Helping Chloe

Until it thaws a bit and I can go out on manure clean-up patrol, I'm running out of places to put hay down. Today I served the hay on a virgin stretch of snow along the fence, cut off from the rest of the field by a strip of frozen run-off water.

The three horses crossed cautiously, finding that their weight broke the ice and gave them a foothold. Not so Chloe. Her dainty figure wasn't hefty enough to fracture the glassy surface. She walked back and forth, looking for a way over, but gave up.

I called her over to the fence, thinking she could make her way across at that spot, as there was a line of crusty snow running along the fence which looked as if it might provide better footing.

Chloe pawed a little, but declined to cross. Ok, Chloe, I'm coming in.

She stayed put, and I climbed over the gate to join her where she was standing. I stamped on the ice and managed to smash a few footholds (in my new shoes, mind you). But Chloe chose that moment to follow the path I'd originally recommended - picking her way along the line of snow at the base of the fence.

Not there yet. The George Troll is standing between Chloe and the free pile of hay.

Not enough room to safely pass between George and the fence. And the frozen river is to his right. Chloe went over to inspect the ice to see if maybe she could circumnavigate on that side. Nope. So she parked herself where she was and let it be known how convenient it would be for some hay to be served up in that very spot.

Right here will do nicely, thank you.

Yes ma'am, right away. I fetched her a couple of flakes and left them to it.

It occurs to me that there are those who might find such descriptions about as thrilling as listening to an account of paint drying. Silly people.

Brrr

The wind is like a knife. I got deep-down chilled this evening when I was out with the horses, and only now am warm enough to sit by the computer downstairs, having had a hot bath.  It's 62F downstairs, which is as warm as I can make it, but not warm enough!

The ground in the barn pasture is frozen, and I walked over to see what the wind felt like in the lee of the barn and inside the shelter. It felt much better. So - as is my wont - I picked this evening, as night was falling, to decide to move the horses back over there.

They were all, like, "What! What's happening! Where are you taking me? Help! I'm being left behind!" Or, in Chloe's case: "I'm fine here out on the lawn, thanks. Please leave me alone."

However, I finally got everyone reunited inside their new accommodations. I put hay in the shelter and up against the barn. I said, "Come, horsies, see how cozy it is. You'll be all warm and snug here."

They said: "Pshaw. We're going out into the howling gale to see if there's anything tasty growing out there."

I lugged a couple of buckets of water in, but the little creek is running enough in places to be unfrozen. Rose ate her herbs. Bridget thought we maybe could play a little. But I said, "No! I am going inside and having a whisky. Goodnight."

As I sit, I can hear the wind howling on the other side of the wall. It's supposed to get down to 15F tonight (-10C), and what with the wind adding to the chill, I'm glad they have a shelter. Even if George stands in the entrance and won't let them in, at least they'll have the barn as a windbreak.

I am officially a wimp and am now going to bed with a hot water bottle.


p.s. Rose's leg's looking a lot better.

Jessie and the Fridge

One summer, while a student, I worked as a cook and housekeeper for a middle-aged couple in Edinburgh. They lived in a substantial stone house which looked like this, in fact I think it was this house:

There were two huge kitchens - one for cooking, one for washing - and an enormous walk-in pantry where we kept the food stored under mesh covers to keep the flies away. No fridge. This was Scotland, after all, and the temperature in the summer rarely got out of the 70's.

My domain was the cooking kitchen, while the other kitchen harbored an aged retainer by the name of Jessie. It was hard to know how old Jessie was, hailing as she did from an altogether bygone era, but she might easily have been in her 80's. Having spent her entire life "in service," she had nowhere else to go, and the family kept her on out of kindness. She had her own bedroom, and her sole duty was to wash up the silverware after lunch, a job she took very seriously. Once a week, on her "day off," she would don her finery, apply some pretty scary makeup, and board the bus for Princes Street where she would have lunch at Littlewoods.

Now, the family did in fact own one refrigerator - a very small one, kept for the single purpose of making ice for cocktails. As I recall, it lived in the sitting room, and on the other side of the wall where it was sat was Jessie's bedroom.

Jessie did not like this. Apparently, the fridge radiated uncomfortable and unpleasant emanations, which she could feel through the wall. I think the fridge may have eventually been relocated out of deference to Jessie's concerns. Which of course were completely batty and unfounded. Crazy old Jessie, eh?

Fast forward twenty years. I'm married, with kids, living in my own big ol' house. One day I'm pottering about in the kitchen, and I can feel it. The radiation, the emanation - coming from the refrigerator. It's so long ago now that I can't recapture what it was like - but I believe it was a slight prickly sensation.  I remembered Jessie. She wasn't daft at all.

Jessie was probably born at the end of the 19th century and grew up with very little electricity, apart from  lighting. We attributed her unease at the refrigerator to a primitive fear of unknown gadgets, but really she must have just been more sensitive than the rest of us. For some reason, for a short time twenty years later, I became similarly sensitized myself. Who knows how. But I felt pretty stupid for having dismissed Jessie's experience so readily.

All this is a long and roundabout way of saying that Bridget does not like the new water trough situation. Yesterday, when I walked over to the trough carrying a bucket to pour in, Bridget came eagerly to the fence. I poured the water in, and she sniffed at the trough but didn't drink. She then pawed the ground next to the trough in a frustrated kind of a way. I took pity on her and fetched her a bucket to drink out of.

Later, after I'd set the evening hay out, I asked Bridget if she wanted to come over to the trough with me. We walked over and again she sniffed but didn't drink. I had the Tupperware bowl, from which I'd just given Rose her medicine, and I used it to ladle some water out to offer her. She drank it down, and kept nudging the bowl to ask for more, until she'd had her fill.

So - it's not the taste of the water which is the problem. I've dipped my hand in, and although the water is oddly warm (is this unhealthy, I ask myself), I wasn't zapped or anything. This makes me wonder if the electricity is giving off a weird vibe, which Bridget is picking up.

I'm not sure if the others are drinking from the trough. Last night, after ladling out water for Bridget, I brought two buckets over and left them in the field. Bridget had more, but the others weren't interested. This morning, both buckets were empty. When I put two more buckets out, George came over and had a little, but that was it.

When the days are above freezing, I'll keep the heater turned off. Also maybe Bridget will get used to the weirdness.

I wonder what all we're missing by being so thick-skinned and unaware. It can be a drawback to be overly sensitive, but sometimes I fear I'm doing the equivalent of banging my head on a wall and not noticing because my head is already numb.

P.S. When I was growing up, "Jessie" was a name associated par excellence with the kind of character described above. When we had kids, though, we decided to rescue the name from oblivion and give it to one of our daughters. A fine Scottish name.

Water and Food

Yesterday afternoon, with a high of 28F forecast for the next day, I decided it was now or never.  Time to put the new stock tank heater into action. In the gathering darkness, I dumped the ice and water out of the tank and moved it to a location closer to an electric source. The horses milled about, wondering what on earth I was up to.

Here is George inspecting the heater, which has been plugged into the tank's drain hole. We used to use a floating heater, but I'd put money on a certain Miss Bridget being unable to resist the temptation to play with such a thing. I walked back and forth with buckets of water until the heater was well submerged, as per the instructions.

Of course they also tell you on no account to use the heater with an extension cord. Ha! They're kidding, right? I hung the extension cord in the trees to keep it away from the dogs.

This morning I scurried over to the tank to see if the whole rig had functioned as hoped for. Hooray! Liquid H2O!

If I schlep two or three bucketfuls of water two or three times a day, it'll get gradually fuller. Our trusty standpipe never freezes, unless I'm foolish enough to leave a hose attached to it.

Of course what I really want is for Santa to bring me a heated hose. I'm not sure if 100 feet would do it, though, and then then there's the problem of Lucy, who likes to decimate hose pipe.

Lucy also thinks it's fun to chew ice,

while Malcolm enjoys leftover beet pulp.

Speaking of beet pulp, I bring the bucket in to the kitchen to soak, so that it's not all freezing for the horses to eat. The bucket is not food-grade plastic, but it has a handy snap-on lid. I'm afraid it's bad for you to eat out of the wrong kind of plastic. Need to go to the restaurant supply store and look for a healthy bucket-with-lid.

I don't know what it is, but the horses are giving off a well-fed vibe. Thanks to Sandra, I've switched to feeding beet pulp and chopped forage (as well as hay, of course). The horses seem to be thriving on it, and I like that I can give them large portions as compared to the more concentrated grain-based feeds. Even after a day and a half straight of 40 mph winds in freezing temperatures, the horses seemed quite at ease with life. Even George, although he does his rocking-horse dinner dance when I show up with the feed, waits quite politely while I mix up the buckets.

Breakfast time is happy time.