Dub's Double Barrel Kick Draws Blood

Today my daughter Sarah and I drove to B's ranch to ride. My horse "Dub", a bay, recently gelding, a six year old Hanoverian is there for a visit, and mainly so I can train him in the beautiful sand arena. A picture of Dub is at right . . . . In this picture he is still a stallion, about four years old, and Teralyn is riding. She braided his tail to make it curly for a horse show.

B's husband died recently. Her friends and horses help keep her spirits up. But I'm sure she is still grieving. She has no children and it seems to me that she is particularly fond of Sarah. Sarah's ash brown hair is almost to her waist. She is long of limb and soft of voice. Quite the ministering spirit when she wants to be.

Since Dub has been recently gelded, (two months ago), I am particularly alert to ward off situations where the natural combatativeness of his "Stud" self might suddenly reappear. Yes he is calmer, less crazy around mares in heat and mares and geldings in general, but he will still squeal and strike, put his teeth on the crest of pasture "neighbors", as if too say, yes I could rip you in half, but I guess I won't just now. He would probably kick the s--t out of some of the geldings "rivals" to his harem of one old sunburned paint mare, if given half a chance. B's excellent electric fence gives him a few potent shocks and dissuades him.

B's aged gelding, retired eventing champion "Mo-Jo", for some reason triggers a very aggressive response in Dub.

Thus, when B suggested today that we go for a trail up the road a bit with Mo-Jo, Elway (B' young up and coming horse) and Dub, I hesitated. My daughter Sarah would ride Mo-jo. Mo-Jo and Elway are both big and black. Very good horses. But what about Dub? If you've never owned a stallion. . . If you've never seen what they are capable of . . . you might not . . . realize . . .

"Sure!" I chirped.

Dub seemed placid enough when I tacked him up. He was caked with dried mud and didn't even try to bite me when I brushed him off. It had been a rainy blustery night. Sometimes contending with that kind of weather all night settles Dub the next day. When B led up Mo-Jo to be tacked up however, Dub instantly changed. He started to paw and act up. I decided to take him down to the arena alone and gallop him. He trotted and galloped well enough. I brought him back and booted him up for the rocks at a safe distance from Mo-Jo.

The trail ride started quite well. We were all chatting. I was glad to see B happy. Elated that we were good company. I rode lead. I told Sarah to keep a couple of horse lengths behind me . . . just in case Dub tried anything. The picture at right is Sarah a couple of years ago learning to ride on
"Pride", Teralyn's thoroughbred.

Dub spooked as we crossed a culvert. No biggy. He spooked even more at a stream crossing, snorting, refusing to go, though I spurred him. I felt he was about to blow up. So we had Mo-Jo the old champion go first and Dub eventually followed snorting and jumping around.

'Confident and relaxed, after we had negotiated all the "scary" stuff, we rode on loose reins on the way back, chatting and enjoying the breeze swishing through the Avenue of Cook Pines. S uddenly I was up in the air, Dub had reared and bucked at the same time, a double barrel killer kick aimed at Mo-Jo, who apparently had come to close. I had no time to think, just that he was up in the air and I was going to come off and get got in the crossfire, but worse that he was kicking the horse my daughter was riding . . . . and as high in the air as he was . . . his double barreled kick would hit her. . . . kill her instantly. For a moment I had the most horrible feeling, a dread beyond bearing, but no time to indulge in thoughts - I was jarred forward and upward, like a ragdoll, lurching and whiplashing. God only knows why I didn't come off! When he came down I spurred him forward as hard as I could and screamed, "Sarah! are you all right!

It was deathly quiet behind me.

"Yeah", she finally called.

I spurred Dub forward again and again putting as much distance as I could between Dub and Mo-Jo. I heard Barb's urgent words to Sarah, "we've got to get home right away".

I turned and looked. "Sorry about that" I called back, trying to minimize my horror and panic. "Did he contact anything?"

"Mo-Jo is bleeding. He'll need a stitch or two". B, like me, was being valiant. Bless her heart.

"Where'd he get him?"

"On the forearm"

I winced. I felt awful. I should have made Sarah circle Mo-Jo and not get too close. I should have ridden in the rear. I should have done a milliong thingss. But Thank God Sarah didn't get kicked! I'd heard of people getting their legs broken that way. A little girl was killed several years ago when her horse ran away with her and she was trampled. A social worker I worked with had gone to the funeral, seen the perfect little girl in her casket.

Poor dear old Mo-Jo! Dub had kicked a three or four inch gash and also rendered a nasty swelling bruise. An old horse minding his manners. A champion, albeit retired and short of breath. How dare Dub!!!! And poor B. I offered to pay the Vet bill (an emergency call on a Sunday had to be ungodly expensive), but B, ever gracious, shook her head.

But I swear I will make it up to her. Free legal work in mass quantities. I can offer her that.

Neil came and we loaded Dub in the trailer and hauled him home. B was left with her limping bleeding horse. Luckily a couple of neighbors had made a "drop-in" visit and they were chatting amiably over drinks when I hugged B and thanked her. I hope B was able to reach the Vet. I hope he came right away. To properly stitch a wound, you have to do it as soon as possible before inflammation and granulation set in. I'm afraid to call her. I hope Mo-Jo, though he is very old, will heal quickly and we can forget about this, or try to.

Reflecting on what happened, it seems that Dub was utterly convinced that Mo-Jo was the senior "stud", and Dub in a fit of rage wanted to take him out, topple him, take over. So, it is safe to say that we haven't quite left the "testosterone" zone yet.

And while I've observed that geldings and mares have beloved friends whom they groom and caress, as well as tolerated aquaintances who barely register. I've seen also that they have hated enemies. So it's not purely a "stallion thing". Still, I am hoping that in a few more months, Dub will feel, or at least behave, less agressively towards those horses he perceives as enemies.

Now I Decree, until further notice, there will be a strictly enforced zone of "no entry" --- that is no horse (other than Dub's well known and acknowledged family and friends) comes within twenty feet of Dub, while he is being ridden or handled by humans. Period.

Waiting Room

I am sitting in the waiting room at the Nob Hill Cat Clinic. P. is in the back, behind closed doors enduring another test. A faded calendar shaped liked a cat stares back at me, the cardboard tail wags. A young couple comes in, their cat staring wide-eyed, nervous, from the wire and plastic carrier. The wife murmurs to the cat. The cat is young and healthy, just like the couple, they have come for vaccinations. They are called to the examining room.
I wait. They are extracting urine from P. She is 16 and things have started to fall apart...kidneys go quite commonly I am told, suspiciously she is losing weight. She is half her largest size, when I pick her up there is no substance, just soft fur and light bones, the term "bone bag" flashes through my mind. A fastidious cat, I never had to clean up accidents, now almost daily she vomits the water she gorges, just clear liquid, but I am annoyed and want to scold her, but I don't, she can't help it. At night she curls up on my chest while I read, purring and looking at me through slitted eyes, elevating me to god-like status. I try not to think about it, but I realize soon she will be just a ghost, a memory, only I will remember.
I wait still... what is taking so long? Did she die back there? I surprise myself with a sudden wave of emotion and push down the lump in my throat. The receptionists are laughing and drinking Starbucks. I refocus on the wagging tail of the cardboard cat on the wall. I think of P.'s food bowl at home with the partially eaten crunchies, the small bowl of water next to it.
Waiting.

Bindy's son the Pilot

Ok Here is a link that will take you to Bindy's son, the pilot:

http://starbulletin.com/2008/04/17/news/story05.html

Let me see if this works.

Riding the Big Bay Horse with Bindy

No need to be over the top. Want to be just right, but it never comes out that way when you write things down for some reason . . . oh well.

Wind off ocean lifting my hair up, whipping it back. I begin to organize my thoughts into strands of prayer, intercessory and supplicatory, and wonder, is this real?
Is there something real in my life? Something alive? Something Miraculous? I have to have that.
It could be today. If my mind if open. If I accept peace, and become unbound.
The Island slopes down green to cliffs. The ocean is a rich blue with white caps because of the wind.
"Dub" is my bay horse. Black legs and red brown. A shade deeper, more complicated with tones of gold, than my powers of expression. The wind lifts his mane as we Canter. He likes the sand arena. The footing is secure for a change. He won't slip, or bruise his soles on rocks. He stretches out. I want him to be confident. To gallop and let the wind fly through his black mane. For showing hunters, the protocol is to have a short pulled mane that can be braided, a shaved bridlepath. But I'll let his mane grow out. He needs it to keep the rain off his neck. And I need his hair to hang on to.

Bindy and I went riding this A.M. It was a long drive for her to come and meet me and I appreciate the fact that she came so far. Her hair is a cap of almost blond almost curls. Sometimes with her floppy hat she peeks up and her blue eyes look so innocent, I can't help laughing. She is a grandmother, but seems young to me.
When she was twelve her mother died. After that she imagined herself a cowboy, a competent roper, named "Gus". Now she has a son named Michael who is thirty-five and a pilot.
A couple of months ago, she bought my big black mare, Char. She tells me Char has a pen pal - another big black Percheron with a white star named Toby. This is funny.
I felt so exhilarated after hand-galloping Dub. The wind was whipping my hair up, and I was smiling without trying, like I'd just danced with the Prince.
Bindy rode Dub too. She preferred to just trot, but I know she felt the same elation, looking out at the dark blue white capped ocean through the streaming Eucalptus branches. The wind made a rustling sound in the leaves. It was lovely. A shady corridor.

After the ride we took Dub up the mowed pasture past the weanling filly. Her neck was like a swan. I would call her a chocolate color. Her mane was the best of all with rusty gold sunbleached ends. And then there was her pretty little blaze, and inquisitive nibbling muzzzle.

Up at the barn, we stood Dub on the concrete and I borrowed a paintbrush and put hoof hardener on his hooves while he ate part of a flake of Orchard Grass. Chewing, his hoof in my hands, he reminded me of Robert Mitchem, the way his hooded masculine eyes reposed, and he chewed, like he had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. But it was only a piece of hay.

Fingers, Flower Petals and Hooves

What will this lump of wet gray brain remember in its nights?
In its cave. where it crouches, and waits
"I" the mystery that call itself "Me" will remember the fingers of the dancers, their arms waving like seaweed, bourne on currents I know, but can't see.
And when my daughter puts the lei around my neck.
I will remember her trotting through the Eucalyptus trees on the bay horse, my horse, she is riding by herself for the first time, turning to look back at me.
And the sunlight. I will remember the way it melts over me like a caress.
And the waves. Sandpipers running with stick legs away. Pelicans diving from so high.
I will remember sitting next to my daughter eating the lunch I made us. And the joke I told about the Jack Russel Terrier and the Frog, and how we started laughing and couldn't stop.
And how scary it was, but how funny it now is, that time when Terylyn lost control of the rope and the stallion galloped up to the Marching Band.

Meeting of the Minds at the Salon

Without a shred of guilt, Anne confesses she often finds

an unexpected and unexplained peace during her husband's absence.

I don't need a man to rectify myself, Shirley confides. The most 

profound relationship I'll ever have 

is the one with myself.

Mahalia says it's easy to be independent when a woman's got money.

Yes, money and a room of her own, Virginia adds.

And Sophia says mistakes are part of the dues paid for a full life. 

Martha thinks happiness or misery depends on disposition, 

not circumstances.

Anais says: We don't see things as they are; we see them as we are.

Janis says: Don't compromise yourself. You're all you've got.

Find out what you're good at, and then do that, says Katherine.

Sister Mary advises: To be successful, the first thing to do is fall 

in love with your work.

Any woman who writes is a survivor, Tillie announces.

I really only ask for time to write it all - time to write my books.

Then I don't mind dying. I live to write, the other Katherine says.

Gertrude scoffs: Everybody's life is full of stories. Your life

is full of stories. My life is full of stories. All very occupying.

Not really interesting. What's interesting is how the stories are told.

Joyce says great works deal with the human soul caught 

in the stampede of time unable to gauge 

the profundity of what passes over it.

It's all in the art. You get no credit for living, V.S. says.

Vivian concludes: So what actually happens is only raw material.

All that matters is what we make of it.

And that's enough, Eudora says.

With thanks to: Anne Shaw, Shirley MacLaine, Mahalia Jackson, Virginia Woolf, Sophia Loren, Martha Washington, Janis Joplin, Katherine Anne Porter, Sister Mary Lauretta, Tillie Olsen, Katherine Mansfield, Gertrude Stein, Joyce Carol Oates, V. S. Pritchett, Vivian Gornick, Eudora Welty.

After the broken Leg

Well I called Nina a couple of times already. She had been crying for two weeks. Hadn't got out of bed much. Sobbed when the vet just got out the shot. Fell into his arm. The old Vet, Dr. Groussard, who is cranky and never says much. It was the hind leg. And she begged him to at least try to save her. He just shook his head. It was compound and the bone was piercing out of the skin because the filly wouldn't quit trying to run away from the pain. She was so full of life. Beautiful beyond belief. Golden Chestnut. A flash of red fire streaking by so fast, so fast.
"Nina, I'm so so sorry. It's not your fault, you did everything."
And so we talked away the day, wasting all of our cell phone minutes because neither one of us had the unlimited plan. We talked about partnering with Lani. We could buy a stud colt together and run him on Lani's 29,000 acres, breed Aura again. It could work, she had a few years left. True founder had almost killed the mare, and all the vets said put her down, that she would die, that no way could she be pregnant, no way could she carry a foal to term, but Nina never gave up, quit her job as a nurse to nurse Aura, soak her hooves, wrap them in bandages, and when Aura couldn't get up for days, she cradled the mare's head in her lap and hand fed her. And then the foal came, in the dead of night while Nina slept, Aura emerged with her vagina torn and bleeding, and the impossibly feminine filly, an angel, trotting by her side. Just what Nina had prayed and prayed for. We were jubilant together, exclaming into our cell phones about the miracle, how all the Vets were all wrong.
She lived six months and 10 days. Somehow when Nina turned her back for ten minutes she had snapped her hind leg, her exquisite long golden red leg, just below the hock. Somehow the physics were wrong, and the torque or something, maybe the leg was caught in the guava roots bulging and tangled above ground. Maybe twisted and pulled, caught in the roots, and then . . . . and then she was dangling that useless hind leg, shaking her head when she tried to nurse her mother because it hurt too much and the old Vet just shook his head brought out the needle and she went down collapsing into the sun warmed spring grass with blossoms fragrant and the birds trilling because it was early Spring.
And so Nina buried her, streams of tears coming down her face.
Good-bye Deja. What I wouldn't give to kiss your little nostrils, and feel your breath warm and alive, again.