral and the neighbors. The problem is he didn’t quite make it. He was in what is classically and politically called the mug-whomp position. His mug was in the neighbors corral and his whomp was still where it belonged. He was stuck between the two corrals with his hind legs off the ground and no way to get any leverage. Of course Dickens saw this as a real opportunity and was biting him on his butt. She must have come from the school that dictated “don’t get mad get even.” My neighbor lady, who is a real horse person (mostly the rear-end) was out there and was very upset that I had allowed my horse to frighten her mares. I came to the conclusion that the only solution was to knock down the rail and get Lucky back into his own corral.

Once I got the board down, Lucky took off after one of the other horses with the intent that was clearly motivated by lust. My horsey neighbor lady went nuts because my mangy horse was trying to impregnate one of her mares. I told her it was her horse’s fault, I had seen the whole thing and that the little brown mare had been giving Lucky the “come hither” look! I further explained that it was something of a moot point because lucky was like a eunuch. I don’t think she believed me! I could’ve said “here, look” but decided that was too indelicate.

I finally got Lucky back in the corral, walked up to him, patted him on the head, rubbed him down a little bit and looked at him and said “well, there’s life in the old boy yet, but I think you forgot you can’t do that anymore!” He turned his head and looked longingly at the little brown mare as she was standing there swishing her tail with the “I didn’t do anything” look on her face.

During this period, I was working with Dickens in an attempt to get her “saddle broke” so the kids could at least enjoy a ride. She and I were on good terms and I thought I had made real progress. I had her halter-trained, and had even put a saddle on her back a few times without getting killed. She didn’t really mind it all. So one weekend I decided it was time to try to ride her. I put the halter on and decided not to use the saddle, but to just try slowly getting on the horse. First I lay across her back so she could feel the weight and she was fine. So I slung my leg over and got on Dickens. Big-time mistake!

She was good for about 15 feet then she took off like a bat out of hell — bucking, kicking and turning until finally I came flying off her back straight into the air and came down with my arm tucked in the wrong place. Lucky came over to check me out, which is more than the urchins did. The gang was standing there watching this event with some degree of awe at the stupidity of their father. Dickens took off to the far end of the corral and had no interest whatsoever in coming back to see if I was all right. She was still kicking her heels, showing her teeth with ears straight back. I gathered my dignity, limped away and decided that I would wait to take the halter off.

I went into the house but didn’t realize that I had cut my head and was bleeding. Blue-eyes said “what happened to you?” I said something to the effect that Dickens and I had had a disagreement and that Dickens won. What I didn’t realize at that point was that I had broken my arm and cracked two ribs, which was a small price to pay for absolute insanity. In the final analysis I couldn’t really blame Dickens because the facts are I was probably too heavy for her. At that time I weighed about 185 pounds and she was pretty small.

After some family discussion it was decided to have Dickens put into a special education class for recalcitrant horses. I took her down the road to the horsey place and talked to the guy that ran it, described the problem and he agreed to do some training. This of course was not pro-bono and I was somewhat surprised that a horse trainer can make the same amount of money per hour as a brain surgeon. We had about four or five sessions and then he announced that Dickens was going to be a very difficult horse and would require an experienced rider even after she was trained. His conclusion was that she had been traumatized by her early injury and that this would probably never improve. Great, I thought! Now we’ve got a horse that nobody will be able to ride.

All was not lost however. This trainer said he knew of a fellow that might take the horse off my hands. He had a big corral about a half-mile away and that most of the people who rented from him were very experienced riders. Okay — this is a great solution. I went down and talked to the guy. He came up to the house looked at Dickens and said that he would take the horse off my hands for 200 bucks. I thought at that point I was actually going get some money back but I was sadly mistaken. I was to give him the 200 bucks. I thought about this for about 30 microseconds and agreed. What passed through my mind was cribbing, the price of alfalfa, horse health vet bills, broken bones and multiple contusions. I did extract the promise that Dickens would not be turned into dog food.

Dickens’ new home was actually on my way to work, and every once in a while I would see her in this large pasture. She looked about the same. I have to assume that she got trained well enough for an experienced rider. I was a little worried about Lucky losing his roommate, however it seemed as though he and the little brown mare next door had established a platonic relationship. That’s more than I can say for the mare’s owner and I. To this day I contend that the little mare had a suggestive walk.

Lucky stayed with us for many years and I used to ride him on the weekends. He was a real good horse — because he had a rider that wasn’t! Finally, he was no longer able to retain weight and was eating less and less. We called the vet and he basically said there was nothing that could be done. The decision was made to put him down, which was indeed a very sad day. We estimated that Lucky was probably close to 28 years old, which is about the max to expect for horse. By then the gang had grown, and our needs for equestrian recreation were gone. After a while I quit looking to see if I could spot Dickens, but I’m sure she was happy and stayed with her new-found friends for many years, likely breaking someone else’s arm or whatever.

The moral of the story is “beware of a Trojan bearing a gift horse.”