Blast from the Past

When I was in my mid-teens I worked as the stable hand at Camp Arowhon in Algonquin Park, Ontario. It was my responsibility to care for a well-used school string of 15 horses seven days per week, 10 weeks per year. This included feeding, mucking, grooming, tacking (the campers were not expected to do this for themselves), turning out, medicating, etc. I got paid $500/summer. The barn was well beyond the main part of the camp, and I lived alone there in a small cabin with mostly just the horses for company. Memories of this period are mixed. There is nothing quite like being greeted by the misty nickers of 15 horses (and the occasional moose) on a chilly July morning. There is also nothing quite like being a naturally-reserved teenager amongst dozens of naturally-gregarious teenagers. Especially when most of them only see you at meal times and you always smell like a horse.

But my favorite memory has nothing to do with horses or with people. Feed and hay were brought in twice over the course of the summer, so our feed bin was huge -- probably 3 cubic yards. One morning I noticed a small dip in the surface of the feed at the back of the bin. By the time evening rolled around the volume of the dip had doubled. The next morning the volume had increased 10-fold and several new dips had appeared. After finishing my chores I staked out the back of the barn. Sure enough a steady stream of empty-cheeked chipmunks was running under the floor boards and reappearing full-cheeked minutes later. My colleague Sean followed them back to their hiding place while I set to emptying the bin so that we could line it with sheet metal. The next day Sean and I went to see how much grain we could recover from the chipmunks and we were surprised to find 21 liters stockpiled in a hollow tree. We left them liter to acknowledge their hard work.

Over the past several days some creature (probably a rat) has been working hard to get into the Rubbermaid containing our black sunflower meats. The edges have been systematically shredded and sometime last night a hole into the main chamber was successfully chewed. There are bits of blue plastic everywhere. Depletion of the supply is not yet obvious, but I will switch the contents over to a metal tub or a chew-proof barrel whenever I find the right vessel. I will probably leave a salutatory supply available for this perpetrator too.

Sex and the Country

One of the many unglamerous tasks associated with horse ownership is genital hygiene. Both boys and girls get...er...gunky as their natural secretions mix with dirt and stick to the surrounding skin. In the wild I assume that stallions stay clean by breeding and that mares stay clean by birthing and nursing, but domestic animals need some (ideally semiannual) assistance.

A few days ago I saw Raven enthusiastically rubbing her rump against the fence, which is often a sign of uncomfortable girl parts (she is up-to-date on her worming). Mares get dirtiest between their udders, but fluid from the vulva also pools and sticks between their hind legs. When I last cleaned Raven in May she was VERY unreceptive and I was forced to do a cursory job (while dodging blows). Today was a different story -- she looked totally content and relaxed throughout the half hour of fussing and scrubbing and picking and rinsing required to get her squeaky clean. Another testament to how much she is starting to trust me.

Tonka, on the other hand, would probably trust anyone to clean his sheath because he is a giant horn dog. He looked a bit uncomfortable when I removed a small "bean" (a hard ball of dirt and smegma that collects in the tip of the urethra), but otherwise he made a lot of sexy faces and some silly grunting noises. His eyes did bug out a little when I put the cold hose right up there to give him a final rinse. A good job to get done on a sunny day.

Some of Her Lip

When I scratch Raven in a satisfying spot (whithers, elbows) she bends her neck around so that she can put her upper lip against my arm or shoulder or chest and then she wiggles said lip back and forth like crazy. If someone else is scratching her when I am nearby she will stretch her head out to me to do the same thing. Raven is not a horse who bonds easily with people, and I find this sweet quirk heartening and endearing. After eight months at Farcical Farm we are finally getting the impression that she feels comfortable and content here.