Argus Takes A Real Nap

On Monday morning, I headed down the driveway with a carload of kids. Far away, at the edge of Neighbor Jim's pasture, stood two horses. At their feet in the soft dry grass were two large lumps, one white and one tan.

"Oh look," I said, "Odie and Ridge are taking a morning nap." I squinted my eyes and noticed that the gray horse standing had a full-length tail. It was Ridge.

I slammed on the brakes. It was as if I'd been hit with an electric bolt. "Did you see that? The tail?" I demanded. My poor confused children were asking me "Mom! What's wrong?" At this point, fat tears were already making their way down my face. A world record for crying.

The white horse sleeping in the grass was Argus.
Flat out.
Sleeping.
Argus.

Argus has lived here for more than 5 months, and in this time, I've never seen him lay down except to roll. I've seen signs that he's slept, but have been very concerned all along that he had somehow lost the ability to truly lie down and rest. Life in prison had robbed him of that. After all, it's scary to lay down in a 12 foot wide pen when you are afraid your stiff body will not let you get back up.

So back to the two sleeping lumps. Laying flat out in the pasture, obviously napping, Odie the mule and Argus were nestled in the tall grass, the only sign of life the occasional tail and ear flick. Half Pint and Ridge stood guard over them in a state of relaxed alertness. It was the way I had hoped Argus would learn to sleep --- as a horse does in nature with his herdmates to watch over him and sound the danger alarm.

Deep sleep happens even in horses, even though they are famous for sleeping standing up; to achieve deep, restful sleep (REM sleep) they must lay down. In fact, a well rested horse needs about 20-40 combined minutes of REM sleep in a 24 hour period. They do this in bits and pieces: 2 minutes here, 10 minutes there. Sure, they can go days, and, in Argus' case, months or years without adequate REM sleep, but a price is paid.

Argus is chronically tired, you can see it. He starts to collapse when he sleeps standing up. He will drift off, head sinking lower and lower, until his front legs buckle slightly and he wakes up again. He has chronic "bedsores" on his fetlocks from this. But now that I think of it, I haven't seen him do this in a while. Could it be that he's finally getting some REM sleep under cover of darkness, out in the pasture?

I felt proud of my horses Ridge, Half Pint, and Odie --- Argus' teachers ---- for showing him so many horse skills that he never learned, and that I could not possibly have taught him. They have taught him about body language, play, where to find the best grasses, how to flirt with a girl....and how to take a morning nap. They treat him with a patience and compassion that's unusual for horses. To these three geldings, who somehow seem to know that Argus is special in a way different from all others here at Watermark Farm, I extend my deepest gratitude. You are Argus' teachers, and you are my teachers, too.

I think I'll go take a nap now.

Big Boy Haircut

Argus is curious about the horse trailer and the mysterious comings and goings of Ginger the pony, Ridge and Odie, the three who trailer out the most. This morning, as we left for a Pony Club mounted meeting, he called wistfully to the lone Odie as we rattled down the bumpy gravel driveway, following our progress by running alongside the fence until he ran out of pasture. He stood and watched sadly as we disappeared from view.

Hours later, when we returned, the same process, but in reverse. Argus ended up making his way from the farthest corner of Neighbor Jim's pasture back to the barn, where I had parked the trailer. He watched Odie unload. It made me wonder what they talk about when a horse returns from a trip off the property. Does Odie entertain the horses with tales of Pony Club rallies and horse shows? Does Ridge brag about his great dressage scores? Does Half Pint bore them with tales of his 3+hour trailer rides to the lameness specialist in Oakdale?

Today, I decided to take Argus to visit the horse trailer ---- just to take a look-see. He blew suspiciously at it, and shook a little. I threw a hay bag onto the ramp, encouraging him to eat and relax. He spooked a bit at the hay bag (never seen one before) and peered inside the trailer. I patted him and chattered away happily, telling him what a wonderful thing our trailer can be. We investigated the tack compartment (scary), and Argus took a meek step on the ramp (WAY scary), after which he took a big sigh and looked bored. That was our first trailering lesson.

Next, we tackled tying. For five months (that's how long Argus has been here), I have been teaching Argus to lead, and to respond to halter pressure lightly. That's the cornerstone of successful tying. Many times, we have "pretend" tied, me looping his lead rope loosely through a tie ring, and holding the stray end, ready to let go if panic hits. Working up to being tied is a big deal. I have seen so many horses injured permanently by a bad pull-back accident (that's where they panic while tied and pull back in a violent fit.) So I'm a bit conservative in the typing department these days: I use safety halters, and we tie to baling twine loops. Horses learn to lead, and lead well before they are tied hard.

Feeling ready, I brought Argus into the barn aisle and casually looped his lead through a baling twine loop. I picked up some brushes and went to work. He pulled gently against his leadrope, and to my great pleasure, moved forward nicely each time he felt resistance from the halter and lead. So for the first time ever, Argus stood tied today for grooming.

A thorough brushing, and a mane trim. Competition horses have their mane properly pulled. Here at the farm, once you are retired from all that, you get "the scissors." Manes are shortened the quick and dirty way: by cutting.

This was the first time since Argus' first day out of prison that he's had his mane trimmed. It had grown out nearly SIX inches since December, making him look a bit scruffy and in need of a "big boy haircut." While Argus stood tied quietly, I combed and brushed and snipped. Then I trimmed his fetlock hair (that's the knobby joints just above the hooves) and brushed out his stumpy, but recovering, tail (we found out recently that it was a local VET who cut off his tail when he became entrapped in it while still in prison. SHAME on that vet for not reporting this to the authorities!! I also found out that it was only two months before Animal Control finally extracted Argus from prison that his tail was removed).

Argus stood happily. He loves attention, and he LOVES LOVES LOVES to be groomed. A bodyworker who came to see Argus told me that in Traditional Chinese Medicine, such a deep love of touch is a sign of deficiency. At any rate, Argus will stand quietly all day if you are touching him. He has a wonderful mind, and tries so hard to cooperate.

When I was done with my scissors and brushes and comb, I stood back to admire my work. Before me stood a stately grey sporthorse who looked so proud of his haircut. Half Pint stood in the fatty stall, watching, his nose to Argus. They seemed to be deep in some silent horse conversation. About what, I do not know.

Twelve Thousand Words

It helps to compare periodic photographs, especially shots of the legs and hind end. I see Argus every day, so I don't always notice the changes. Here is Argus last week. Look at his MUSCLES! Look at his gaskin (the area above the hock joint), and then look above that. Compare this picture with the one below to see the changes:





This is a picture of Argus taken about 6 weeks after he left prison:







And here's a shot of Argus the day after he left prison. It doesn't really convey just how straight his legs looked. Everyone commented that his legs looked "like sticks." Rehabbing a horse like this is a new adventure for everyone involved ---- vets, farriers, and, of course, me. No one really knows the full effect of so many years of confinement:







One of the things I remember the most about Argus is that the muscles in his hind end, especially on either side of the tail (what are those called?), felt like soft, gooey bread dough when he first came to me. I would press my hands into these muscles and memorize the feel, because I had NEVER EVER felt anything like it. Today, his muscles feel like regular horse muscles, firm and with substance.

Here is Argus playing "follow the leader" with Ridge. Can you see how it's getting harder and harder to tell them apart from a distance?



Argus keeps his front right leg bent a good deal of the time. The tendons are hard and contracted in that leg. They have relaxed and stretched some (for example, his leg no longer shakes when he stands quietly), but only time will tell if they ever become normal. I massage these tendons with my hands. They are as hard as concrete. I am hopeful and amazed that he hasn't injured or bowed a tendon on this leg. It's one of the reasons I had to be so careful about turning him out in deep or muddy footing


A tangle of white Thoroughbred legs. These two are good friends.




Bookends. Can you tell which one is which?


Argus and Half Pint strut their stuff. It's good to see Half Pint trotting. He's a rescue horse, also. He was a PMU foal who was rescued at auction by a friend. Sadly, he's had many health issues during his 7 years of life (colic surgery, severe lameness). He has been severely lame over the past two years, despite many trips to see "Uncle Dr. Black," a lameness specialist at Pioneer Equine Hospital. A last-ditch attempt to help him be pasture sound was undertaken last fall, when Half Pint had a bi-lateral neurectomy. For the first time in two years, Half Pint is able to trot and canter around our pasture. It's good to see him enjoying life again.




Which is which? That's Ridge on the left, Argus on the right.


He's finally starting to look like a regular horse! Head down, grazing, and look at that hind end. It's not so badly tucked under now. See the lack of muscling in his butt? It makes his back end look like a triangle.






Argus stops to investigate the crazy photographer (me) who is laying in his field, taking pictures. "What are you doing down there, food lady?" he seems to be saying.

Cows, Mares, Hoof Trims and Sunset Hugs

Argus is enjoying blue skies and the first golden grass of summer. He spends his days wandering our three fields with his three friends, his head down in a grazing position nearly all the time now. He stares off into the distance less and less.

Our neighbor's beautiful Black Angus heifer just gave birth to a tiny black calf. The next day, our neighbor went out and rescued a newborn male Brahma calf who was destined for auction. The black cow with her "twin" babies --- one tiny black heifer and the even tinier white Brahma calf --- have caught Argus' attention and fascination. He watches them over the fence as Mama cow tandem nurses both babies (she accepted the Brahma without fuss, almost as if she knew his life depended on her kindness) and stands protectively over them. Argus, too, stands protectively a few feet away, on the other side of the fence. He will have nothing of Ridge's silliness about cattle.

Spring is in the air, but for the rather asexual Argus, it means little in the way of love. While the other geldings are "feeling their oats," Argus is having his first taste of romance in the form of Angel, a crippled and beautiful mother horse rescued from a feedlot last year. Angel, who was once an emaciated, used up broodmare...(Here she is at the feedlot in April 2007, her baby hiding behind her)





is now a shiny and stunning bay who limps around our yard, napping in different locations according to the time of day. Here is Angel in March 2008:





Over the fence, she and Argus have become friends, and something more. Argus is learning the fine art of courtship, with hussy Angel directing him. He has no idea what he has gotten himself into.

Angel sashays up to the fence separating them (they've been together in turnout, too, but Angel's crippled legs can't hold up to much playtime), presenting herself to the confused Argus, who clearly has no idea what she means with her friendly winking. He rests his head on her back and closes his eyes, breathing deeply of her smell and the warmth of her mirror-like coat. She is love-starved; he just wants friendship. Somehow, they seem to meet each other's needs.

Argus saw the farrier last week. It was his third trim since his rescue, and the first full-fledged trim without drugs! I was so proud of Argus, who at first regarded farrier Mare (yes, that's really her name) with so much suspicion, I thought we would be out of luck. Mare, who is preparing to take her Journeyman farrier exam, had spent the morning forging shoes by hand. She arrived reeking of burnt hooves and forge fire. Argus recoiled at her smell, but relaxed once he saw the cookies in her hand. He politely accepted one, and let Mare get to work.

First one foot, then the other. Our hard work, Argus and mine, is paying off. Lately, we have been playing farrier together. I strap on some chaps (the closest thing to a farrier's apron I own), and make a big production with my rasp and nippers. I pick up Argus' front feet and practice holding them between my legs. I bang and rasp a bit, dropping tools and making clanking sounds. Argus snorts at me and jerks his leg back. I stroke him quietly and start again. It's hard work, and it makes me appreciate the farrier's back.

For Argus, it's curious work, too, and he cooperates nicely, even though sometimes it's scary and he doesn't quite understand. I don't own a stand, so Argus is learning to place his foot on a bucket for more "pretend" rasping. I am amazed at this horse. He is nicer and more willing than many other horses I have worked with. He loves to learn, and he learns quickly.

It all paid off during Mare's visit. She was able to do a decent trim on all four feet. Sure I was at Argus' head plying him with a bucket of alfalfa meal, but we got it done without drama or upset, and Argus ambled slowly away when it was over. I smiled so hard my face hurt afterward, and I must have told him "I AM SO PROUD OF YOU!!" fifty times. I wondered if the farrier thought I'd lost my mind. But then again, I suspect she has thought this about me, with my odd collection of crippled and unwanted horses, for a long time. But then again, she's a soft heart like me, and she understands my ways.

Next week, Argus starts chiropractic treatment with a horse chiropractor who has volunteered to treat a horse in the CHANGE program (which helps fund Argus' care --- http://www.sonomachangeprogram.com/). I am eager to see what she thinks about Argus' physical condition.

For a while, I felt discouraged about Argus. He seemed to stay skinny, his ribs showed, he looked perpetually curled up like a shrimp. Sometimes I go back and look at my own blog entries to remind myself of his progress. I realized one day that he'd only been out in group turnout for four weeks, and here I was frustrated because he didn't look better. Argus' blog helps his foster mom in more ways than one.

But this week, something is changing for sure. I can see less of Argus' ribs, and his pelvis is less tipped under. More and more, I see Argus and his white companion Ridge far out in the field, and I have to look hard to see who is who (the tail length always clues me in). Sometimes at dusk, when I walk out into the pasture to bring one last horse in for the night, I stand with Ridge and hug him and tell him I love him, only to look closely and see that famous bloody shoulder. It's Argus who's mistakenly the object of my near-dark affection. It makes no matter. I hug him again, give Ridge my love, and head back toward the warmly lit windows of the house. I can feel Argus watching me go, then walking toward Ridge, as if to say with disbelief: "Can you believe that, man? She thinks I'm YOU?!"

Another Boring Day in Heaven

"What do I write about now?" I find myself thinking. "It's been a boring week," I remark to myself, "all Argus does is eat and poop and wander the pasture. Who wants to hear about that?"

I've been thinking about this for the past few days, the sameness of it all, and how Argus' life has settled into a delicious and predictable routine: Exploring every inch of our six acres of pasture, with its grasses, herbs, and wildflowers, smelling every plant and clump of manure. Scratching his nose on a fence post, spooking at the vineyard workers, rolling in the loose dry dirt of Dancer's grave. Running from a swarm of insects, the evening routine of nosing his way around the strange concoction I place in his familiar black rubber feed tub, playing games with his friends Ridge, Half Pint, and Odie.

In the pasture, Argus ambles around in a happy daze, following Half Pint dutifully in the evening, when the overweight Half Pint is allowed a small window of grazing time. Argus loves Half Pint and trails him around the field, his nose in the draft horse's tail. Half Pint, the dominant gelding since Dancer's death, regards Argus with a kindness not always seen among dominant horses. He is patient with Argus. In turn, Argus quietly mourns Half Pint's return to the dry-lot part of the farm, where he spends most of his time now until the grass turns golden and the threat of founder has subsided. Argus stands outside the paddocks, next to Half Pint, enticing him to play games horses only seem to play over a fence, and calmly waits for morning.

Another day comes, with it the insistent banging of horses' hooves on the metal pipe gates, and the squeaky rolling of the battered green feed cart with its promise of breakfast. It's silly, because nobody is interested in hay ---- it's pasture they're after! It is turnout time for Ridge and Odie, who join Argus in an excited scramble to gallop to the far reaches of Jim's pasture. Odie gives a little mule kick, then runs in his odd way, head up, feet flying, doing what we call "the crazy mule run." Ridge streaks through the pasture at a hair-raising gallop, reminding everyone that he's still a racing Thoroughbred, and still FAST, even if he is 22. Argus follows them at a good-natured canter, not in any hurry, occasionally glancing over his shoulder guiltily at Half Pint, who gives a sad, high-pitched whinny from the confines of the "fatty paddock." Argus, you can tell, is torn between wanting to frolic and graze with Ridge and Odie, and sitting companionably with the benched Half Pint.

He chooses pasture, for now, loping out to meet his friends. They canter a few circles, heels flying, eyes merry, before suddenly settling down to graze seriously. After a while, Argus makes a feeble excuse to return to the waterer, close to where Half Pint stands. After a long drink, Argus stands again with Half Pint, as if to say "I'm sorry, good friend, but I must graze now," then slowly walks back out to the pasture. Half Pint takes a deep, resigned sigh, and settles down to his morning nap.

For most of the day, Argus eats and walks, eats and walks. He looks more and more at what is immediately in front of him, as a horse should do, and less and less at strange things in the distant hills. His head is down more, and up less. He looks more like a regular person than a wild-haired recluse, peering out between the window blinds at the bright world outside. He still swings in and out of his body, but that's okay. His ability to drift in and out of a sort of consciousness is what saved him, over the course of nearly 16 years, from going truly mad. I'll never expect him to be entirely "normal," but that's okay. It still amazes me that this horse can function at all, let alone as well as he does.

I imagine Argus covers some serious ground during the course of his days and nights in pasture. At least 20 times each day, Argus appears at opposite ends of the property. If I could attach a pedometer to his hoof, I like to imagine that he walks a good 3-5 miles every 24 hours. That pleases me and fills me with satisfaction. I watch him through the window and smile, knowing that here in my field, Argus is living what I view as a sedate, boring life as a retired pasture horse, while to Argus, each day is yet another incomparably rich adventure, full of hope and the sweet taste of freedom at long last.

Neighbor Jim Comes Through

Even Neighbor Jim has gotten into the Argus project. He loaned me his pasture.

Neighbor Jim loves FFA (that's Future Farmers of America), the county fair, and anything relating to pigs. He used to raise food animals at his place, and he did it right, with good care and a quick end at home. Neighbor Jim doesn't see much use in horses.

These days, with Neighbor Jim's kids grown and gone, his empty barn echoes with the ghosts of 4-H projects past, and the beautiful pasture is knee high with the last vestiges of grass he so carefully planted and tended over the years. I drive by it every day, on my way down the driveway to our farm. It hurts me just to look at it --- a whole 3 acres gone wild.

One day recently I cornered Neighbor Jim and screwed up the courage to ask a question that I was sure he would answer a resounding NO! to:

"Would you consider," I pleaded, "letting me turn the horses out on your pasture?"

After all, it would be so simple to install a gate between his pasture and mine. It would be like a miracle, all that extra grass. I braced myself for his answer. At least I had tried.

"You gonna put that big white horse out there?" (Neighbor Jim waved his hand at Argus. Everybody knows Argus' story it seems, even Neighbor Jim)

I hestitated, then answered meekly: "Yes?"

Neighbor Jim grunted back, grinning slyly over his shoulder as he trudged toward the house: "Do with it what you want. It's all yours."

After that, the Watermark Farm work crew (that's me and the four children) got to work. There was fencing to repair, hot wire to string. Barbed wire to remove. T-posts to cap. More T-posts to cap. Even more T-posts to remove and hide in a pile far away. Chicken eggs (that's my rent) to deliver. Pony rides (more rent) to give the granddaughter of Neighbor Jim.

Our four acres of pasture plus his three acres = 7 ACRES!! That sounds silly for those of you lucky enough to live someplace where you have acres and acres at your disposal, but here in Sonoma County, and especially the part we live in (a tiny pocket famous for its Pinot Noir grape growing mojo), land either has homes or grapes growing on it, and that which doesn't have either of these has a "For Sale to Big Corporate Winery" sign out front. Heck, billionaire wine guy and racehorse owner (think Curlin) Jess Jackson has a nice 'little' winery just down the road. Seven acres of horse pasture? Heaven!

I finished all the preparations on Saturday, my eyes puffy from Dancer's burial that morning. The horses still in a state of shock. Here's a picture of them, mourning (the black horse and the bay mare were especially affected, both of them part of Dancer's inner circle). They looked so depressed. What else could cheer them up besides a field of green?







Sunday, my long-suffering husband installed the gate. We led the horses through the new gate (which really blew their minds --- an opening where there once was none) and around the new "annex." It was all a formality, really, because they were so intoxicated by the tall grass (as opposed to our fetlock high grass) that a jet airplane could have landed on the driveway and they wouldn't have looked up.

Argus seems to relish every step he takes out there. He follows Ridge like a puppy dog, observing his movements and mimicking him. Ridge has proven to be a valuable teacher and mentor, taking Argus under his wing (almost literally) when Argus feels insecure and starts his whole-body shaking (yes, he still does it). When my heart is heavy, I need only look at Argus out there to feel that all is right with the world again. It's been a lot of work, saving Argus, but here in the pasture, it all makes sense.

That's Andy the goat, by the way. He is Half Pint's friend. Everyone else pretty much tolerates him. And no, we don't leave the portly Half Pint out there long...

Goodbye, Dancer

This picture of Dancer was taken just two days before his death.

It has been a sad few days at Watermark Farm, and twice I've started to write about it, but twice I've closed the computer and walked away.

On Friday evening, as I was finishing the day's chores, our retired boarder "Dancer" galloped in from pasture. I watched him and the rest of "the boys" as I always do. They cantered around the big grassy pasture for a moment, then turned west and headed into the winter pasture, toward home. I turned away for a moment to pick up my wire cutters.

When I turned back, Dancer stood in the middle of the field, his right foot cocked. My intuition told me what my brain would later confirm: something was very wrong. I watched him for a moment, thinking that he'd stepped on a stone and would move on once the sting had subsided, but he stayed glued to the spot, unable to bear weight on his leg.

I've written about these moments before, the reach-for-your-cellphone-to-call-the-vet moments where everything seems suspended in time. I reached for my cell phone, only to find it missing. I screamed for the children. The girls ran out and brought me halters to catch the now alarmed herd, who ran circles around Dancer in a frantic effort to re-start their leader.

I cradled my cell phone in my hand for what seemed like an eternity, but in fact was only a moment, sadly aware that the calls I was about to make would change lives: Dancer's and his owner's.

Dancer stood calmly in his spot, his shoulder swelling rapidly. His pulse and respiration skyrocketed. I called for the girls to bring me a blanket. He was starting to sweat.

You know things are bad when you make the first call to the vet. It's not a "will you come and check this horse?" call, it's a "you need to get over here NOW --- we have a major emergency" kind of call. The vet arrived within 10 minutes.

The next calls were made with my heart in my throat. To Dancer's owner, a kind woman of ordinary means who has kept the 19-year-old Thoroughbred pensioned with us for four years. Dancer came into her life, abandoned at a boarding stable. He never really stayed sound, so after a couple of years of plunking away with him, she sweetly arranged for Dancer to spend the rest of his life boarded with us. For four years, she faithfully made, through rain and sun, sickness and family circumstance, the three-hour roundtrip to visit Dancer and make up his ziplock bags of grain. I grew to look forward to the sight of her little black car pulling into the barnyard on Sunday afternoon.

Dancer's owner left home and drove quickly, but time and circumstance were not on her side. The vet suspected that Dancer had fractured his scapula. Either way, the horse, now drenched with sweat, was in unspeakable pain. I delivered this news to her through tears, a kind of pleading. "Please let us put him down now. He is in so much pain. He cannot wait any longer." She was just 45 minutes away, driving quickly into the night to be with her Dancer.

The vet needed no instruction, he just sadly walked back to his truck when he saw he hold my cell phone to Dancer's ear. In this way, his beloved "mother" spoke her final words to him. He stood quietly and listened while she said her last goodbye.

Through the growing twilight, I saw the vet walk back toward me, two large, pink syringes in his hand. I got that familiar lump in my throat. A friend once described putting a horse down as "the loneliest feeling in the world." I think he is right.

Dancer left this world quickly, and with dignity. The last thing he heard was my voice as he fell to the ground. I quickly slid myself under his head and cradled him in my lap as he slipped away. I will miss him terribly.

People who say that these things do not affect animals are ignorant. That evening, I visited each horse in their paddock. They were restless, calling to one another. As I went to each one, I said "Dancer is gone and he is with the angels now." They sighed, taking a big, deep breath.

Early Saturday morning, a lovely man with a big backhoe arrived early. While he dug a grave on the outskirts of the property, I took each horse to see Dancer's body. Half Pint, his best friend, nuzzled his face and licked around his eyes. They all stared long and hard before investigating the body with a kind of grace and kindness. After a moment, they asked to be taken away.

Argus had watched everything from his paddock, from Dancer's last breaths to my "go see the body" procession. I questioned whether I should lead him out there, finally deciding that he deserved to go. I felt proud of him as he calmly walked out there, the backhoe grumbling nearby, and we stopped just short of Dancer. Argus very carefully approached the body, still wary of the dominant alpha horse. He slowly leaned down to sniff Dancer, exploring his face and neck. Then, like all the other horses had done, he seemed done looking, and wanted to go back to the barn.

Later that morning, once Dancer was laid to rest and his grave smoothed into a comforting mound, the girls decorated it with calla lillies and roses. We turned the horses back out into the pasture, watching them as they negotiated their way over to the freshly-turned earth.

A while later, I looked over to see a curious thing. Odie the mule and Argus had eaten all the roses, and Odie was curled up, sleeping, at the base of the grave. Argus and the other horses stood solemnly nearby, a little lost without their fearless friend.






Dancer and Ridge enjoyed taking a mid-morning nap in pasture just last week