Category Archives: Horses

Feeding Frenzy Fiasco

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I love the rain.


That is, I love the rain when I don’t have horses in my life.


When I have horses in my life, I hate the rain. That’s because, as all you horse-people out there know:


Rain = Mud

Furthermore:

Horses + Mud = MESSY BOOTS, HYPER HORSES, NO TURNOUTS, AND VERY LITTLE GETTING DONE



Still, I don’t think I’ll ever have it as bad as I did when I worked at the Morgan/Warmblood ranch up in Northern California.


Northern California is a beautiful bit of country, with gorgeous rolling hills, and lots of green grass.

I know it’s stupid of me, but I never put together the fact that green hills are really only green because of lots of rain. But I digress.


Feeding was an interesting fiasco at this place because the horses kind of ran free, and I had to hand-walk the flakes out to the feeders (it was too far to throw them.) I’m not going to badmouth the owner, because in a certain way I still respect her greatly, but she definitely had WAAAY too many animals. There were, at any given time, approximately 60-70 head on her place at any time, most of whom were running free. You definitely had to be on your toes and make sure ALL of the horses understood you were INCREDIBLY ALPHA, and that they had to be MUCH MORE SCARED OF YOU THAN ANY OF THE OTHER ALPHA HORSES. This process involves a lot of hand-flapping and angry hollering. In fact, in order to do it right, you had to basically pretend that you were an angry howler monkey on crack, and that any horse that got within arms reach of you would instantly be digested. Until I had enough of the feeders filled that the horses could group around them comfortably, there was always a chance that one of the alpha mares would drive a lesser-ranking horse away from her… and into me.

So, whenever I would feed, I would start by sacrificing one flake into the mud/ground, and then engage in my angry monkey dance to drive the mares away, buying myself some time to make a decent escape.




I’d get about 20 feet away, throw another flake into the snarling mass of horses, and do my angry monkey dance again.



Rinse, Repeat. Rinse, Repeat. Eventually, I would make it to a feeder and be able to fill it with a full bale, and the pressure would ease.


Did I mention I hated feeding time? Well, I did.

Feeding horses can be a fun, bonding experience—- when it’s a fun, bonding kind of a day. Feeding 60 hungry horses in 30 degree weather while it pelts down icy rain on you is not fun at all. It’s a damp, itchy, soggy version of hell, and it always makes for one of those introspective moments when you start wondering why you don’t just get into dancing, drinking, and boys like all the other sensible young women out there.


When it rained, the process became way, waaaaay worse. This was because of MUD. This wasn’t just any mud, either. This was the Aston Martin of mud… this mud was the kind of mud that other little bits of mud aspired to be. If you’re a horse person reading this, this was MANURE MUD. I think you know what I mean.


Anyways, on the night in question I was grumpy as it was, because I expected the feeding to be finished by the time I came home, and it wasn’t. Not only was I angry that the horses had been left hungry, but I was also angry that I had to be tromping about in the dark, sloshing about through the icy rain. I expected the ranch truck to be working, and of course it wasn’t. Of course my truck decided to die again. This mean that I had the joy of hauling 10+ bales of alfalfa in a tiny little wheelbarrow all around the 16 acres in order to get everyone fed.


I loaded up the first wheelbarrow, and headed down into the melee of waiting, hungry horses. I managed to get the first few sacrificial flakes down, when I took a step back and sank into the mud until it reached the top of my mud boots. That’s what… a foot? Foot and a half? Whatever it was, it was a hell of a lot of mud.

The fun part was that I was walking rather fast, trying to escape the ravenous bunch of were-horses that were snarling angrily behind me. When my boot sank in, I was mid stride, and I faceplanted in the mud. It wasn’t any graceful kind of a fall, either. I went down, face-first into layers of that sticky, slimy mess. I couldn’t even get my hands out in time to brace my fall, either. I suppose I should be happy that it was muddy— under normal circumstances a fall like that would have broken my nose. The hay flew out of my arms, and I could hear the horses drawing near. I had a real moment of fear when I realized my position, but managed to spring up in time to drive them back again in enough time to make my escape.. I went back to the wheelbarrow and grabbed it, pushing it onto the next destination. I grabbed another few flakes of hay, and headed off for the next feeder.

This time I only made it about fifteen feet in before my boot got stuck in the mud. I managed to save myself from falling completely face-first this time, catchign myself on my hands and knees. Still— I wasn’t exactly singing Disney tunes when it happened. Bracing my foot beneath me to stand up, I realized that I had lost my boot in the mud. Seriously— I really lost it. I had to crawl around on my hands and knees looking for it. If it weren’t for the hazard of a horse stepping in it and injuring themselves, I would have given up. As it was raining and dark, there was little light, so even after I did find the boot, all I could see was a slightly dark hole where the boot had sunk. It was totally and completely stuck— I couldn’t even grasp the smooth tops of it as it was level with the muddy ground. I poked my squishy, muddy toe in (I lost my sock. To this day, I have no idea where it went to), but the problem was I couldn’t figure out which way the toe of the boot was. To make it even more interesting, the entire time I was doing this, I had to continue my angry monkey dance to keep the horses at bay.

So there I am, hooting and hollering at the horses, waving my hands above my head to scare them away, hopping in a little circle, pivoting around my boot, trying to find the toe. I must have done it for a full minute before my foot finally slid in. I finished feeding with a minimum amount of fuss (which is probably a good thing—if I had fallen again, I probably would have been angry enough to actually make good on my threats and eat a horse.) The shower felt good, but it took days to get the smell of that mud out of my skin. Sometimes I swear I can still catch a whiff now and again. Did I mention that I hated feeding time? Well, I did.

My Idiot Thoroughbred: Jubilee (Barbco)

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I miss my idiot thoroughbred.

Don’t get me wrong— I loved Catarina. She was my first horse. How could I not love her, especially after all the years I spent hungering after a horse of my own? From the time I was able to talk, I was obsessed with horses. Breyer ponies, my little ponies, plastic horses of any no-name brand… the memories of my childhood circle around the times I spent living life through their plastic, unseeing eyes. They each had names and personalities, and the Barbies in my household only existed as a backdrop for the endless, ongoing dramas I always created for my herd:

Would the new foals survive the harsh winter? Would Apache fall in love with King? Oh, no! The new stallion Dark Magic was captured by the evil humans! But, wait! He jumped the 9 foot enclosure and escaped back to the herd!)

When I was 8 years old, my parents told me that if I kept up my straight A’s until the time I was 16, they would buy me a car. I immediately shot back, “What about a horse instead?”

I don’t think they really thought things through when they said yes. Maybe they thought I would grow up, grow out of my “horsey” phase?

Yeah, right.

Don’t get me wrong, when 16 hit, I knew how lucky I was to be able to have a horse. Living in the city, owning a horse was more than we could afford. But somehow, we managed. After countless hours on the internet researching exactly what to do, and how to avoid being sold a lemon, I owned my first horse. She was beautiful—an 8 year old liver chestnut, quarter horse mare that was sweet, willing, and completely beginner safe.

By the time I got her off the trailer to our new home, she’d turned into a 13 year old mare of unknown breeding (Quarter horse/arab/morgan/pony?) that had severe neck and back problems and had probably foundered severely in the past. She was also completely apathetic about my existence. The only thing I did luck out in was that she was the most bomb-proof, forgiving horse I’ve ever met. Nothing phased her, and I went from being a complete beginner to being able to doing everything I could dream of doing— sidepass at a canter, riding with no reins, riding for hours bareback… she was even trained to stop and stand still whenever I fell off. In retrospect, I think she might have been charro broke, which accounts for her lack of interest, and completely emotionless, indifference to the passionate love I had for her. Even worse, she was unsound/completely lame more often than not. After years of the frustration of owning a horse and rarely riding, I decided it was time to get a new one.

Enter Jubilee.

After so much time staring at a hobbling, hurting, horse, I did the only thing I knew how in order to avoid purchasing another broken-down horse: I hunted for a horse with the floatiest, free-est, non-limpy-gate I could find. With all that I could do on Catarina when she was well, I knew I could handle anything in terms of training. A four year old thoroughbred with only six months off the track, Jubilee brought me back to reality. I thought I was an experienced rider— it turns out that my mare was just an experienced teacher, and I was still completely green. It only took 1 day for me to realize just how little I knew.

I approached him in my normally hasty manner (forget a leisurely grooming! I was going to get a chance to RIDE!) and whipped out the flyspray bottle, starting with his face. He immediately pulled back, setting back and snapping his leadrope, then hitting the back of his head on an overhanging roof behind him. He began slinging his head from side to side, the horse-equivalent of, “OUCH!”

I was horrified. I didn’t even know that such a thing as “setting back” existed, and I didn’t know what to do. I froze, and then sidled up to him carefully, fully expecting another explosion. I placed my hand on his neck, speaking softly. He stiffened his skinny neck, holding it stiff and high, almost perpendicular to his ridiculously high withers. I continued talking softly, giving him a chance to think. He stared at me with bright glassy eyes for a few moments, then licked and chewed, dropped his head, and pressed his forehead flat against my chest. My first horse hug. “Fix it,” he seemed to be saying.

My heart crumbled.

I’d like to say we had a perfect relationship after that, but life doesn’t really happen that way. He was still 4 years old and fresh from the track, and I was still a beginner rider. In fact, we never got along all that great in the saddle. He was a stereotypical thoroughbred in all the best and worst ways— one day off, and it was back to square one. He was sweet, but not the brightest crayon in the box when it came to retaining information.

But when it came to an on-the-ground relationship, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel about a horse the way I did about Jubilee. Maybe it’s because he was did such a terrible job at being a horse— when turned out with a herd, he always stood about 20 yards outside of it, pathetically uncomfortable and vaguely lonely. He was just as socially inept as I was, and something about his inability to feel like part of the crowd clicked with me.

I spent hours just hanging out in his stall, reading books, feeding him hay one stalk at a time, braiding, braiding, and re-braiding his mane and tail. I learned that while his high withers made bareback riding impossibly uncomfortable, they created a little hollow that fit my face perfectly, and whenever I cried there, I felt comforted. I’m surprised I didn’t wear that little patch of hair away from all the hours I spent leaning into him, breathing in his healing scent.

Jubilee was there for me when my grandfather died. My grandma and I had been able to give my grandpa his wish— he died at home, surrounded by family. But dying is rarely as clean as it is in the movies, and after months of round-the-clock care and a heartwrenching final week of listening to him slowly drown from smoking-induced emphysema, I felt fragile. Brittle. Empty. Unable to cry. Unable to sleep. So I did what I’ve always done when I’m troubled. I drove to the stables.

I’ve always loved the stables best at night. There’s a peace and a quiet that just can’t be found during the day. Jubilee was long-since used to my unusual hours, and he came out to greet me. It was cold, and his breath curled out in plumes from his nose. I buried my hands beneath his mane, trying to warm them. Then I buried my face in that niche, and felt myself release whatever it was that was holding me back. I cried. I cried. And then I cried some more. I think my cheeks even went to sleep, I cried so long and so hard, and I don’t know how long I would have continued if I hadn’t heard something.

Jubilee nickered.

I’d heard him beg for food before, but this sound was different. It was the same sound a mare makes when calling to her foal. Deep, warm, and filled with reassurance. Startled out of my sobs, I pulled back, and saw him staring at me, ears pricked. He lipped my sleeve, and nickered again. Something about it made me laugh through my tears, and regain my composure. “I’m fine, Jubie. I’m fine.” .

That was the only time I ever heard that sound from him, and frankly, it was the only time I ever needed it. I ended up having to sell him a couple of years later, and it’s something I still regret. I wish I had the money to keep him. I hope he’s okay. He was an idiot, but he was my idiot thoroughbred, and I miss him.

Addendum (7-30-10): I wonder where Jubilee is, sometimes. I hope he’s doing okay. I know he wasn’t the easiest horse to ride or care for, and I have a deep seated fear that he’ll go to auction/kill buyer one day. I wish I had kept tabs on him after I sold him so I can rescue him from that fate one day. I saw an expired ad (about 6 weeks old) on a Fresno Craigslist selling him, but I couldn’t track him down at all.

That said, here is his information, in case his owner, wherever he/she may be, ever decides to google him and wants to know more about where he came from.

Breed: Thoroughbred
Barn Name: Jubilee
Registered name: Barbco
Dam: Cheerco
Sire: Barb’s Relic
Birthdate: May 1995 (I *think* it was May 23, 1995. It could have been May 27, 1995)
Description: 15.2 hh, Chestnut gelding, 4 white stockings, blaze. The stocking is highest on his front left leg, and gradually get smaller as you go clockwise. Two silver-dollar size scars on his croup. Old scar in the shape of an X on his front knee. Parrot mouth. Hard keeper. Sweetheart on the ground, nervous under saddle. Plays with his bit incessantly. Grinds his teeth when he’s nervous or frustrated. Unbelievably, stupidly high withers. Used to be very, very loved.
Tattoo: I really, really wish I had thought to write it down. I *think* it starts with Y8, but I can’t really remember 🙁

And here is my blatantly obvious attempt to try and make this post come up higher in the listings:

Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco