JACK
2-17-2022:
Before this weekend, I would have said there were two things that
will cause me to break down and shed tears. Two things only: One:
concern for my family – of which I consider my critters very much a
part of...and Two: Practically every stinking episode of Little House
on the Prairie. When Pa breaks down...it's all over for me. There
will be tears.
I
can't remember a birthday when I haven't saddled Jack for a ride. I
feel like it starts the year off on the right hoof. Since my birthday
is in February – I treat it more like a New Year thing. Especially
since I basically sleep through the actual New Year proper. My theory
is to sneak up on it unsuspecting like. That way, if my number is up,
the powers that be won't notice and pass me on by for another year.
So far it's working.
I
fed the horses in the morning as usual and spent most of the day
nursing the effects of a bad belly and looking out the window at the
relentless wind. The belly ache I could handle and would, in fact,
improve once in the saddle. The wind, however, wasn't going anywhere.
I don't like the wind one bit. I resigned to forfeit the annual
birthday ride and tune in to a Gunsmoke marathon. Nothing a good dose
of Matt, Kitty, Doc and Festus couldn't cure.
Cindy
had planned a birthday celebration at the restaurant of my choice. I
chose roasting hot-dogs around the fire-pit and calling it good.
Cindy and Dave always go out of their way to make such occasions
special for me. Whether it be my birthday, Christmas or what have
you. I was not up for driving in to town and eating restaurant food.
A bad belly had left me wanting nothing more than to curl up on the
couch and pray for morning.
The
wind put the kibosh on building a bon-fire. Plan B was cake and
fireball at Crandall's by 5:30PM. I drug my frumpy butt off the couch
to feed before heading to the neighbor's for the festivities. I
didn't get off the first porch step before I knew something wasn't
right. Drifter was at the feed barrels pacing back and forth. Jack
was not in sight. I whistled and he responded with a whinny that
caused my heart to sink. He continued to whinny as I narrowed the
distance between me and the turn out. I scanned the pasture several
times before catching site of his head and neck. He was laying in the
big wash, struggling to stand. His legs where curled underneath him
and dust covered him from end to end. How long has he been out here
like this? Your mind races...struggling to make sense of the
situation. Is it colic, or worse...has he twisted a gut? Is he
impacted? Broken a leg running around out here? Snake bit? It's not
unheard of for snakes to be out this early. Dear God...don't take my
horse. I don't want to be here without him.
“Get
up Jack.” It didn't act like colic. He wasn't trashing – he just
didn't seem to want to get up. His eyes were glazed and held the
hollows of a horse in distress. He was hurting somewhere. “Get up
Jack – you've got to move.” I prayed and held my breath as I
watched him make it to his feet. I expected to see an oddly angled
leg or other sign of a broken bone. I let out a breath of relief as
he stood on four, big boned and perfectly shaped legs. I checked him
top to bottom for bites, cuts, wounds...anything. He was a little
distended so I figured we were back to colic or twisted gut.
He
followed me out of the wash toward the gate where his halter hung. He
refused to eat or drink. I remembered Nadine, the horse woman I
bought him from as a baby, tell me: “If he's eating...he's going to
be fine.” He wasn't eating..not even his favorite cookies out of my
hand. My heart dropped farther in my chest. Dear God – let him
live. Keep him alive. I don't want to be here without him. I don't
want to do this alone.
As
soon as I put him in his covered pen he immediately laid back down.
Shit. I ran to gather my vet box. I gave him a small dose of Banamine
and took his temp. 99.3°. I didn't bother with listening to his
heart. I could hear gut sounds but not much. I called Cindy for the
number to the vet in Wickenburg.
I
don't know how I got my truck backed to the trailer. The sun was
starting to set and I couldn't see squat. Thankfully I hit it on the
second try. By the time I got Jack to his feet and loaded – Cindy
and Dave were at my place with their trailer. Jack peed as soon as he
stepped in the trailer; a good sign. If a horse is collicking – a
good method of promoting gut movement is to load them in a trailer
and haul them. More times than not, they will poop in the trailer if
they haven't twisted a gut. A twisted gut usually requires
complicated surgery with odds not in their favor.
I
didn't waste any time getting to the Hassyampa Vet Clinic in
Wickenburg. The vet office called for an ETA about the time I hit the
outskirts of town. “According to my GPS, I'm 9 minutes out.”
Wow...you made good time.” “Yes Ma'am.”
Jack
was still upright when I pulled into the clinic. I scanned the
trailer for a pile of poop that would give my horse a fighting
chance. Nothing. He'd peed again. That was good...I guess?
It
was now dark as I opened the back of the trailer to unload. I asked
him to “back...back...back...back....step. Good boy”. If nothing
else – we impressed the vet tech: “Wow – that was kind of
cool.” She said.
I
couldn't remember where I put my lead rope. Maybe I'd left it. I
didn't need one. Jack followed me as I followed the vet tech into the
clinic.
The
vet went to work checking his temp, vitals and listening for gut
sounds. His temp was 99.6 (at least I know my thermometer is
accurate.) She listened to his heart for what seemed like forever.
“Has anyone ever told you he has a heart murmur?” A what?
No...he doesn't have a heart murmur. He has a big heart. He has no
quit. He is the toughest horse on the planet lady...he does not have
a heart murmur. “No...never.”
“Ok...well,
is he insured?” Insured? What the fuck does that have to
do with anything? Are you saying he's not worth your time if he's not
insured? Are you saying my horse is going to die and you want to know
if I'm going to profit from his death? “No...he's
not insured. But I can assure you ma'am...I would mortgage my house
to save him if it came to that.” I didn't tell her I don't have a
house but whatever. My meaning was clear enough. She gave a half
smile and went to work.
“He's
a big boy” she said - “But I'm not going to give him anymore meds
than is needed to drop his head and no pain meds...we want him to be
able to get stuff moving if he can.” Watching them cram four feet
of hose up his nose into his gut made my own eyes water. Not being
more sedated than he was – I was proud of him. He took it like a
champ.
She
pumped oil and electrolytes down him and gave him another type of
medication I can't remember. Drew blood to test for lactiads –
those were good. He was not dehydrated. She said ideally, they would
keep him, put him on IV's and watch him through the night but they
weren't set up for that kind of thing yet as they were still moving
into this new building. Great.
I
appreciate people that are blunt and to the point – but good hell
lady: “Well...IF he makes it through the night with no
change...bring him back in. And you probably want to get that heart
murmur addressed. I mean...I'm the last person you want diagnosing
cardiac disease in a horse...but IF he makes it through this –
there's EKG's and things they can do in Phoenix...” She went on to
say: “Of course, the murmur could be the result of whatever he has
going on here. IF he makes it through the night, I suppose you can
address the heart thing later.” I swear if that lady uses the word
“IF” again she'll be needing a cardiologist herself.
Loaded
back in the trailer, Jack and I headed for home. I did what I always
do in these situations: I prayed. I prayed and questioned my faith.
While I believe in the power of prayer, I've also accepted the truth
that God does not always answer our prayers the way we might want or
expect. Jack could die regardless of earnest prayer. What would
happen to my faith then? I thought of the story of Job and how he
remained faithful even after God tested his faith with so much
suffering and heartache. I am no Job. My critters are my greatest
strength and my greatest weakness. I changed my prayer: “God – I
pray with all my heart that you heal my horse – but if that is not
your will – then I pray for the faith and the strength to endure
whatever comes.”
Jack
backed gingerly out of the trailer. I scanned the floor..still no
horse-poop. The vet said to keep him off food until he poops. I put
him in his covered stall, placed my ear against his belly and willed
there be gut sounds. It's times like this when I wish I had a real
barn. I would pull up a cot and spend the night with my critters. As
it is –I don't relish the thought of waking up as a bed warmer for
a cold blooded rattler.
I
didn't need to set my alarm but did anyway. I checked on Jack every
hour for poop watch. Midnight – no poop. 1:00 AM – No poop. 2:00
AM – nothing. 3:00 AM rolled in like a heavy, dark cloud filled
with promise of despair. Bleary eyed and with heavy heart, I
shuffled out to Jack's pen in slippers and penguin PJ's. There in the
corner of his pen lay the most glorious, steaming pile of horse-poop
I'd ever lay eyes on. Jack was proud of himself. He was also hungry.
I threw my arms around his neck and thanked God for that pile of
poop. He was hungry and a bit annoyed that I wouldn't yet feed him. I
thought it best to make sure things were moving along. A horse that's
impacted can still poop if the impact is farther up in the
intestines. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but the fact that he
wanted to eat did wonders for my hopes.
The
next day, Jack continued to return to normal. He was eating, pooping
and peeing with gusto. Kindness and selfless adoration had filled in
the hallows of pain and fear from his eyes. I hugged him, thanked God
and slept for 12 hours.
When
a person thinks they came close to losing something, it can cause
ponderings of fresh perspective. For me, those revelations came in
six little words: “Shit or get off the pot.” No pun intended,
Jack. I was referring to mounted shooting. I was done making excuses,
playing it safe and making Jack look like a plug. No more slowing
down and holding him back.
The
next couple of days, I practiced in my arena and Crandall's –
focusing on speed. It's hard to tell, for me anyway, if your actually
going as fast as you feel. You think you're out there flying through
the course, hair blowing in the wind like a dark haired and less
attractive Kenda Lensiegne – popping balloons and breaking sound
barriers – until someone shows you the video. Reality hits. You're
barely out of a lope and the only barriers you're breaking are those
of a delusional nature.
We
must have been picking up speed ….a couple of friends commented we
had. I was still able to hit my balloons and Jack remained calm. It
felt good. Excited to continue pushing our limits, I entered Jack and
I in every local shoot for the next two months. Shoots I would soon
have to draw out of.
Jack
was seven weeks into his last shoeing. Finding a good farrier is hard
enough – finding one who will show up is near impossible. The
farrier I was using had gone back to Idaho or wasn't interested - he
didn't answer my text. I had the contact for another that friends had
used and were happy with. He answered my text within minutes. He
could be there by 2:00PM. “You mean 2:00PM as in today 2:00 PM?”
Devin
pulled into my driveway at 2:00PM. He introduced himself and
apologized for needing to bring two of is little girls with him. His
wife was out of town with their other two. No apology needed. I miss
my grand-kids fiercely. I could get in my grandma fix on these two
little fireballs.
The
wind was howling. I should have stopped him when he hard-tied Jack to
his tailgate. Jack rarely pulls back anymore but between the wind,
Drifter racing around his pen behind him and two little girls running
circles around him brandishing mesquite limbs...things were bound to
get western. I was a split second too late stopping the girls when
Jack reached his boiling point...jerked back and took the guys
tailgate with him. I was actually impressed. The old Jack would have
drug the entire rear end of the truck back to Idaho. As it was – he
dropped his head and let me untie the lead while Devin replaced his
tailgate.
I
was able to convince the girls to gather “firewood” and popped
balloon fragments out of my arena to keep them occupied while their
dad worked. Jack ground ties well, allowing me to periodically check
on the girls and leave Devin to it. He had finished the front two
feet when the girls came looking for a bathroom. I dropped the lead
rope and escorted the girls to the RV.
The
scene had changed significantly in the time I left Jack with Devin
and returned with the girls. Devin stood holding Jack's lead – both
nervous and equally wide-eyed. Devin said that he had clipped him –
that he was bleeding a little and had to take out a hot nail. “But
don't worry – it almost always never causes a problem.” OK.
When
I first saw Jack's right hind hoof – I thought it must be buried
part way in the dirt. It was shocking to discover it was
not...that was all that was left of my horses big, beautiful hoof.
“Um...that looks awful short.” I said. Devin answered: “Oh
no...it could be a lot shorter. He's been left too long. He's going
to travel so much better!” I was far from convinced: “Um...he's a
pretty big horse for that small of a hoof!” He answered: “You
shoe the hoof...not the horse.” “OK....but that HOOF HAS TO
SUPPORT THAT HORSE!” He had nailed 00's on a hoof that should take
a 1 or an 0...if the shoe was shaped properly. There was no
shaping of shoes here. Just hammer on a two sizes too small hunk of
iron and whack off whatever is hanging over.
I
lead Jack gimping to his stall while Devin seemed determined to
convince me how much better he was going to travel...but he'd be sore
for a few days because, you know...he clipped him a little. Surely
this guy knows something I don't?
I
can pick up all of Drifter's feet without any problems but he is
sketchy when it comes to most other people. I have to give credit
where credit is due. Devin took his time and did a great job handling
Drifter. I on the other hand was going to err on the side of caution:
“You know, he really doesn't need trimmed...I drag him all over the
desert. Just pick up his feet and mess with him a bit so he gets use
to having someone else do it.” Devin agreed – rounded the edges
and called it good.
I
owed him $175.00 – paid him $200.00 for taking the time with
Drifter and bade farewell to two little girls...one of which
misunderstood my name as Dory. “I love you, Dory! Good bye!”
Well...I'm...rather fond of you, too sweetheart. Come back someday.”
Perhaps when your dad has a little more experience under his belt.
Jack
was now laying down. I got him up and led him and Drifter to their
turnout pen. Drifter, usually full of piss and vinegar, seemed to
sense Jack's pain and walked calmly beside us. The more I looked at
Jack's feet – the more concerned I became.
The
next day, Jack continued to lay down unless I asked him to get up.
Seeing his excruciating walk brings to mind the barbaric practice of
Chinese foot binding. He walks like a tortured, foot bound Chinese
woman.
I
was trying not to overreact. I can do that when it comes to my horse.
I must have looked as depressed as I felt when I told Dave and Cindy
what had happened. They would be right over to take a look.
I
started leading Jack to Crandall's – Dave met us before we got 50
yards down the drive. “OMG ...don't make him walk. Those shoes have
to come off. I'll bring my trailer.”
Dave
went to work pulling the back shoes. Jack was too sore to stand on
his right hind. The fact that he let us pick up his feet at all was
amazing in itself. Dave talked to him, apologized to him and lay on
his belly so Jack didn't have to put any more weight on them than
absolutely necessarily. From the few years that I've known Dave, he
appears to me to be a fairly stoic, slow to rile type of guy.
However, I was surprised to hear a few F-bombs and other choice words
as Dave quickly removed both back shoes.
I
am certainly no expert – but a blind man could see there was
nothing right about either of those hooves. The hoof wall...gone. The
toes...gone. Heels....gone. Three of the five nails in one hoof alone
were hot. Blood surfaced in several areas. The one thing harder than
looking at my horses butchered feet was knowing I had led him to the
slaughter. He trusted me and I stood there and let this happen.
I'm
crying...Cindy's teared up and I'm pretty sure Dave shed one as well
as he tried his best to console us: “It's going to be OK.
We will fix him up. It will take time, but we can fix this.”
Dave
made boots out of duct-tape to hold gauze soaked in iodine solution
(Su-Per Sole Formula) against his soles. The iodine would harden his
soles and hopefully prevent abscessing.
The
silver duct-tape boots somehow amplified the deformed and undersized
shape of my horses feet. I couldn't look at them without feeling
somebody had punched me in the gut. “Oh, he's going to travel so
much better now.” I got madder by the minute. Devin needed to know
what he had done. Cindy suggested I wait a couple of days to calm
down before confronting him. She was right, of course....but what I
really wanted to do was have someone who loved and trusted him hold
him down while I took a grinder to his toes and worked back to mid
arch. “There...a little tender? Don't worry, your going to travel
so much better!”
In
between doctoring Jack and fretting over what the hell to do, Dave,
Cindy and I took a break and headed to the Coyote for dinner. My
friends Fred and Cindy (who I call “my other Cindy”) were also at
the Coyote. They offered to lend us a pair of soaker boots and
suggested adding a layer of sugar with the iodine solution. I'd never
heard of using sugar. I stopped by the next day and picked up the
boots.
Dave
was concerned about the breath-ability (or lack) of the boots. They
were made to be used temporarily to soak the foot. Jack was going to
have to wear them for an extended period of time and they might sweat
and make his feet soft. I remembered I had a pair of Cashel trail
boots that fit over shoes. They would be big, and they were
technically for the front – but they had vents in them to allow
water to run out at creek crossing.
We
cut up an old, thin wool pad to place in each boot. Dave poured in a
layer of sugar and added iodine and secured the boots as best he
could. Jack high stepped around like a an American Saddlebred.
We
changed the pads in his boots ever 24 hours. The Su-Per sole formula
and sugar seemed to be doing the trick. His soles were hardening
faster than I'd hoped. Each day his gate become more extended.
Whether
or not to contact Devon weighed on me. I know he had no idea what
he'd done. If he had, he would not have asked if I would let him use
Drifter as a demo horse at some sort of clinic put on by the farrier
school. Fortunately, the decision to confront him was taken out of my
hands.
Devin
pulled into my driveway just as I was pulling out. I could tell from
the look on his face he was not there for idle chit-chat. He had
gotten word. He apologized and wanted to know what he could do to
make it right. Of course, there is no “making it right.” The
damage was done. He offered to give my money back. I said “I don't
want your money...I want you to learn from this so you never do it to
another horse. You can't ever do this to another horse. My
horses mean everything to me. Especially this one, he is my life.”
He offered to bring in a hoof expert to see what they could do. I
replied: “I appreciate that...but no. Dave is working on him and
thinks he can make him sound again. If I didn't trust in that –
this would be an entirely different conversation.” He hung his head
– he was truly sorry. I knew it took a lot for Devin to show up and
own up to what he had unintentionally done. I told him as much. He
offered again to have his mentors look at Jack. I again turned down
the offer: “I appreciate that you came out here – it means a lot
– but the last thing I'm going to do is lead my horse up to another
stranger neither of us trust. Right now, all I want from you is to
learn from this and get off my property. I think what I meant to say
was “learn from this and move on” - but I was about to start
crying again and “get off my property” just sort of came out.
What
do regular people do when they don't have a horse to ride? I would go
out of my ever loving mind. I decided to fill my time by upping my
morning walks, getting back in shape and spending more time with
Drifter. The first day I ended up walking 6 miles. Hank now hesitates
or flat refuses to go with me. He waits by the gate for me to return.
As
for Drifter, vacation is over for you, bud. I saddled him and put him
in Crandall's round pen and lunged him for the first time. Within no
time he was walking, trotting and loping on command. I can only run
around in circles so many times before I get sea-sick. I can't think
of anything more boring for Drifter, either. Maybe I'll start taking
him on walks with me. I broke to ride my first colt that way. I'd
take him for a walk all over the valley. One day, I got tired of
walking and jumped on. I was 16 at the time...I'm not 16 anymore.
Probably won't be happening. But damn, it's tempting.
Dave
and Cindy know me better than I thought. They offered to let me use
their semi-retired roping horse, Shorty. You don't want to use the
word “retire” around Shorty though. He has no idea he is 21 years
old. He doesn't seem to care if you call him Shorty...he knows he can
out-walk anything twice his size. Wouldn't surprise me if there was a
Pasofino in the woodpile somewhere in Shorty's lineage.
It's
been Shorty and me for about a week now. He could not be more polar
opposite from Jack; from his physical stature to his mincey gate. No
matter what he does, he's all business and you are expected to simply
hang on and enjoy the ride...and even though I sort of feel like I'm
cheating on Jack, I do enjoy the ride.
Cindy
and I have been wanting to find the “Wickenburg Stagecoach Massacre
site” since last years failed attempt. We met Jamie and Celia at
the Coyote and hauled to the state land parking area. I had created a
way-point from the google maps coordinates on my GPS. We were finding
that damn site come hell or high water.
Shorty
is a true, “cowboy's horse.” His proud, mincy walk eats up the
miles. He might not be the mountain goat that Jack is – but he
makes up for it with head-bobbing enthusiasm. He doesn't know what we
are doing out here in the desert – but he's doing it with purpose!
If
you want to look important – carry a clipboard. If you want people
to think you know where your leading them – carry a GPS. All I
could deduce from the hand-held Garmin was that we needed to go North
by North East. Over rocky strewn hills dotted with barrel cactus,
across open country and through washes, I led the girls on a direct
path...no veering. The GPS doesn't allow for veering. Veering can
get you lost, I know...I am an expert in getting lost.
The
GPS led us straight to the Massacre Site. We milled around reading
the numerous information plaques and snapped pictures. A jeep pulled
in shortly after we arrived. The group introduced themselves. They
said they were from California - “The good part” of course. I
find that happens a lot with Californians. They all claim to be from
the “good part.” I think if I had to validate that I was from the
“good part” of a state...I would move to another state. Come to
think of it – most of them are! They were nice folks regardless of
which part they came from and offered to take our picture. We took
them up on it before heading back to the trailers.
Cindy
is quite the tailgate bartender. She had brought a cooler full of the
fixings to make what we now dub: “Aguila Swamp Water.” I'm not
going to say what's in it in the event she decides to patent
it....which I think would be an excellent idea.
Aguila
Swamp Water is a refreshing drink...thirst quenching even. Being as
this was the warmest day in a long while, we were pretty thirsty! We
suspect Cindy mixed our drinks light on the water and heavy on the
swamp.
Is
everybody OK to drive. “Sure!” said Cindy, “It's a straight
shot almost all the way home....and I'm not driving!” It's unlikely
I would pass a sobriety test, but I could maintain and get us there.
I hoped.
“Cindy
– how's my driving...am I doing OK?”
“Laurie
May...you are driving FABULOUS!”
When
someone tells you really loud that you're driving “FABULOUS”
followed by adorable, contagious giggles...there's probably sirens
and a breathalyzer test not far behind.
~
Now
is as good a time as any to learn to rope; something I've been
wanting to do since coming to “The Team Roping Capital of the
World.” I'm paranoid about dallying, though. I've picked up enough
fingers out of the roping arena to realize I'm rather fond of my
digits. All 10 of them. For now, I am roping the dummy on the ground
and only chasing steers on Shorty. The first trip down the arena felt
like we broke the sound barrier. The chute opens, the steer leaves
and Shorty explodes after the thing. I don't have a rope so all I
have to do is hang on and try to keep Shorty from stomping on the
steer....which I think he would like to do. He is a cow eating
machine. It feels like we are going a lot faster than we are. I've
seen the real ropers chase those same steers and they don't look
nearly as fast as it feels on Shorty!
Dave
says once I get comfortable roping on the ground I can go to swinging
the rope on Shorty and maybe eventually...throwing the loop at an
actual steer. I don't know about that. I may have to wait until Jack
heals up. Shorty isn't big enough to head off and Jack has issues
with being in the roping box with a steer in the chute. Then again, I
never thought he would make a shooting horse and he fooled me. I
remembered something Kitty Lauman told me one time: “If you expect
him to fail, he will not disappoint you.” Wow – those words were
a game changer for me. OK then... I expect Jack will make an awesome
head horse one day!
It's
been one week and two days since Jack's ordeal. He's been plodding
around in his “tennis shoes” with an almost normal gate. We
pulled off the tennis shoes and Dave examined his hooves. He winced:
“Ugh...I sort of forgot just how short they are.” He brought out
special slim shoeing nails and properly sized shoes for his back feet
and went to work. The hardest part seemed leveling them up without
taking off what little wall he had left. The right hoof is the worst.
It is a good inch shorter than the left. It makes me cringe.
I'm
so proud of Jack for standing patiently while Dave quickly worked
magic. He is not the most forgiving horse. He seemed to know Dave was
trying to help him.
Dave
finished nailing on the shoes and then applied bond-o to fill in the
gaps between the shoe and hoof. He said it would help keep the dirt
and gravel out. I had to laugh. I told Jack that's what shyster used
car salesmen do to pass off a piece of junk.
His
feet are all different sizes and shaped unnatural, yet they looked
100 times better once Dave was through. I'm scared to get my hopes up
too much – but watching Jack walk more normal than I've seen him in
the last 10 days made my spirit a little bit lighter.
I
look forward to the day when Jack and I are again racing through the
desert – his big, healthy hooves pounding through sandy washes to
the base of the Harquahala mountains. In the meantime, I am blessed
with friends and neighbors who don't give a second thought to
spending their time, talent and resources to help. I am especially
thankful for the loan of a head-bobbing powerhouse patiently teaching me to one
day be a real roper. I call him: Sir Shorty.
