Spring Fever

Sunny skies and warm breezes have come to Northern California for a brief visit, giving us a reprieve from the cold, rainy weather (21 days straight if you listen to the news) and depressing, gray skies. Today the thermometer peaked out at an impressive 70 degrees. It is only February 9th.

This happens every year in February. Nature, as if sensing our desperation, serves us a tiny slice of spring. We peel off our sweaters and put on short sleeves, feeling smug as we stroll around the farm, unable to complete even the simplest chores, adrift like an abandoned ship under an intoxicating blue sky.

Secretly, we hope that our Michigan relatives will call, so that we can say, when they invariably ask about the weather, something with feigned casualness: "Oh, sunny, nice, 'bout 70 degees. And you?"

Argus has no relatives in Michigan, but if he did, this is what he would say: "YIPPEEEEE!!!!"

It seems that Argus, and the eight other equine residents of Watermark Farm, have a raging case of spring fever today. There is running and dancing and cavorting, even amongst those who are too crippled now to run. The old mare snorts wildly, eyes wide, enciting the geldings across the fence to passage elegantly through the muck.

Sadly, the mud and the slippery ground have yet to catch up with the dry skies above, so turnouts must still happen with the greatest of care (Just this week, my dressage horse Ridge slipped and fell in turnout, pulling a muscle and winning a short vacation from work), and the pasture horses must have the "edge" taken off them with arena turnout and regular riding and lungeing.

For Argus, spring fever has hit him with a kind of delicious frenzy, for he is waking up from the winter of his life --- 16 years of sunless days.

It all started on Tuesday. Argus began to use, all on his own accord, and all by himself, the mini pasture we set up for him behind his paddock. Previously, he would not go out there unless accompanied by a person, and for short periods only.

On Tuesday, he spent the entire day out there, rolling his snowy white frame in soothing mud and dining on tender green grass.

On Wednesday, after he woke from his party with Dr. Miller, he quickly returned to his pasture, spending long moments smelling and sniffing and exploring every corner. He blinked happily at me at day's end, gazing at me for a long time with his wise old eyes. He practically oozed happiness. I cried for what seemed like the thousandth time out in my barn as I stood with him, feeling the enormity of what we have done for this horse.

On Thursday, Argus pushed impatiently on his stall door, imploring me to turn him out with a friend. I complied instantly, of course. How can you say no to someone who has done without for so long? He was proud, too, of his "sporthorse haircut" --- the tiny bit of bodyclipping I had done the day before. I swear it, he was proud. He ran madly around the arena to show me how nice it was to not have a sweaty chest.

On Friday, Argus spent the entire day in his pasture, covered in mud and looking like a happy, normal horse. His mane is caked with mud, his legs are caked with mud, and each cheek on his face looks to have been pressed lovingly into the soil.

Now, Saturday, I gobble down a post-Pony Club turkey sandwich while typing this entry. I can see Argus from my window, and I occasionally glance out to see him trot merrily across the arena as he plays with his friend Buster. He stops from time to time to gaze longingly at the pasture, for this is where he really wants to be ---- ambling lazily in the company of similarly dirty friends.

"Soon, Argus," I think to myself, dreaming of a time not far from now when the ground will be dry enough to introduce Argus to pasture life, and a freedom he has never known.

For a moment, I linger over the last of my lunch and contemplate this rich experience that we call "Saving Argus." A plump tear makes its way down my cheek, is temporarily detoured by the wide grin I am wearing, and drops unceremoniously from my chin, onto the keyboard.