Not Glorious Mud
I write this during just as official drought conditions have been announced for most of England. And although the prospect of weeks of ‘blessed rain’ – as my Kenyan circus tumbling friend calls it – might be a welcome change, it brings a flood of bad memories…
I’ve always been terrified of boggy ground, welly-swallowing mud and anything else swampy.
Winter 2016 was the second wettest winter since 1910 and Hurricane’s field turned into a quagmire. He was utterly unconcerned because he’d become infatuated with a miniature Shetland pony belonging to my neighbor. She’d been moved to a field which backed onto Hurricane’s, divided by two barbed wire fences with a ditch between.
Hurricane did little else but pace up and down in the hopes of seeing his lady friend. But as the rain continued to pour he stopped pacing. He just stood and stared despondently. And created the perfect conditions to get something called mud fever. He’d made his own clay bog which covered his hooves right up to his stifle (that’s the equivalent of a human’s knee). I knew he wasn’t right.
Mud was stopping oxygen getting to his legs and creating a moist space for bacteria to accumulate. In short, the area above his hooves – once the mud was scraped off – was raw.
‘Unless you get that ‘orse out of there soon he’ll get the mange’ said TSM. But TSM was lambing and didn’t have a moment to spare. Nevertheless, he refrained from using his favourite phrase… Instead he muttered, ‘No cure for the mange’.
Getting to Hurricane would involve going through the bottom gate which also had its own clay bog. I had no choice.
Clinging onto the gate post I looked to see where I could take a safe next step.
‘I can’t do this’ a voice screamed in my head.
‘You don’t have to’ came an odd but reassuring response I’d heard before.
Grey-wellied feet squelched a way through.
I’d found the right antibacterial shampoo to clean Hurricane’s legs. But first I had to clean the mud off. It took about forty-five minutes to treat each leg. Clearly uncomfortable for my beloved, we took it slow and gentle. He never once tried to kick, just shifted out of reach. I waited. Went to another leg. Time disappears in these situations. I probably did daily this for a week or so.
And although his legs slightly improved, overall, he did not and the weather worsened. When I saw him sitting on his haunches, I knew we had to move him immediately into the better drained field at the top of the farm’s drive.
How?
Love or lust.
My neighbor came to the rescue.
The feisty little Shetland who was barely taller than a dog was led her down to Hurricane’s end of the adjoining field. She had absolutely no interest in the lack-luster coated but still striking chestnut. Her eyes were fixed downwards at the lush grass. A mouthful or twenty would suffice as a reward. Hurricane was barely aware of our presence.
Suddenly rediscovering his snort, he followed the tiny mare from his side of the fence. Somehow, we got her out and him in.
Slowly, my boy recovered.
I still hate mud and boggy places.
And although my devotions, perhaps, played some small part in keeping Hurricane alive, it pales against the honor and grace he afforded in allowing me to tend him.
We enjoyed thirteen or so further months of each other’s company during which our friendship deepened and I got to see other facets of his character. He was fascinated and terrified of the wheelbarrow.
My horse-ranger days had trained me to muck out and keep a field clear of manure. Hurricane managed to produce a disproportionate amount for a single horse. Nevertheless, he made the back-breaking work fun, nosing me for a pony-nut before dancing away at the mere suggestion I might move the barrow or shovel in his direction.
I wasn’t stupid. At some point he’d met a surly groom, master or mistress.
Not on my watch.
One fine day, as I raised my both my hands in sheer laughter at his antics he did something wonderful. He reared up, whinnied and cantered round in beautiful circles, flouncy and excited. Had some more pleasant memory been ignited?
I did the human equivalent, raising my hands in the air and finding I, too, could run in a circle. I’d already found the joy of dance through a discipline called Biodanza. We even danced ‘horse’ which of course I believed I excelled at… but to actually dance ‘horse’ with a horse? Sublime.
It became our secret play, as and when he was in the mood. Never in company.
#horse #mud #dancing #interspeciescommunication