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.