Sam hasn’t posted for a while. He’s been busy this winter growing a magnificent coat of white fur, which he is now in the process of shedding out. But now, he’s ready for an update.
Sam, in spite of being an Andalusian gentleman whose ancestors are from a much warmer climate than Interior Alaska, grows a coat that is nearly four inches long by the time shedding season comes in April. All winter, he looks like he’s half polar bear, and as the sun returns to the corral, the longer outer hairs gleam so that he looks haloed in the morning sun. Mattie’s hair is not nearly as long or thick, though she seems to grow more of an undercoat. Now that they are shedding, the corral is littered with clumps of their hair, especially in spots where they are standing to be groomed.
Today, Trish, from our horse club came over to see Sam. She is considering being one of two riders (besides me) to ride him in lessons and clinics this summer. We have an ambitious schedule planned and now that the ice is nearly melted from the corral, we can start getting the horses fit in earnest. We stood for nearly a half hour in the sun grooming out his shedding coat with the shedding blade—a metal strip with a serrated side that rakes the loose hairs from his coat. We were nearly ankle deep in white hair when we were done. We tacked Sam up in the longeing cavesson and surcingle and got him going in circles at the trot and a bit of canter.
All the clicker training I’ve done—however sporadically—has paid off, it seems. He stands to be groomed now—not as much inching back to the end of the lead rope then “panicking” at the feel of the halter pulling on his head. He stood still as we worked on him, dozing in the last sun of the day. He was—well mostly—polite as Trish walked him then sent him out to the end of the longe line to work. He seemed happy to be working and comfortable with what we were asking of him.
Afterward, we went to work with Mattie, too. After the last incident I reported a few weeks ago, I’ve been working with her on moving her shoulders away from me, tapping on her shoulders till she takes a step sideways away from me, then rewarding her by letting off the pressure, then trying again. The idea (which I found on a John Lyons trainer’s blog) is to teach her to move away from the whip so that, eventually, I can just point the tip of the whip at her shoulder or hip and she will move out to the end of the line, instead of turning to face me. Things have been better with Mattie, too.
It’s gratifying to have new people come up and see Mattie and Sam, for it gives me a better perspective on how far we all have come. I’m less timid about pushing the horses a little now—though I always watch Mattie carefully for signs that she feels threatened—and they know more of what I expect: good behavior. In all, it makes for pleasanter times with them, and I think of the behaviors I’m trying to shape in them as horse survival skills. Just like teaching Jeter, the poodle, to sit at the side of the road when he hears a car coming rather than revving up to chase it, teaching Mattie and Sam to be calm and responsive to humans could save their lives if they ever have to be cared for by some other humans less crazy about them than I am.
In the book Black Beauty, Anna Sewell writes that horses’ lives are a story of changing hands, going from person to person. Unlike dogs, who often live with one person for their shorter lives, horses move from owner to owner throughout their sometimes forty-year lives. Girls grow up and go to college and their beloved horses are sold to a new owner, or a divorce or illness happens and the owner can’t keep the horse, or a rider is in a long search for the right horse for the purpose and goes through several in the span of years. Recently, the endurance horse, Elmer Bandit, a half-Arab flea-bitten gray (like Sam) died at 38 with his life-long owner at his side. He has the record for the most lifetime miles in competition of any horse in that sport—and he competed in his last race this past fall. He is the exception, to have lived so long with one owner. I hope to counter this trend with Mattie and Sam—but want them to have reasonable manners just in case. Besides, they both have psychological and behavioral baggage from their pasts; I want them to feel secure with me.
The corral is mostly down to dirt, now. This weekend, if the temperatures go back above freezing, we’ll get a crew together and rake and scoop as much of the manure as we can off the packed and frozen sand below. By next weekend—if it doesn’t snow or rain and freeze (knock on wood)—we could be getting out the saddles. I have two more lessons on Stormy in the indoor arena, then Mattie and Sam get my full attention, with the help of Trish and Casey.
There are tiny tomato and cucumber plants under my shop light and in the window during the day. I’m beginning to clear out the greenhouse to prepare it for this summer’s plants. The ground is brown with dead grass and leaves; the trees are a web of bare twigs. The Tanana below us is still white with a widening gray swath that shows where the ice is thinning, thawing, and refreezing. Anything can happen—snow, forty below, a quick melt and breakup. We’re holding our breath. We have our Nenana Ice Classic tickets in the can. One day we’ll see pale green like a haze in the hills. Then, then, spring.
Mattie's Pillow 