NO HOOF - NO HORSE

 

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.