Week one
My cranky old horse Walter has bung eyes, has for the whole time I have had him. There’s some upper lid damage to his left eye. He has always been a shier and I can only conclude that he is at least partially blind. I’ve asked him about his eyesight but he has never really wanted to talk about it. In summer there are so many blasted flies around his poor eyes that it looks like he is wearing a pair of Jackie O’s sunglasses.
So of course from guilt lain upon me in creamy layers by the property owner’s son, I put a fly protector on poor horsey’s face. I seem to have misplaced the old one so I buy a new one that fits behind his ears and a wide Velcro tab fastens beneath his chin. I am not convinced that it will remain on but depart the property, feeling like a responsible (and guilt free) horse owner.
Week three
A fortnight later when I return, Walter is naked again, his pretty star shining bright between his eyes. I catch him and he follows me about as I emu parade about the paddock looking for the fly protector, dodging about the long grass area where there might be snakes. Eventually I find the blasted thing, trampled and misshapen in a sand roll. I push it back into shape and after brushing the horse and stuffing him with many carrots, I put the fly protector back on with the halter over the top. Surely he will not be able to remove it from beneath his halter.
Week five
A fortnight later he has done exactly that, although the halter is still on his head. We again parade up and down the paddock until the fly protector is found. Having correctly anticipated what may happen, this time I have come prepared with my sewing kit and some spare webbing. He is a good horse and stands patiently while I customize the fly protector, cutting the ear strap in half and making each piece into a loop that slips over the halter head strap. Ha ha ha! Yeah, he knows what’s going on. The only way to rid himself of the fly protector this time will be to also remove the halter, impossible unless he can un-do the buckles himself. Yeah grow some fingers, horsey! When he is again free to munch away at the decreasing supply of summer grass I drive away content with the knowledge that the property owner’s son will not be able to subtly accuse me of being a neglectful horse owner. I can enjoy three weeks holiday safe in the knowledge that my horse will not have fly-blown eyes when I get back. Though I do worry a bit that perhaps I left a fly beneath that contraption and he will have a mass of maggots wriggling around in there, invisible to the world, driving poor Walter insane and turning my docile creature into a flesh-eating human killer. This thought worries me over the three weeks holiday, along with other rubbish thoughts that I seem to have rote-learnt. It’s very exhausting being a worrier.
Week eight
Three weeks later there is a message on my home phone, it’s Audrey letting me know that one of the pony girls saw Walter out in his paddock, the fly protector dangling from his halter. I don’t know which part was still on and which part was dangling but I assume he un-did the velcro chin strap. She re-fastened it for me. Good girl, that one. Though it does somewhat shit me that she seems to have no trouble catching my horse.
Week nine
The next Saturday I go to visit my Walter. It is a cool morning, rain from last night has softened the world. By the feel of things there is more rain to come today.
Darren and I have our coffees together then I get going along the four frightful lanes of traffic that pushes out of the city, toward the strip shopping and retail centres. I am happy that I am going to see my horse and not going shopping.
I hate shopping centres. Though on very very hot days they are alright in a hateful way.
The road thins, the traffic thins and I am driving between walls of bushes and trees. There is space again, paddocks and animals and birds and clouds. I am going to see my horse and everything is a-ok.
I love walking in paddocks just after it has rained. The dry summer grass smells sweet but the flies are atrocious – I remembered to bring everything except the aerogard. My horse lifts his head from grazing and turns his attention to me, his star shining brightly between his eyes.
He has removed the halter and the fly protector.
Duuuh?!
He can’t do that!
He begins to circle away from me, positioning himself so there is another horse between us. Bastard creature. But I am armed with carrots, my main ammunition. It’s not the natural horsemanship way to catch a horse but bollocks to them, I’m sure none of those practitioners have spent the better part of 13 years pursuing some brown bastard around a paddock in all seasons, dodging hooves and playing chasey around trees.
I have a rush of love and excitement, the special one that can only be gotten from owning your own horse; I have to quell my urge to rush up to him but instead move slowly, using the carrot tactics.
I am again parading about the paddock with him dawdling behind and this time the fly protector and halter is easy to find, sticking up in the dry grass like a crap modern sculpture. I expect to find it ruined but nothing seems to be broken. I check it three times but still find nothing broken. Other than it not being on the horse’s head it is just as I left it – loops still around the head strap of the halter, velcro chin strap still done up.
Did he shrink his head to slip it off then re-inflate his head again?
Has the chestnut mare grown fingers, un-done then re-done the ensemble?
Who knows, that one’s going to remain an eternal mystery!
Regardless - horse 4, human 0
My cranky old horse Walter has bung eyes, has for the whole time I have had him. There’s some upper lid damage to his left eye. He has always been a shier and I can only conclude that he is at least partially blind. I’ve asked him about his eyesight but he has never really wanted to talk about it. In summer there are so many blasted flies around his poor eyes that it looks like he is wearing a pair of Jackie O’s sunglasses.
So of course from guilt lain upon me in creamy layers by the property owner’s son, I put a fly protector on poor horsey’s face. I seem to have misplaced the old one so I buy a new one that fits behind his ears and a wide Velcro tab fastens beneath his chin. I am not convinced that it will remain on but depart the property, feeling like a responsible (and guilt free) horse owner.
Week three
A fortnight later when I return, Walter is naked again, his pretty star shining bright between his eyes. I catch him and he follows me about as I emu parade about the paddock looking for the fly protector, dodging about the long grass area where there might be snakes. Eventually I find the blasted thing, trampled and misshapen in a sand roll. I push it back into shape and after brushing the horse and stuffing him with many carrots, I put the fly protector back on with the halter over the top. Surely he will not be able to remove it from beneath his halter.
Week five
A fortnight later he has done exactly that, although the halter is still on his head. We again parade up and down the paddock until the fly protector is found. Having correctly anticipated what may happen, this time I have come prepared with my sewing kit and some spare webbing. He is a good horse and stands patiently while I customize the fly protector, cutting the ear strap in half and making each piece into a loop that slips over the halter head strap. Ha ha ha! Yeah, he knows what’s going on. The only way to rid himself of the fly protector this time will be to also remove the halter, impossible unless he can un-do the buckles himself. Yeah grow some fingers, horsey! When he is again free to munch away at the decreasing supply of summer grass I drive away content with the knowledge that the property owner’s son will not be able to subtly accuse me of being a neglectful horse owner. I can enjoy three weeks holiday safe in the knowledge that my horse will not have fly-blown eyes when I get back. Though I do worry a bit that perhaps I left a fly beneath that contraption and he will have a mass of maggots wriggling around in there, invisible to the world, driving poor Walter insane and turning my docile creature into a flesh-eating human killer. This thought worries me over the three weeks holiday, along with other rubbish thoughts that I seem to have rote-learnt. It’s very exhausting being a worrier.
Week eight
Three weeks later there is a message on my home phone, it’s Audrey letting me know that one of the pony girls saw Walter out in his paddock, the fly protector dangling from his halter. I don’t know which part was still on and which part was dangling but I assume he un-did the velcro chin strap. She re-fastened it for me. Good girl, that one. Though it does somewhat shit me that she seems to have no trouble catching my horse.
Week nine
The next Saturday I go to visit my Walter. It is a cool morning, rain from last night has softened the world. By the feel of things there is more rain to come today.
Darren and I have our coffees together then I get going along the four frightful lanes of traffic that pushes out of the city, toward the strip shopping and retail centres. I am happy that I am going to see my horse and not going shopping.
I hate shopping centres. Though on very very hot days they are alright in a hateful way.
The road thins, the traffic thins and I am driving between walls of bushes and trees. There is space again, paddocks and animals and birds and clouds. I am going to see my horse and everything is a-ok.
I love walking in paddocks just after it has rained. The dry summer grass smells sweet but the flies are atrocious – I remembered to bring everything except the aerogard. My horse lifts his head from grazing and turns his attention to me, his star shining brightly between his eyes.
He has removed the halter and the fly protector.
Duuuh?!
He can’t do that!
He begins to circle away from me, positioning himself so there is another horse between us. Bastard creature. But I am armed with carrots, my main ammunition. It’s not the natural horsemanship way to catch a horse but bollocks to them, I’m sure none of those practitioners have spent the better part of 13 years pursuing some brown bastard around a paddock in all seasons, dodging hooves and playing chasey around trees.
I have a rush of love and excitement, the special one that can only be gotten from owning your own horse; I have to quell my urge to rush up to him but instead move slowly, using the carrot tactics.
I am again parading about the paddock with him dawdling behind and this time the fly protector and halter is easy to find, sticking up in the dry grass like a crap modern sculpture. I expect to find it ruined but nothing seems to be broken. I check it three times but still find nothing broken. Other than it not being on the horse’s head it is just as I left it – loops still around the head strap of the halter, velcro chin strap still done up.
Did he shrink his head to slip it off then re-inflate his head again?
Has the chestnut mare grown fingers, un-done then re-done the ensemble?
Who knows, that one’s going to remain an eternal mystery!
Regardless - horse 4, human 0
hi Tracey I'v been trying to figure out how to email you. your email address at artconnect.com.au didn't work.. I love your stuff and wanted to ask about an exhibition at our next show. can you email me? (pls)
ReplyDeleteandrealane@bigpond.com