"You $#%&*#@# Horse!"

ANGRY, covered in pink goo, and spitting nails, I hurled a few well-timed expletives at Argus on Monday, our first real falling out ever. This was in response to his sudden refusal to let me syringe Monday morning's medication down his throat. He threw his head back violently, reared and struck out at my chest, shooting backward across the paddock. I was astonished. This performance was repeated for the next 20 minutes (minus the chest striking part), Argus splattered, Jackson Pollack-style, with pink paste, me eventually covered with paste (and not caring one bit if it killed me), my gloves torn, and both of us totally hysterical. What I'd taken for granted, Argus' seemingly miraculous willingness to take oral medication, was suddenly gone. Poof.

I walked away.

Not caring if my face turned orange, not caring if Argus imploded into a giant mass of pigeon fever pus and goo and died right on the spot, I marched into the house, where I bent over the kitchen sink and had a good long cry as I washed my face and tried to make sense of it all. How would I be able to do this for weeks longer? How would I pull this off? How could Argus go from totally cooperative to totally uncooperative?

I called Dr. Miller, at home on his day off. Whining into the phone, I heard myself saying "I don't know if I can keep doing this," to which he listened quietly and replied simply: "You have no choice. You MUST keep medicating him."

I thought about all my other horses, who would greedily eat powdered medication in grain. Argus will not. He's picky about feed the way a child raised on McDonald's food and soda pop looks sideways at broccoli. He's just not that normal when it comes to feed. He loves hay. He could take grain or leave it. And often does. So no matter how much I dress up that pile of yummy grain, Argus KNOWS there is an evil medication lurking inside, and won't eat it.

Which brings us back to syringing paste into him twice a day.

Dr. Miller, who seemed to sense my growing desperation, got in his truck and came to see me, hoping he could help me figure out how to get Argus to willingly accept his medication once more.

In the end, I figured it out myself, Dr. Miller standing peacefully at the paddock fence in his day-off clothes.

I blindfolded Argus.

A child's black sweatshirt makes the perfect horse blindfold, and Argus, who could not manage to LOOK at that syringe coming toward his mouth, calmly and trustingly allowed me to cover his eyes, tie the sweatshirt around his head, and deftly slip the syringe in the corner of his mouth. No drama. No cuss words. In in an instant.

So that's how we do it now. I mix up the meds, Argus gives me a long glance, and I blindfold him. I honestly can't believe he's so accepting of it.

Otherwise, Argus is gaining strength (enough to rear, anyway!) every day. The high-energy feeds I gave him during the bleak days of his illness have caught up with him and made him hyper, so I'm cutting back high energy feeds. Past the danger of having an internal abscess rupture, he's been cleared for turnout into the small pasture, where he's gone out the last few days with Odie the Mule and Half Pint the draft horse, both of whom too lazy to run much. They keep Argus grounded. He's thrilled to be able to go out and roll in the soft dirt and nibble blades of grass with his friends. Freedom and companionship are like medicine to him.

I'm truly believing that Argus is going to make it. I've allowed myself to have that hope. He's stronger now, and every day more and more of the sparkle returns to his eyes. The other day, I caught him playing over the fence with Ridge, something I haven't seen him do for about two months. Today, he and Odie lay down side by side for a nap under gathering storm clouds. This evening, after I congratulated him after he "blindly" took his medication, he stood in the stall and looked quizzically at me, as if to say "Well, I was good for that part, so where's my dinner?"

I have missed the real Argus. It's good to have him back again.