Book Review

by Laura Crum (and son)

My son just finished reading Alison’s book “Risky Chance”, and very much enjoyed it. I read the book, too, as I do most every book my son reads, and thought it was perfect as a read-alone book for a child my son’s age (11) or as a book to read aloud to a younger child. The book is told from the horse’s point of view (a la Black Beauty), and Alison’s knowledge and love of horses shines through very clearly. The story was realistic enough to be believable, but the sad/difficult parts were redeemed (for a child) by the happy ending. I especially enjoyed the details about the southern California racing scene during the Depression. The illustrations were also very good. So here is my boy’s review/book report, in his own words.

Title: The Horse Diaries: Risky Chance

Author: Alison Hart

Time: 1935-1940

Subject: Risky Chance is about a Thoroughbred horse who is a racehorse. He was born to run. He meets friends, Marie and Lanny. But also enemies, Bugsy and a money sucking owner. This story has both dark and light in it. And in the end light wins. Risky Chance tells his story in his own words.

My rating: Four stars!

In Memory of Pistol

by Laura Crum

It was right about this time, five years ago, that we lost Pistol. So today I’d like to tell his story here, in memory of a great horse.

Pistol was a horse I fell in love with at first sight. I guess all you fellow horseman know that feeling. You see the horse and think immediately, wow, I want to own that horse. I still remember the first time I saw Pistol, heeling a steer at a little roping arena near Salinas, and how he took my breath away. I turned to my friend Wally, who was looking for a heel horse. “You need to buy that horse,” I said.

Wally boards his horses with me, and though I could not afford another horse myself at that time, I knew that if Wally bought Pistol, Pistol would live with me. And I instantly wanted this in the worst way.

Pistol was a flashy horse, a bright sorrel/roan/paint with a flaxen mane and tail, over the knee white socks and a bald face. Well-made and solid looking, he definitely took your eye. But his looks were not the reason I fell in love. It was the way he moved. And the way he tried.

The intensity with which Pistol came around the corner, covered the steer, and slid to a stop was like nothing I’d ever seen in a heel horse before. Pistol was a cut above any rope horse in that arena—he shone very brightly in the crowd of jackpot ropers and their mounts. Pistol looked like he belonged in the big time.

Well, come to find out, he did. John, the roper who owned Pistol (he had just bought him from our local horse trader), was a friendly guy, and he told us the horse’s story. Or what he knew of it.

It seemed Pistol was raised on a ranch in (I kid you not) Death, Nevada, and the rancher who raised him was pretty proud of him. He didn’t intend to sell the horse, but two rodeo cowboys came through on a horse buying expedition and took a liking to Pistol. They offered a high price for the then four-year-old gelding, and also offered to buy four other colts—but only if the rancher would sell Pistol.

So Pistol went to live the rodeo life, and by all accounts he was a success. He was hauled by some rodeo greats and competed in some famous competitions. But by the time he was seven, he’d landed at the horse traders, why we never knew. It probably had something to do with being broke, which is a common condition with rodeo cowboys.

At any rate, the horse trader had made a deal to sell the horse to a wealthy team roper for a LOT of money, when the man decided to chase one last steer on the horse and test the gelding’s ability to run. He picked a hard runner and made the horse late and Pistol ran for all he was worth—and pulled up dead lame at the end.

The deal was off, and the horse trader, who wasn’t prone to spending money to fix trading horses, hauled Pistol to the veterinary hospital, figuring this horse was worth the repair bill. Apparently Pistol had a bone chip in his knee. Surgery was done to remove it, and… they operated on the wrong knee. Then, of course, they had to operate on the correct one. So now Pistol had two recovering knees.

The horse trader healed Pistol up and turned him out for the recommended six months, then legged him back up again. And promptly sold him to our friend John, with the very clear caveat: “If this horse comes up lame, its your problem. I told you the truth about him. He’s yours.”

Pistol appeared to be completely sound, but in the weeks to come we often noticed John flexing the horse’s knees and looking worried. Other ropers commented that John had been foolish to buy a horse who would almost surely break down. Me, I wasn’t discouraged. Pistol had the prettiest way of working that I’d ever seen. I kept telling Wally he needed to buy that horse.

To make a long story short, Wally kept offering to buy Pistol and eventually John agreed to sell him. I think John was influenced by worry that Pistol’s knees would bother him. Wally bought Pistol for the same very reasonable price that John had paid the horse trader, and he brought this great horse home to my place.

To say I was thrilled would be putting it mildly. All our friends told us we were nuts. But both Wally and I believed that Pistol, then eight years old, would be OK. And almost from the beginning, Wally and Pistol were a great match.

I couldn’t wait to ride and rope on Pistol, but I soon found out it wasn’t as easy as it looked. Because, to be quite frank, Pistol and I were not a great match. Oh, I could ride the horse, all right. Pistol was pretty broke and I had no trouble with him. But I could not rope on him.

The reason is something I never thought of until I was faced with it, but perhaps some of you will understand. Pistol was a pro—he had always been ridden by very effective ropers. He ran to the right spot and expected that his rider would throw the rope. As a beginning roper, I often hesitated, wanting to take an extra swing, and this didn’t work for Pistol. He simply moved on and ignored all signals to go back to the “rating” position. You could almost read his disdain. I gave you the shot, pal, was implicit in his body language. Pistol did not tolerate fools gladly.

This frustrated me, as determined as I was to rope on this great horse. But I soon found out I was not alone. Wally lent Pistol to others who were much more accomplished ropers than I was and they couldn’t rope on him either. One and all they said the same thing. Pistol did not listen to the rider in the course of a roping run, He simply did the job he knew to be right…and expected the roper to do his part.

This didn’t work for most jackpot team ropers (me included), who wanted to tell the horse what to do. But it worked for Wally, who simply wholeheartedly embraced the notion that Pistol would be where he needed to be. From the very beginning, Wally was able to win on Pistol.

I gradually acknowledged that I couldn’t rope on Pistol, and stuck to my horse, Gunner, even though Gunner was developing arthritic issues. Eventually Wally bought a rope horse named Flanigan, that I bought a half interest in. But I still loved and admired Pistol, and when we decided to take a pack trip in the mountains, I asked to ride him.

I knew Pistol had been raised on a ranch and ridden in the mountains a lot, and I figured that this was where I would really be able to enjoy him. Wrong again.

Because Pistol, true to form, had a very clear notion how to scramble up and down rocky passes and did not feel he needed direction from me. Thus when I tried to correct his choice of drop offs that I thought were too steep and aim him at the easier part of the trail, Pistol threw his head in the air and stumbled, bringing my heart into my throat.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked Wally. “I thought he knew how to go in the mountains.”

“He does,” Wally said. “You’re getting in his way. Just leave him alone and let him pick the route.”

“But he wants to go the wrong way,” I said plaintively. “I just want to steer him where its easier.”

OK. Fast forward to the ride out. I absolutely refused to ride Pistol, and instead rode Flanigan, who had been raised in the Midwest. This was Flanigan’s first time in the mountains and he was obviously very unsure about the creek crossings and the rock. But I figured I could cope with this better than Pistol and my ongoing feud about which route to take.

Wally rode Pistol the whole way out on a completely loose rein. If Wally had had a book, he might have read it. That was how little he worried over, or even paid attention to, Pistol’s choice of route. Pistol never put a foot wrong. He did not throw his head. He was perfect.

Me, I rode Flanigan, directing him all the way through the rough spots. “No, don’t step on that rock, it looks wobbly, step on this one.” Flanigan allowed this, he even seemed to like it, changing his footfall in mid-stride at my direction. He crossed the creeks for me with little fuss despite his inexperience. I loved him. Wally and I had each found the horses we would ride on many, many pack trips through the mountains. Flanigan and Pistol carried both of us to some of the loveliest spots on earth, and though we crossed many, many steep and rocky passes to get there and traversed many a tricky trail, neither horse ever got so much as a scratch.

One of the strangest stories about Pistol occurred at the very last big roping we ever took him to. Pistol was suffering from ringbone and we knew his competitive days were almost over. We took him to the finals in Reno, guessing it would be his last major event. To our surprise, as we walked out to feed the horses early in the morning the last day we were there, we saw a man sitting with his back to Pistol’s stall door. At 6:00 AM. He got up when we approached and looked at us. “This is Pistol, isn’t it?”

Wally and I stared at this middle aged, well dressed cowboy and agreed that it was Pistol. The man introduced himself. He was the same rancher who had sold Pistol to those rodeo cowboys ten years ago. “And now, “ he said, “I’d like to buy him back. I always liked him.”

Wally and I looked at each other. Pistol was effectively crippled and running on bute. We planned to retire him soon after this roping. And here was a chance to get rid of him, get Wally’s money back, and hopefully sell him to a good home. But almost instantly we both shook our heads.

“You don’t want this horse,” Wally said. “He’s crippled.”

“We’re going to retire him,” I added.

The man said, “I have a nice pasture where I could put him.”

Again, we looked at each other. It was almost too good to be true. This guy wanted him to retire him?

But again, after a moment, Wally shook his head. “I owe this horse,” he said. “I want to keep him.”

“We’ll take good care of him,” I told the man.

The rancher looked at Pistol and patted his neck, nodded, shook Wally’s hand and walked off without a backward look.

Now it may sound strange, but the fact that I really couldn’t ride Pistol didn’t make me love him any less. I took care of this great horse for many, many years and considered it a gift. Wally roped on Pistol and rode him in the mountains until Pistol was fifteen years old, when we retired him. It wasn’t his knees that got him, either. But eventually he had ringbone in a front foot and navicular in a hind. The combination was too much and Pistol became a pasture pet.

We worked hard at keeping him comfortable in the pasture…at one point we nerved him. At other points we gave him bute every day. He had good periods that lasted years where he needed no pain med at all and ran and bucked and played and looked completely sound. We were able to give him ten happy years in the pasture.

Eventually Pistol grew so lame in one front foot that he began to have chronic abscesses in the other front foot. He was twenty-five years old. We had to give him painkillers morning and evening to keep him comfortable, and there was no hope he’d improve. The time had come.

Wally scheduled the date with the vet. The evening before it was to happen, I went out to give Pistol Banamine and some equine senior. After the meds were given and Pistol fell to eating eagerly, I stared at him sadly. Other than being lame, which was masked by all the drugs we were giving him, Pistol still looked great. It was hard for me to come to terms with the fact that he needed to be put down.

And then Pistol looked up from his feed and looked me in the eye. After a minute he left the feed bucket and walked purposefully to the middle of the field. He looked back at me and then lay down…flat on his side. He remained like that for maybe two minutes, not moving. Then he got up, looked at me again, walked back to his feed and resumed eating. He didn’t appear to be colicked, though I realize that is the likeliest explanation for his behavior.

However, I took it as a sign. Pistol was telling me that he was ready, and indeed, the next day he lay down calmly and quietly, showing no resistance to the drug, and died peacefully. That was five years ago. I still miss him.

Thank you, Pistol, for everything. You were a great horse and I am so grateful I had the privilege of knowing you.

The photo below shows my friend Sue Crocker heeling a steer on Pistol—I am heading on Flanigan. Like most of us, Sue found Pistol a bit intimidating to rope on, but she heeled two feet on this run and we placed in the roping.

More of Africa

In addition to the amazing wildlife we encountered in Kenya, the horses we rode made the trip just as memorable. Their resilience, willingness, bravery and toughness will stick with me always. In my previous two blogs I told you how we crossed the Mara river between groups of hippos and were charged by elephants. Through it all the horses were keenly vigilant but never panicked or fled. It was on our third and fourth day that the full scope of their toughness was revealed.

After spending 2 nights camping on the escarpment with breathtaking vistas from the top and long rides that included galloping with Zebras and Wildebeest, we descended the escarpment to traverse the long grass plains for Lion Camp. Our travel across the plains was filled with encounters with all measure of gazelle, antelope, giraffe, cape buffalo and wonderful herds of elephants that were thankfully not aggressive. It had rained hard the day before so the air and sky were so clear and bright and everything had that fresh, after the rain smell.






Our original plan was to cross the river a fourth time but when we reached the river it was significantly deeper and the current very swift. In addition the hippos were in abundance and were bobbing in water right in the part of the river with banks safe enough to cross. Tristan, our guide, started across to test the depth while the rest of were staring at the hippos in terror.

Within feet of leaving the bank, Tristan’s horse was up to his neck in the water. Tristan quickly turned back and we scrapped the river crossing much to everyone’s relief even though in meant adding 10 miles or better to our ride before reaching Lion Camp. Let’s see a longer ride and sore behind versus drowning in the Mara River – a no brainer.

Our long way around to the bridge crossing was uneventful and at times even a bit boring. The horses didn’t blink at walking across a concrete bridge with no rails over the rushing Mara River. I don’t think I could get my horses to walk up to that bridge, let alone cross it without freaking out. After the bridge the scenery once again turned beautiful with green grass dotted by trees and an abundance of wild life. After cautiously passing another herd of elephants, Tristan and his son Archie spotted lions in the rocks of a small hill.

As we rode within range I was amazed when Tristan and Archie casually rode within feet of the lions lying amidst the rocks. Tristan knew the lions well, they were several adolescent males and an young female that Tristan had watched grow up over the seasons of bringing Safaris to this camp. The young lions were keenly interested and seemed to be in a crouch position but neither Tristan, Archie or the horse’s seemed to be concerned. Archie and Tristan beckoned for the rest of us to ride closer so I timidly asked my horse Sage to step toward them. Sage moved forward obediently completely undaunted by the proximity of predators in front of her.






The fact that the lions were apparently not hungry, they were used to the presence of people and horses and that the horses showed no fear, we were able to stand safely admiring the lions for several minutes from only a few feet away. We encountered the same pride of lions 2 mornings after with the same disinterested reaction from both lion and horses. This experience cemented my respect for the horses especially considering we witnessed this same pride of lions takedownand devour an Impala the next evening.

The weather here in California has turned to winter far too soon for my taste and horses are acting silly and spunky to say the least. Halloween weekend I started to shave my competition horses like every year and within days the temperature went from 80 degree days to 50 degree days and night lows in the 40s. As a result, my new horse Uiver started to spook at phantom demons, horse eating leaves and jackets on railings that were near to eat him. This got me thinking. Why is it that my prissy show horses go bonkers and become paranoid at a simple change of season and the horses in Africa stoically and calmly deal with deluges of rain, wind, swimming rivers, extreme terrain and standing within feet of a lion. What is it that made the instincts of the same species so different on different continents.
The horses that we rode in Africa were a variety of breeds. Most were thoroughbreds, mostly from Argentina, and some had Arab and Irish draft breeding. My Thoroughbred can be stoic and sensible about some things but let a bird fly with 10 feet and he will come unglued. So what do you think? Is it survival instincts, de-sensitization, feed, training that make the horses so different.

An Exciting Life . . . Not

My life is, well, boring. Busy but boring. And at my advanced, creaky-kneed age, I am happy for the UNeventful days. That doesn't say I don't do A LOT. I write, teach, volunteer, travel some to promote books, take care of animals and home, ride, garden, read . . . All of these activities take planning, time, creativity and thought but lately, none have been blog-worthy or discussion-worthy. Sigh. So what am I going to write about this week?

Sometimes equine or writing-related topics, which I think others might be interested in, hit me before it's my turn to post. Other times, not. Today is one of those days. My kids are here for the weekend for their dad's birthday and both are healthy and thriving in school and jobs. My horses are winter-ready with thick coats and a hay-stocked run in-shed. I have even ridden all week in the chilly but clear weather. My dogs are lyme-free with all their shots up to date. Dozer, our old Lab, is happy on two types of pain pills for his own creaky joints, and has even joined Jake, Fang and me on a few walks. The cats are, well, cats.

Teaching and volunteering continue to challenge me and feed my need to give back to others. Writing is going okay. The fever to write and publish that bestseller or Newbery winner has changed into a quiet joy in having written a body of works that I am proud of. The house is getting as old as I am and needs as much work, but you know, we can do a little at a time. The vegetable garden is under newspaper and mulch waiting until next year, and the annuals which were killed in the first frost are on the compost pile.

I guess the topic of this blog is not just my boring life, but my peaceful life. I find that when I am content and drama-free, I can give to others: my CASA child, who I advocate for, needs someone who is always there and who will not judge; my students at the community college, who have multiple problems and dilemmas, benefit from a teacher who's able to encourage and value them; my kids want a mom who is a sounding board and who will listen and help when it's needed. I know many people who are addicted to drama. When I was younger, a roller-coaster kind of life was exciting and easier to deal with--and believe me, I still LOVE amusement park roller coasters. I just want to be able to get off when the ride is over.

Next week I am off to Kentucky for two school vists, a two-day book fair, and a conference. My fingers are crossed that it will be an uneventful trip. I don't need the drama of driving in a freak snow storm (already did that a week ago), flat tire, my husband calling with a--God forbid--family member's medical issue--or wrong turn. I want to concentrate on inspiring young readers and teachers, getting them excited about books and writing. Then I want to make it through West Virginia and safely home to my family, animals and boring life.

How is your life these days? Just right? Or are you working hard to hold on to that bucking bronc of drama?

The Giant Pickle

I made a mistake, got myself into a giant pickle, and now I’m kicking myself. You see, yesterday, I moved Qrac to different stable, five minutes from where he was before. I gave my notice to Steph back in September, when I realized that there was no way she’d have her indoor arena built before the winter, and didn’t want to find myself slip sliding around on snow and ice, unable to work Qrac for weeks on end. Greg, my second, more recent trainer, was going to move his horses to a place in another village close by, so I figured it would be a good solution for the cold, wet months ahead.

I visited the new stables once at the end of August, or maybe in early September, during a run of dry, warm weather. Back then the indoor arena, although not chi-chi or state of the art as far in terms of architecture and flooring, seemed ok. I mean, I saw that it was narrow, and that the floor wasn’t as fluffy and delightful as the floors at Steph’s place, but the damp sand looked like it would work. I should have looked at it carefully, but I didn’t; I was simply happy to have found a place for the winter.

Oh dear.

It was warm and sunny when I arrived there with Qrac yesterday, so I rode him in the big outdoor arena for about half an hour. He behaved beautifully, he didn’t spook or get full of himself or anything. I was so pleased with and praised him over and over, telling him he was such a good boy. Once we’d finished our little workout I walked him off in the outside arena, and then thought I’d take him into the indoor arena, just to show him and to see how he liked that.

Well, neither of us liked it one bit. The floor was like wet, gloopy clay, the kind that sucks off your shoes when you walk around in it. It was full of water-filled hoof marks, with the added bonus of a nice wide puddle-pond in the middle. It was dark and dingy and, well, kind of depressing. We plodded around, gloopety-gloop. It felt like riding in a swamp. Water dripped on us; I looked up and saw that the roof had holes in it. I almost burst into tears.

On top of the not-so-nice indoor arena issue, Qrac’s stable door doesn’t close properly; well it does, except it’s fiddly, and when I’m in there with him I’d rather shut myself in so he doesn’t run off and cause mayhem. Trouble is, I have to reach over, channel my inner contortionist and fiddle for ages to let myself out again. This morning, I got stuck in the stable with Qrac for about five minutes before the damn door finally surrendered to my fury and bad language.

I actually attempted to ride in the indoor this morning seeing as they’d been over it with the tractor and it didn’t look quite so bad. But once we were inside I realized the place reeked of diesel fumes, and that every step Qrac made turned made rude squelchy noises, forming hoof shaped puddles underneath him. I was pissed, he was pissed, and the diesel fumes were giving me a headache, so we soon went into the outside arena and squelched around there for a while instead seeing as it had poured during the night.

Once we’d walked off as much heat as possible (Qrac seriously needs clipping) I put him back in his stable and immediately got locked in again, for much longer this time. After about ten minutes I started cursing a little more loudly, and yelling for someone, ANYONE, to come and let me out. Nobody came, but eventually the door yielded and I staggered out like a semi-crazed sweat-infused banshee.

I guess you get the picture. I don’t like it. I know it’s petty and that it’s small potatoes in the grand scheme of things, and as my husband rightly says, it’s a rich person’s problem, but it’s my passion, I love my horse and, believe it or not, this place is costing me much more money than my more up-market previous stable. Yes, the new place has an indoor, but if I can’t stand being in it then what’s the point?

So on my way home I stopped at three other places. The first one didn’t accept stallions, the second was nice but way too expensive (you have to pay extra for this and that and the other, to the point where you almost have to pay extra to use the bathroom) and, anyway, my long-time trainer, Marie-Valentine won’t go there as it’s way off her route. The third place was such a mess that I was depressed before I even got out of the car.

Maybe I’m spoilt, maybe I’m super-picky. Because I’ve wracked my brain yet can’t think of anywhere within a half-hour radius of my house where I’d be content to put my horse, and, more importantly, where Marie-Valentine would be allowed to come and work with me. Yes, there’s one place, and it’s amazing and not too expensive, and I’m on the waiting list. I’ve a feeling it’s a long waiting list…

So I’m actually considering taking Qrac miles away. And when I saw miles away, I really mean miles and miles. Like, it would take me just over an hour to get there. Which sounds utterly crazy, but, according to Marie-Valentine, it’s a really nice place and I’d like it a lot (she knows me well!). My husband thinks it’s menopausal madness to even consider stabling my horse somewhere so far away. But I have a friend who just moved there who is thrilled (okay, so she lives much closer) and who tells me that if I want to bring my horse there I can take him tomorrow as they have space. It’s reasonably priced, with everything included. So in my menopausal madness I may just drive up there tomorrow morning to check it out and assess just how far away it is. The thing is, I quite enjoy driving, and although my car is permanently filthy (dog hairs and mud) it’s also super comfortable, and I’m not the type to get all riled up and hyperventilated by slow traffic. So if the place is nice, I might be tempted, at least for the next few months. It doesn’t have to be forever, as Steph might finally get her indoor built, and the super nice not too expensive place with the waiting list might finally have an opening.

What do you think? Is it menopausal madness? What would you do? What do you do? How far do you have travel? Or, for those of you who have horses at home, how far have you travelled for comfortable, pleasant equestrian facilities?

Dilemma

by Laura Crum

Warning: this post is not horse related (though it is about livestock) and may be upsetting for some. If you don’t eat meat and are repulsed at the thought of eating animals for food, please click on the little “x” now.

I have an ongoing dilemma. I’d like to lay it out there and see what others think. It bothers me at some level all the time, and I can’t come up with a solution that works for me. Here’s the problem.

I do eat meat. My young son, a very slender child, loves meat, and I think he needs it for his overall health. My husband enjoys meat. We are a meat eating family. Not being totally in denial, I accept the fact that eating meat means I support the slaughter of animals. But because I care about animals, and I want to eat healthy meat, and I own a sixty acre pasture in the foothills, I decided to start raising my own grass fed beef.

By “raising” I do not mean that I am breeding cattle. I mean that I am buying “used up” Corriente roping steers that would otherwise be going directly to the sale and on to be slaughtered, and turning them out on my pasture for several years. When they are somewhere between five and seven years old, we “harvest” them.

Sounds pretty, put like that. But what we are really doing is killing them and eating their meat. And I just can’t feel solidly okay with it.

I know all the reasons to support what I am doing. I did not bring these cattle into the world, and if I did not buy them and give them several years of retirement in my pasture, their end would come definitely come much sooner and be FAR less pleasant. And I do ensure that their end is painless. They are not hauled anywhere. When the time comes, they are shot by a professional ranch killer while they stand there grazing. One minute alive, the next gone. No hauling, no feedlot, no disruption, no suffering. Its very important to me that I am giving these steers a good life and a peaceful end.

I also know that when I buy beef in the market, the average age that steer lived to be is eighteen months. Contrast that to my cattle, who live to be five to seven years old. Beef you buy in the market comes from cattle that are penned up in crowded dry lots for months and fed corn. My cattle live their last years turned out, eating only grass. Corrientes are well adapted to this as a breed, and rarely need supplemental hay, but when they do, we feed them. They are never allowed to get thin. We take good care of them and give them a healthy life. In return they give us healthy meat. As a family, we thank the steer for the gift he gave us every time we eat his meat. I tell my son that we gave the steer a good life and now the steer is helping us to have a good life.

That’s what I tell myself. That’s what I tell my son. And I believe it. But look at the photo below.

This is the steer whose meat I am currently eating. He was a nice, easy to get along with critter—I choose the steers that I “retire” very carefully. They are selected not just because they are well made, but also for the attitude. I buy them from the proprietor of our local practice roping when he deems that their days as a roping steer are done. Those who have been good, cooperative roping steers (and believe me, some steers throw in with being roped, just like some horses throw in with being ridden), get the call. We called this speckled steer “Roany” and he was a pleasant animal-- easy to gather from the pasture and move from here to there. Its hard for me to look at his photo and not feel sad that we killed him, despite all the logic behind what I am doing.

The steer would die eventually, of course. If I kept him until he died of old age (very impractical) he would simply be faced with aches and pains, overgrown feet, and other maladies which I would be unable to treat, and his flesh would be of no use when I would finally have to kill him out of mercy. The end result would be much the same for him. Just a few years in the future. Of course, I would not have bought him and given him three peaceful years on my pasture had I not had a purpose. That purpose being healthy, humanely raised meat for my family. And yet, I still wonder if I’m doing the right thing.

So I’m stumped. I don’t think its better to buy my meat at the market. That distances you from the process, sure, but you’re actually supporting something that is MUCH less humane than what I am doing. The only answer seems to be to become vegetarian, and, for a variety of reasons, I’m not ready to go there yet. But still…

Here is next year’s uhmm, “candidate”. Or victim. Or however you want to phrase it. He is happily running around the pasture as I type, and has been for the past three years. But eventually it will be June, when it is his turn. I always dread that time, when we schedule “the day”.

I am still struggling with this process, even though I have been doing it for seven years, and logically believe it is the right thing to do, if I want to eat meat. I am giving the cattle a gift, in exchange for what they give me. They have a healthy, relatively long life; we eat their healthy meat. I don’t believe what I am doing is wrong. In my heart, I ask permission of the steers, and I think they are OK with it, if that doesn’t sound too new-agey. But it still makes me sad. I have moments of wanting to give up doing it, just to escape the emotional burden. But how is that a better, more responsible choice, unless I then become a vegetarian? And even then, by making that choice, I deprive a few cattle, who already exist, of the possibility of some happy, peaceful years in my pasture. Don’t you suppose that these steers would prefer I continued eating meat?

Even now, as the roping season comes to a close, I am contemplating buying a nice brindle steer who has been a solid citizen all year long. If I do, instead of going to the sale and on to slaughter, he will be hauled to my pasture to live for three or four years with the other steers that are currently there. What a good deal for him. But eventually the day will come and I will feel sad and somewhat guilty, despite everything I just told you.

As I said to begin with, the whole thing puzzles me and I'm still not in a place that feels completely right. Any thoughts?

Urban Horses: More, Please

What this city needs is more horses.

I'm a big proponent of natural horsekeeping: barefoot, roughage, turn-out. Frankly put, I think shoes destroy hooves, grains are an unnatural starch and sugar in the equine diet, and the practice of stalling a horse for 23 hours a day can make a horse crazy.

But, I think that humans can do a pretty good job of managing horses' health while using those three practices, and I also think that in our paved-over world, shoes, starch, and stalls are going to remain a necessary reality. We can't just let horses fade out of urban environments, even if it isn't the Garden of Eden ideal for them. Let's face it, it isn't the ideal for cats, either, but I'll bet 90% of the apartments in this city have a cat in them.

Even mine. And I'm not a fan of cats. (I had to pause in the writing of this to get my cat out of the recycling bag.)

It's not easy to find horses in New York City, unless you happen to see a policeman on horseback in Times Square or Central Park. The bridle path in Central Park has been turned over to joggers. The last riding school in Manhattan has been turned over to condos. There is one livery stable in Brooklyn accessible by public transit, the other one is on a spit of land near JFK airport. There are a few in Queens and the Bronx, where it is less dense, but that's a long ride for Manhattan and Brooklyn kids looking to ride.

flickr of t.shirbert
Invisible, a Thoroughbred at Kensington Stables.  He's a great therapy horse and, as you can see, a crowd-pleaser. Urban horses like this are ambassadors to city-dwellers and needed by horse-crazy kids. They also get more carrots than a rabbit in a petting zoo.

And that's what I'm most concerned about: kids looking to ride. What if you're born horse-crazy, like, say, me? What if all you think about are horses, horses, horses, and there aren't any? That's rough for a kid. I think I'd have ended up in therapy. (Of course, that might have been a better solution than indulging the obsession!)

I'm starting to think that keeping horses in the city, despite less-than-ideal conditions (mainly no turn-out and small stalls), is a necessity the way that marine parks keeping whales in concrete tanks is a necessity. It's not beautiful, and it's not natural. But, in the case of the whales they're well-cared-for, they're (apparently) happy, and they're providing an educational out-reach to people that keeps them relevant and encourages sympathy for the rights of wild animals. And in the case of the horses, they can be well-cared-for, happy, and provide everyone, but especially children, an outlet for that deep emotional connection that humans have to horses.

Volunteering with the therapeutic riding program here in Brooklyn has really brought that home to me. No, I'm not a fan of seeing horses in standing stalls, as some of the horses there are living in. But these horses change people's lives. They give speech to children whose autism keeps them silent. They give power and grace to people whose developmental disabilities relegate them to the sidelines of society.

And they also bring joy to children whose bedrooms must look like mine once did, wallpapered with pictures carefully clipped from Horse Illustrated, dancing with plastic Breyer models on every flat surface, cluttered with Marguerite Henry paperbacks.

I'd like to see urban horsekeeping become a more common topic. I'd like to see modern, carefully-run riding schools opening up in cities, not out somewhere on the outskirts, but in-town, like a YMCA is. I'd like to see city kids going off to their riding lesson after school the same way they go off to their piano lesson or their tennis lesson. I'd like to see the waiting lists for the therapeutic riding disappear because there are enough horses for everyone. I think it would be good for everyone.

Yes, even the horses.