Three Horses

Blair. BRH (Before his REAL horse)

Shamy. On the day she came into our lives.
Blair is the little guy in his sister's hand-me-down, red snowsuit.

 While growing up I was given 3 horses to take care of.  These noble steeds made a great impact on my life and even today I often think about them. 

The first horse was given to me on my third birthday.  I don’t remember much from that day except for the thrill to have a horse that I could call mine.

She was an extremely gentle and an extremely fat welsh pony named Shamy.

I don’t know who came up with the name. I suspect that my older “smarter” horse savvy sister.

At the time, I didn’t care what the horse’s name was.  I just cared that I had one and had risen to the lofty ranks of cowboy.

Shamy on the day she became Blair's.

Shamy was so fat that the birthday picture of me sitting on her was quite amusing.  Me, sitting on her back with my legs extended almost horizontal (that’s a word I learned in engineering school).

As I grew a little older I was able to sit more like a cowboy on my great white horse.

At the mature old age of 5, my sisters took me on a trail ride.

And it was this that illustrated what was most amazing about Shamy . . .

I found myself at one point getting pulled off her back by a broken fence post that I didn’t have the good sense to duck under.

Now some horses would be gone to the farthest points of the field if that happened.  Instead, Shamy just stood and waited.

I should probably mention that at the mature age of 5, I was very mad and carrying on (ok I was crying) until my sister pointed out that Shamy thought I was being silly.

I looked up at Shamy and she seemed to have a very annoyed expression on her face.  I don’t remember much more about Shamy. I expect she got old and went to the great horse pasture in the sky.

I road several horses through the years, but I didn’t really have one that I was responsible for until I was given an Arabian cross that we called Molly—an amazing horse with limitless energy. When I rode her, she was always moving.

I think she had a case of horsey ADHD.

I taught Molly how to open a barb wire gate while I sat on her back.

This is a little tricky. You ride up to the gate, lean off to the side of the horse and loosen the gate post. Then you pull the post back slightly and have the horse spin around in a tight circle while passing the lead post under the horse’s neck.

See? Tricky.

One thing that I couldn’t do is get piled (horse parlance for dumped. Bucked off. Catching air. Shot to the moon. You get the picture) by Molly. If that happened, she would head immediately for the farthest end of the field.

However, one day, Molly and I were trying to cut an ornery cow from the herd. The cow took off at a run for the nearest faraway place and Molly happily followed. The cow rounded a grove of trees with Molly and I in close pursuit. As we rounded the trees, Molly crossed a muddy cow trail and lost her footing.

She and I both hit the ground.

I twisted my ankle slightly but I think that it knocked the wind out of Molly because, though I lost the reins Molly stayed. I was able to grab the reins and we resumed our chase after the cow. 

A little more slowly and a lot more cautiously.

My third noble stead was a Yamaha 100.

Yes, I’m aware that my sister does not consider motorcycles equivalent to horses.

At the time that I got the bike I would have disagreed but now . . .

However, the Yamaha had several advantages:

It took less time to saddle (saddle/seat already attached).

You could cover large areas in a very short time.

They didn’t need to be fed hay every day.

And, more importantly (even though at times I thought so), they didn’t have a mind of their own.

The major disadvantage was that you could not enjoy a peaceful ride to check the cow herd.

As I get older I often think about Shamy and wish I could ride through the herd just one more time.

In the early morning. Smelling the sage. Listening to the early morning sounds. Watching the small calves get up from their evening sleep and stretch.

I miss the peace.

And yes, he occasionally shared her...

My Short Ranching Career. Part Two.

Blair. Getting animated.

I bought another big growthy (once again, that word) heifer.

She was tall. She was dark red. She had a white face.

But there, her resemblance to a normal Hereford ended.

She was not the typical quiet animal you usually associate with the breed.

Nope.

She was jumpy and would get agitated . . . easily.

I worked with her to quiet her down. Trained her to tie. To lead.

I would bring her into the barn, place a halter on her, tie her to the fence and groom her.

She enjoyed it.

Think of it as getting a good back scratch. But in this case using a comb.

She had lots of hair which meant that I could groom and cut it to make her look like the perfect heifer. This was important because purebred cattle breeders often had cattle shows where they would exhibit their animals and I wanted my heifer there.

I prepared her and got her ready for her first big exhibition.

Now we knew she was a little nervous so my veterinarian/dad told me to give her a tranquilizer to help her calm down.

When I arrived at the cattle show, I backed the trailer to the arena area, then opened the back of the trailer, untied my prize heifer and began to lead her out.

I had worked with her so much that I thought we were friends.

I soon discovered that we . . . weren’t.

When she saw the open door in the back of the trailer, she bolted.

And kicked me in the chest as she flew out.

I was caught completely by surprise.

She really connected as she kicked and my world started spinning.

Now in order to help you understand the force that a heifer or bull can kick with, picture having a 600 pound boxer punch you.

With everything he has.

My breath was gone.

I didn’t want to let go of the halter because some other poor unsuspecting person might get run over. I managed to hang on long enough to slow her down, but finally I had to let go. However, a friend and I finally cornered her and got her tied up at her assigned stall.

Then I called my very capable, very reliable, extremely intelligent veterinarian/dad and asked what I should do.

He said to give her a little more tranquilizer.

Considering that I did not want another repeat of the kicking episode, I complied.

The tranquilizer was just taking effect when I took her into the show ring for her group. She stepped lively and I was able to present her well to the judge.  He placed her in one of the top spots.

Then the tranquilizer really kicked in. So to speak.

My heifer planted her 4 feet squarely and stood there with her belly hanging, causing her back to bow.

She was very hard to move. At one point as I tried, she started to lean on me.

I felt like I was trying to maneuver a drunk around the show ring. 

By this point, the judge had almost all of the animals placed and came back to survey the group.  As he looked at my heifer, he sighed and moved her down 8 places.

8 places!

By this point, however, I didn’t care.

When the heifer category was over, I loaded her up and headed home.

I worked with this heifer for several more months and once again thought she was quiet and cooperative.

Again, ‘thought’ is the important word here.

Dad and I were given the assignment from the young Hereford breeder association to compile a booklet on how to prepare a heifer for a cattle show. This involved taking pictures of clipping and grooming an animal to make them look their best.

My heifer had lots of hair that we could use to demonstrate (only their hair dresser knows for sure).

As I groomed and cut, dad took pictures.

The clippers that I was using where very large and noisy. If you used them for long, your hands would feel numb. I was clipping hair along my heifer’s belly when suddenly I was lying on my back, looking at the ceiling of the barn.

The clippers were in my hand buzzing away.

I looked at dad. “Umm . . . how did I get here?”

Dad told me that my heifer had just kicked me. She had kicked so fast that I didn’t see it coming. 

She was very agitated and dad and I spent some time trying to get her settled down.

This was very difficult considering one of us had just been assaulted.

Finally, she was calm again, and dad and I could finish the pictures. Then I took her back to her pen.

As I walked down the hill to the ranch house I realized that my chest hurt. I lifted up my T-shirt. Let’s just say that she did her work well.

And I began to evaluate how important it was for us to continue our relationship.

My Short Ranching Career. Part One

A guest post by Little Brother, Blair!

Blair. And bull.

When I was 12, my activities consisted of going to school and working on the ranch.

I tried to find ways to avoid the later, but dad was very good at making sure that I . . . didn’t.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate dad for this.

This changed . . .

One day dad and I went to the barn to check on a yearling heifer that had been very sick.

I don’t remember what disease that she had, but I do remember that she was so ill that all she could do is lie on her side and breath unevenly. Staring and unresponsive.

As I observed her symptoms, I concluded that it was very unlikely that she was going to survive.

I helped my dad give her a gruel that consisted of oatmeal and liquids. We had to slide a hose into her mouth and down into her stomach. Then we poured the gruel into a funnel at the other end of the tube.

As dad looked at the heifer, I’m sure he determined that there was not much hope for her.

Dad had to make a trip out of town for a few days so he charged me with the responsibility of caring for our invalid.

As he gave me the instructions on how to care for her, he concluded by saying “if you can save her, you can have her”.

Suddenly my perspective changed. All my efforts from that moment were devoted to trying to help the heifer recover.

I made sure she had fresh straw for bedding.

I made sure that she was fed her gruel.

I know I said a few prayers.

Mother was very helpful to me. She helped make the gruel and give it to the heifer.

A few evenings later, after mother and I gave the heifer her dose, she seemed to be trying to roll from her side onto her stomach. We helped her and the heifer held up her head.

Mom said that we should try to get her to stand.

This was a difficult task considering that the she weighed about 600 pounds.

We both pushed and lifted and the heifer slowly rose. She staggered a little then stood solidly on her feet.

Mom and I both cheered.

From this point ‘my’ heifer made a swift recovery. She grew up to become one of the young cows in dad’s herd.

She always had a white patch of hair on her side because she had been on her side for so long.

A cow version of bed sores.

A couple of years later she had her first calf. A growthy (Okay, that might not be a word but it is descriptive.) healthy bull calf.

That bull calf grew up.

And one day a cattle rancher visiting dad’s place looking for a bull spotted mine and he and dad agreed on a price.

Nursing that heifer. Feeding her. Caring for her.

Spending time with her.

Loving her.

Totally worth it.

In more ways than one!