2 + 1 = 3

Meet Lou.

Lou is our new 21 year old registered Canadian gelding. I won't use his registered name, because I would prefer that his previous owners don't have any means of finding me, or reading what I am about to say about them.

Now, whether or not Lou qualifies as a "rescue" is up for debate. People in the horse world are very particular when it comes to what they label a rescue, and I do understand. Too many people throw the word around to depict any horse for any reason, so that they can give themselves a pat on the back and go to bed with a warm-fuzzy feeling at night.

For the sake of past debates, I have always defined a rescue as a horse who has been taken out of a life-threatening situation, or a situation where they are being abused. (and I mean real abuse: not "OMG! He's outside without a blanket!" abuse.) Anything else is a purchase, or perhaps an upgrade.

I would consider Lou to fall somewhere between rescue and upgrade. I believe if Lou had been a Quarter Horse or Thoroughbred, he would have been in MUCH worse condition, if not dead. The fact that he was underweight, but not emaciated, and otherwise healthy is a testament to the hardiness of the Canadian breed.

When I went to go see Lou he was in a small muddy paddock, covered in more flies than I have ever seen on a single horse. He was eating yellow moldy cattle hay that was exposed to the elements, and void of any nutrition whatsoever. His diet wasn't being supplemented in any way. He had shelter, but not free access to it: if he wanted to go in to get out of the weather, he had to stand and wait at the barn door and hope someone noticed. His water was also kept in the barn (as far as I could tell. There certainly wasn't any outside.) which meant he didn't have access to water while he was eating his yellow, moldy cattle hay. The fact that he hadn't coliced baffles me.

He had never had his teeth floated, or seen a vet. They claimed to have de-wormed him, but his distended belly leads me to believe that if hey did, their program was ineffective. While I was checking him over, the resident German Shepard ran figure eights through his legs non-stop, barking at him continuously. He didn't even bat an eye. The owner made no attempt to quiet the dog to give the old horse some peace.

The wife was nice enough, but the husband (who was in charge of the horses as far as I could tell) was a compelte dick. The type of person who feels the need to dominate large animals in order to compensate for sub-par anatomy. On top of it, he was the worst kind of moron: obviously clueless but convinced he knew it all. He went on and on about the Canadian's hardiness, and about how people needlessly spoil their horses. He snapped at and degraded his wife several times in front of all of us. When I asked him what kind of bit he used with Lou, he replied "A normal one". Then he elaborated "Don't use one of those western bits on him, he don't know how to do nothing with one of those." I sighed a breath of relief upon deducing that he rode Lou in a single jointed snaffle, because he totally came across as the type of moron who would ride in the biggest baddest curb he could find and somehow manage to put it on backwards. Not that I have anything against a curb, just that I'm 100% positive that this guy didn't have the hands to be able to use one without ripping out the horse's mouth.




















Here he is the day I went to see him. His ribs and spine are masked by his distended wormy belly... His poor condition was much more obvious in person.

Of course, I had to come home with him. He is supposedly broke to ride and drive, and pulled sleighs at a Cabane a Sucre for years before ending up where he was. The plan is to make him the resident beginner-safe horse for friends and family who want to learn to ride.

So Lou is now home, settling in, and having his needs met. He's gaining weight every day, and the de-wormer and probiotics are helping his belly. In the week that he's been here, he has gone from grumpy and withdrawn to friendly and curious. If he continues to gain weight at this pace I'll start putting some rides on him, seeing what he knows and fine tuning his training by next week.

Know what this is?

This is garlic. Not just any garlic, but the most delicious, organic garlic I have ever tasted. This stuff is like GOLD in our house. Look how pretty it is. I can't wait until it's ready.















This is horse poop. Or rather, it WAS horse poop. After sitting for 2 years it has magically transformed into fertilizer. All that money I spend on supplements and premium hay? Makes premium fertilizer.















This is my dad, driving the tractor. We have a tractor now, which means that we are bonafide farmers. (Although the bonafide farmers may not agree with my list of qualifications).

All that to say, that garden season is starting. Soon, we'll have more fresh veggies than we know what to do with, but not soon enough.

Spring is here!

I feel like I can say it now without jinxing it. We can all crawl out of our wintery dens and take in some sun. No more snow, longer days, greener lawns. he garden is ready for seeding, and it's time to start ticking projects off the list one by one.

Unfortunately, Spring means wet. And wet and horse feet do not always go hand in hand. Constantine is one of those horses who's frogs like to become infected with thrush as soon as they become a little damp. We spent a good part of the winter healing the infection which took hold in the fall, and now... It's wet again.

This time, I'm NOT fooling around. Daily foot scrubs and Lysol soaks, and monthly CleanTrax soaks will be done until I am darn sure it's dry out there. He might hate me for it, but a mom's gotta do what a Mom's gotta do :)





















Can you believe how big he's getting? Isn't he handsome?

Also, we got a tractor. A little Kubota with a scoop and a digger. (Those are the technical terms). I have some very unflattering pictures of myself digging out the garden with it last week, which I may or may not post at a later date :)

What makes a rescue?

So, I have completely neglected this blog. I apologize for that. However, recently there was an event not too far from here, which has motivated me to get something off my chest.

My father approached me a couple of weeks ago, talking about a fire at a local horse rescue which burned down their barn and all their hay. Thankfully, the horses were out that night and were all OK. I decided to look into it further. I didn't have a lot of money to spare, but thought I'd offer to bring over some hay, or even take a couple of geldings in while they re-built.

When I started looking around their site, my heart sank. Not because of pictures of malnourished ponies like I normally see on rescue sites. Not because of heart-wrenching stories of abuse and neglect. But because this 'rescue' is breaking some of the most fundamental rules of being a responsible rescue. In fact, I have a hard time referring to them as one at all. The reason? They are breeding their rescue stock.

Let me back up a little. I know that many of you who will be reading this (my friends and family) are not involved in the horse world. And from outside of the horse world, people tend to have a romantic notion that horses are majestic and majikal creatures, and that surely there must be a loving home for every horse. But the fact of the matter is that while yes, horses are majestic animals, the horse industry has never been in worse shape, and there is a HUGE overpopulation problem. What people outside the horse world don't realize right now is that I could drive 15 minutes across the boarder, and come back with a nice sound horse for about the same as it would cost me to adopt a dog from the SPCA. Or maybe less:

Free TB
Free Paint
Free QH

And in Ontario:
$500 TB
$500 Trakehner X
$500 Welsh X


When hard economic times hit, the first thing people get rid of are their luxuries. Horses are not only a huge luxury, but they also require an ongoing cost to keep around. At the very least, you will have feed bills, farrier bills, and de-worming. Add to that boarding costs (if you board) property maintenance (shelters, fencing) if you don't, plus bi-annual vaccinations and emergency vet bills, and one can't deny that horses have the potential to be very costly.

What that means is that a couple of years ago, everyone started downsizing their herds. At the same time, people stopped buying. That means that horses that used to be extremely valuable couldn't find homes. So now there are huge numbers of horses who are not receiving proper care (owners can't afford it) and unable to get into a rescue (they are busting at the seams). Many owners won't do the responsible thing at that point and have the animal humanely euthanized (costs money), and instead send them to the local auction to try to recoup a couple of hundred bucks. Most of the time, those auction horses end up at slaughterhouses. I'll stay away from the slaughter topic, because that's not what this post is about... but suffice it to say you wouldn't want to end up there.

So this brings me back to the problem I have with this rescue. How on earth can you consider yourself a rescue when you are helping to perpetuate the horse overpopulation problem? THERE ARE TOO MANY HORSES RIGHT NOW. Good horses aren't finding homes. And these geniuses decide to produce more mediocre ones? And call themselves a rescue and take public donations? How would people feel if the SPCA started breeding their stray cats? IT'S THE SAME DAMN THING!

Not only are they breeding their rescued stock, AND adopting out their mares as potential broodmares (I strongly believe that all rescues need "no breeding" contracts... nevermind encouraging people to breed their rescues) but they are standing mediocre unaccomplished stallions at stud. 3 of them. The stud fee for their "International Spotted Horse" (Which means he is spotted but grade... so this was the only thing they could register him as) is $50. If your stud's seamen is only worth $50 bucks a shot, he needs to lose his balls. Period.

The other two are registered Paints (at least they've got that going for them) with mediocre bloodlines and they haven't accomplished anything. I won't comment on their conformation as I couldn't find any pictures. But I haven't seen anything telling me that THEY should be siring any horses right now (or ever).

Irresponsible breeding is the probably biggest contributor to the horse over-population problem we are seeing. Responsible breeders with amazing, proven stock are giving their broodmares a break right now. There is absolutely NO reason this horse (last one on list - Green, unproven, foundered) should be bred to the $50 wonder. NONE. I can't even tell you how angry that makes me. There is more to being a rescue than taking in unwanted horses.

So Dreamscape Acres, shame on you. Start conducting yourself in a manner that does not contribute to the problem. Set an example and educate the public. Or stop calling yourself a rescue and taking public money.

Green Thumb

I am not a grower. I do not have that gift.

My parents are both gifted gardeners. My grandmother has a 20 square food concrete back yard and grows he most amazing vegetables in it. Both of my father's parents have the gift. Both of my brothers have the gift. Somehow, I have been missed.

When I lived in Verdun, I tried (and failed) to keep plants to make if feel more homey. Yes, even the ones that 'No one can kill' did not have a chance under my care.

When watching my brother's cats and plants one weekend, I successfully drowned all of his seedlings, which he never made me feel bad about.

So I have been limiting my 'help' in the Vegetable garden. There are too many people banking on eating fresh tomatoes and cucumber for me to get overly involved. I can't handle the pressure.

I did find a gift for my uncanny ability to kill all things that grow in the earth. I have taken to weeding... this needs to be done often, and since killing plants is the main part of that job description, I am the best candidate by far. I am quite comfortable with this position, as I feel as though I am helping, and am not stressed about ruining our first ever vegetable garden on the farm.

So you can imagine my hesitation this weekend when dad needed help pruning the tomatoes. This raised all kinds of red flags for me. First of all, I'm thinking that the tomato plants look great... they have taken off and become a veritable jungle of greenery. They look very healthy to me. So dad explains that pruning them will allow more sun to get to the roots, and allow the plant to put it's energy into the actual fruit rather than into the non fruit bearing stems and leaves. This is logical, but still doesn't feel right so I am apprehensive. I know very well that I am in no position to start questioning the tried and true methods of the masters, so I plop myself onto the ground and start trimming away.

The first plant took the longest. I figured it would be just my luck to clip some kind of main artery and kill the damn thing. I could practically hear my father saying 'oh, you could have clipped any one but THAT one...' I checked each branch for flowers, and if I thought there was a chance in hell that the thing might develop flowers, I let it be. I wasn't going to be held responsible for the loss of ANY tomatoes. Before clipping each branch, I asked dad if it was ok.

After the first couple of plants, I started to get into a rhythm. My mind started to clear, and I started to relax. I started to breath the delicious aroma of the tomato plants, and listen to the birds calling each other. I wondered what they were saying. I heard Constentine snort, followed by the thunder of his hooves hitting the ground as he ran around in his paddock. I smiled as Batman called to him, obviously excited by the action.

And then I noticed another sound... It has been with me since I started, but I was too focused on not killing the tomatoes to notice... I was surrounded with a constant buzzing... I looked around and noticed that there were dozens of bees working away collecting pollen. My first reaction was to hightail it out of there, bees and wasps are my one and only phobia. as I was contemplating my escape route, I noticed that they did not seem to give a damn about me. They were all just going about their business, doing their jobs... So I decided to stay put. I worked for what was probably another hour, and not one bee gave me a second glance. Could gardening have cured me of my phobia? I started thinking, if I get stung, I get stung, can't hurt more than Constentine's love nibbles...

We decided to call it a morning, and when I stood up and looked at my hands, I couldn't help but chuckle. I concluded on my own that the term 'green thumb' likely came from describing someones hands after they had been prunning tomatoes all morning. both my thumbs (and the rest of my fingers) were actually green.

Farm life (incomplete)

I found the following story while cleaning out my machine. I had started writing about my first weekend at the farm, but didn't finish... I thought I would share it anyways, so enjoy!
____________________________

Farm Life

When my mother called me a few months back to tell me that she and my father were thinking of buying a farm and asking me if I wanted in, I answered yes before she could even get to the details. With 3 dogs, a rabbit and a horse I had felt somewhat out of place in my smallish yard less duplex in Verdun for quite some time.

After listening to her plan, it seemed almost too good to be true, and definitely something only my mother could come up with. She and my father want to leave a legacy for my brothers and I. The plan was to by a farm with a decent amount of land. They would use it as a summer cottage (which they were looking to buy anyways) and someone would have to live there to look after the place (me). The rent from my apartment in Verdun would cover my rent at the farm, and I would continue to pay my mortgage on the duplex. My older brother and sister in law would get to share in the joy of the farm as well along with my nephew to be, in exchange for maintaining the Verdun property and dealing with the tenants. And they have a right to some of the land when they are ready to build a house.

Following a farm search, a bidding war, and a fiasco involving the previous owners and some equipment they wanted us to buy from them but weren’t willing to negotiate on, we became farmers… and the excitement began.

The first real adventure was the weekend my horse and my brand new pony (and myself and Todd) moved up. Due to a misunderstanding between myself and the man who was transporting my lovelies, this happened a week earlier than expected. The horses were to arrive on Sunday morning at 10:00, and as of Saturday we had no fences, no shelter, and no hay. My parents, my little (17 year old) brother, Todd and myself went up Friday night and got an early start on Saturday morning. By 8:30 my father and I were at Home Depot buying lumber for the shelter, and by 9:15 we were at the fence depot buying… the fence stuff. To my relief, the fence depot was also the co-op, so I bought my grain, and wood shavings, and a 50 kilo bag of rabbit feed. We were ready to go.

We got home, had a coffee, and got ready to start. My father gave us all tasks and very specific instructions for putting up the fence. We had an area mapped out and were satisfied with our plans. The idea was to fence off an area alongside an existing out-building, saving us money on one of the side of fencing, and allowing us to build the shelter in the building so that the horses could go in and out as they pleased. As my father and mother drove off to go to an auction to look for a ride on lawnmower, Todd, Kevin and myself got to building the fences. We measured and marked off two feet on the posts, as this is how far they needed to go into the ground. According to my father, with two people banging it in with the post banger, it should go in very easily and wouldn’t take long. Todd and I place the first post and started banging. It went in about 4 inches and then stopped. We scratched our heads for a minute, and then decided we must be hitting the concrete foundation of the huge Quonset building. So we moved the post back a few feet, and tried again. Four inches in the post stopped moving. We moved the post again, this time about 20 feet away from the building, same story. Meanwhile, my brother had been digging a trench to to run the electricity. He came to tell us that he couldn’t dig the trench because he kept hitting rocks.
Great.

Eh, Blogging

OK, so I have decided to join the blog world. In fact, I could probably say that I have been blogging for years... I have always kept blog-like stories of all my not-so interesting adventures, I just haven't done it in a blog... So I'm saying good-bye to all the scrap pieces of paper and loose word documents, and will be hence-forth compiling all of my thoughts here. Goody.