Sweet Pea

During my mother's extended stay in the hospital recently, I was put in charge of taking care of her animals.  At that time consisted of one dog and one cat.  Everyday before and after work I'd go to her house, which was just down the road from my home.

During the day I'd leave her dog, Scout, a medium sized, mostly white mutt dog, out in the fenced yard.  I use the word mutt as a term of endearment.  Scout is a friendly, rambunctious dog, who, when she was a tiny puppy, somehow made her way to my mother's house--from a neighbor's house more than a block away-- leaving her litter mates behind, hence the name Scout.

On this particular evening I noticed Scout acted more excited than usual to see me.  After the chores were done, I  closed the gate on the small fenced in area, and  turned to walk to my truck.  I stopped walking when  I saw her.  A very dirty, scroungy, long haired, medium sized dog.  It had rained a slow, constant drizzle during the previous couple of days, and this dog looked like she had been unable to find shelter from it.

The dog walked toward me from the direction of my mother's shed.  I stood still and watched her.  She looked pitiful and her large, expressive eyes were staring at me.  She stopped at my feet and then put her front paws up on my thighs.  Her eyes looked at me as if pleading with me to help her.   My heart melted.  She had a collar with a tag, identifying her as Sweet Pea and a phone number.  I went back inside my mother's house and called the number.  There was no answer so I left a message and my home phone number.

I took Sweet Pea home and gave her a quick bath.  Her gratitude was obvious.  After bouncing around the house and rubbing her still wet body down the front of my couch several times, she settled down on the couch and took a nap.  Not long after, I received a phone call from her happy owners.  I met them shortly thereafter,  only a few miles from my home. Sweet Pea nearly knocked me off my feet, as I held her and she saw her owners.

Her owner's informed me that Sweet Pea was a Miniature Schnauzer, who was in need of a haircut.  Also, that she had been missing for two days.  They were very thankful that I had called.  I'll never forget Sweet Pea, who I fell in love the second  I looked into her sweet, pleading eyes.

Snakebite! continued.....

One warm Spring morning I went outside and fed Pistol and Lady as usual.  With Pistol's first bite of  hay  I noticed that he was chewing unusually slow.  He then walked to his shed and stood  parallel up against the back wall.  I followed him, knowing  that something was wrong because he wasn't eating. I quickly looked him over and didn't notice anything to be concerned about.  I then  ran to the house and told my dad, who came out to look.

 

By then Pistol's nose had begun to swell.  Dad pointed out four tiny holes on the soft part of  his nose between his nostrils.  There were trickles of blood coming from them.   Pistol stood still except for occasionally twitching his head as if he was feeling sharp stabs of pain in his nose.  His eyes looked droopy and frightened.

 

As we discussed the dire situation, Tigger, my dad's Papillion dog, alerted to a small bush in the corral.  There hiding in the bush I found a Mohave Green rattlesnake.  I had walked right next to that bush several times that morning.  Dad got his gun and shot the culprit.

 

Two hours later the swelling appeared to have stopped.  Pistol's upper lip was  swollen and hanging about an inch longer than his bottom lip, and the bottom half of his nose was obviously swollen.

 

Pistol, like most horses, is very curious and must have been sniffing and checking out the snake when he was bit.  I mistakenly assumed that after living here for over three years he had already come across rattlesnakes and knew to stay away from them.  

 

Because Pistol's nose seemed to have stopped swelling. I decided it was safe for me to go to work.  Dad had a doctor's appointment in town that day, so I was slightly concerned that he wouldn't be home for a few hours to check on him. 

 

When I got to work my mild concern had grown, so I called my veterinarian.  After telling her the situation, the tone of her voice changed from matter-of-fact to alarming.  "I will leave my office in a few minutes and meet you at your house!"  She got to my house only a few minutes after I arrived.  Pistol's condition was unchanged. 

 

As the vet unloaded supplies from her truck, she shared with me the many stories of horses, donkeys and mules she had treated for rattlesnake bites, a few having not survived.  She then gave Pistol shots of steroids, antibiotics, and tetanus.

 

For several days following the bites, Pistol's  breathing sounded like that of  a kid with a snotty nose.  Until that day, I did not realize that horses can only breath through their nose.   And on that day, I felt totally inadequate as a horse owner.  But, Pistol would be ok and I learned a lesson.  The hard way, as is usually the case.  Pistol also learned a lesson. Although Pistol's lesson was harder learned than mine!  Since then, he can spot a rattlesnake far off the trail and seconds before I hear their rattle and he now gives them a wide berth.    

Snakebite!

I have had many encounters with rattlesnakes over the years that I have lived in the desert.  More than one close call for myself--not paying attention to where I was walking and coming within inches of them--luckily they all rattled their tails in the nick of time. I have also had several dogs that have been bitten. 

 

The first year that I lived here I had a dog named Odie.  He was half Labrador and half Golden Retriever.  He had a wonderful personality.  He loved people and interacting with them.  He also loved to hunt and kill rattlesnakes!  I don't know why, but they were always Mohave Greens.  I knew this because he would bring the dead snakes home.  During those fights, Odie would get bit several times. His head would swell up so large it was almost round like a ball; and for the following few days, he would just stand still and move as little as possible.  He would drool and drink a lot of water, and was so swollen that I don't think he could hear.  On one occasion I witnessed the fight while on a walk with my dogs, who at that time consisted only of Odie and Bullet (my blue healer mix). 

 

Several yards off the trail Odie was tromping around when I heard the rattle. He had stirred up a snake!   I walked over to Odie just as he grabbing the snake with his mouth.  It was a Mohave Green.  He grabbed the snake in the middle of his body and I grabbed Odie's collar.  He then let go of the snake and turned his head toward me. I'll never forget the snake blood running out of Odie's mouth, which  was then also on my bare arm.  I drug him away from the snake, and quickly got myself and both dogs away from there.  

 

There was a man that I could call, and for a small fee he would come to my house and remove any rattlesnakes from my yard, using what looked like something you use to pick up trash and a pillow case.  He said he sent the snakes to someone he knew who worked at a zoo in Germany.

 

My Mother, who lived with her Mohave Green rattlesnake friends in her yard for several years, finally decided she had better have them removed.  She called the snake catcher and he was happy to oblige, although it took him a few trips to her house to catch them all.  

 

One day a co-worker and I were talking about our mutual interest in rattlesnakes.  He said to me with a big smile and a look on his face as if he were talking about some nutcase "My friend (who I later learned was the snake catcher) told me about a lady who had several Mohave Green Rattlesnakes living  in her yard, and she wouldn't kill them,"  I was happy to tell my co-worker, " That lady is my mom!".

 

Unfortunately, the snake catcher moved away a few years ago.  That left us with two options; to kill the snakes, or be aware they are out there and be very cautious.  All my dogs were "snake smart" most of them having been bitten.  With no incidents of  snakebites that occurred in my yard.  I chose not to kill them, thinking all the ruckus of the dogs and horses would be enough to keep them away.  But it didn't.

 

to be continued... Pistol gets bit!!! 

 

 

The Deck

 The arrangements had been made.  Lady was going away for training.  The trainer, Marion, only lived a few miles away.  He was probably in his mid-fifties, and when he walked, you could tell by his slight limp and posture, something had given his body more than it was made to endure. Something I suspected, that had to do with a horse, but I really didn't want to know.

It didn't see to slow him down though. He and his wife went trail riding at least once a day.  "Some days we go out riding in the morning and then again in the evening",  he had told me.  He owned fifteen horses, he had said, "last time I counted anyway".  His ranch also included several small burros and  many cats, who looked like old pros at dodging cars, people and hoofs.

Dad and  I decided to lead Lady the short distance to Marion's ranch.  Down the dirt road and thru a field we went, with  Lady walking ahead of me, all the while pulling on the  lead rope.  I firmly held on, trying to pull her back, unsuccessfully.    By the time we got to Marion's I was more than ready to turn her over to him, my right arm aching from the constant tug-a-war. 

Lady and Pistol had been with me a year and during that time Lady had slowly learned she could trust Dad and  I.  She loved to be scratched right above her tail.  The first time she backed up to me I swatted her.  She jerked away from me and looked shocked.  She looked at me as if to say "Why did you do that?"  It suddenly occurred to me that her intentions were not what I thought.  I had read that when a horse backs up to you they are showing dominance and getting ready to kick.  Reading about horses behavior, I have learned, is just a general guide.       

After the first several months here, Lady revealed her true personality.  She was affectionate and full of energy.  She loved to run around the yard.  She would run bucking, kicking and then stopping to rear up on her hind legs.  Her gait was beautiful.  She'd run with her tail up, and she would daintily pick up her hoof and place them back down, in what looked like slow motion.  Her dabble grey coat had faded from the desert sun, she looked more white now. 

Pistol would join in the frolicking.  The pair running in the yard, sometimes on a collision course with each other, I'd hold my breath and watch them veer away from each other at the last possible second. 

But now, without Lady's companionship, Pistol seemed lost.  He would sulk around the yard.  He spent most of his time gazing down the dirt road in the direction his mom had gone.  He would stiffen up his body and make it high and erect, then let out a loud call. He'd wait for her response, but none came.

While I was at work, Dad would spend as much time as possible with Pistol.  Dad would take him out of the fenced yard and lead him out in the open desert fields. Way off in the distance you could see a few houses.  But between those and my house, there was miles of open desert. 

Between Dad and I, at that time, we owned six dogs, all would join in the fun.  They and Pistol would play chase, taking turns being "it", the chaser.  It was an awesome sight to see Pistol running free and of course, he loved it.  He would include Dad in the games too.  Pistol would run straight for Dad, making eye contact with him, then at the last second, turn slightly and run right past him.  "You don't want to move in either direction at the last second" dad had told me.  "The horse has it planned out and  you might accidentally move in the same direction as him!"  

To the South of us lived Betty, our closest neighbor.  She owned a beautiful American fox hound named Basil.  One day, Dad decided to take Pistol to Betty's house for a visit.  Pistol ran up to the house ahead of dad.  His sudden appearance must have been a shock to Basil, because he immediately began barking at Pistol in what appeared to be an attempt to protect his territory from this huge creature.    Pistol paid no attention to Basil and walked around to the back yard.  There was a feast waiting for Pistol there.  Betty had grape vines growing on the back side of her deck.  Pistol spent time browsing on grapes, mulberry bush, and a Chinese elm. 

Basil,  still barking, was now at Pistol's heel's, occassionally niping them.  Suddenly, Pistol turned and chased Basil, who ran a circle around the house. Going around the the second time,  Basil ran and  jumped up onto the front deck.  Pistol followed running up the stairs behind him. With a loud thud, Pistol's front hoofs hit the wooden stairs.  The deck bowed under the full weight of Pistol. The pair ran a cricle around the straining platform before they each jumped off onto the ground, with Pistol still in pursuit of the barking beast.  Basil, realizing the deck was not safe, ran under the house and hid.

No Complaining

Some of you may be surprised to see the title of this.  I admit, I have been a complainer most of my life. Out of example and  habit I suppose.

The other day I overheard someone complain about the long drive to their second home up in the mountains.  I instantly thought what a spoiled rotten person they must be.  Yes, a bit of jealousy perhaps on my part.  Then I thought of all the complaints that I dish out on a daily basis.

 Aside from feeling a tinge of envy when I hear complaints from those who are materially better off than myself, I realized that nobody likes to hear complaints and the complainer is not better off for having done so.  But more important, I thought of all the people in the world who do not have a roof over their head, or food to eat, or....

Complaining about my broken toilet suddenly felt very wrong.  Not that I don't often feel grateful for the  many blessings in my life. In fact, my life's motto has been, "it could be worse!" 

This is probably not a new revelation for you, or even to me.  But this time, it was a moment when the thought felt like it sank deep into my brain and stuck.

A strange feeling to no longer have the desire to inform others of such minor inconveniences.  Seems foolish now.  I still curse at times when someone commits a minor traffic infraction that causes me to have to put on my brakes or maneuver out of their way---more than likely a snowbird--but I am not complaining.

End of an Era

I was saddened the other day, when after having a nice, relaxed ride on my favorite horse, to think Pistol's youth had ended.  While riding, I had promised Mr. P that at the end of the ride I would let him out of the yard to "greener pastures" so he could graze on the patches of grass that had recently popped up.  October had brought an unusual amount of rain. 

After Pistol was stripped of his riding paraphernalia and his end-of-ride apple had been voraciously devoured, I walked slowly down the long dirt driveway towards the gate; all the while prompting Pistol, "Come on! There is grass out here for you to eat!"   He just stood by the house, curiously watching me.  I got to the gate and turned to see him still standing there, "Come on!" I repeated.  Pistol responded with a neigh and then slowly walked towards me.

I walked across the narrow dirt road to the empty field and waited for him.  He sauntered up to me and looked at me as if to ask "I am here! Now what?"  But a few seconds later he bent down and began eating the grass.  I  then walked back towards the yard, while telling him that I had to get dinner in the oven and I'd be right back.  I quickly walked to the house and after only being inside for a few minutes, I was surprised to see Pistol standing at the deck in the back yard.   A surprise because he has never passed up a chance to be out of the yard grazing and making his rounds to the neighbors houses to visit -- sometimes walking into their homes-- to beg for treats.  It had been several months since I had let him out to enjoy the freedom to wander; but he would never go too far and I loved to see him come running and bucking when I  would call him to come home.  So on this day it occurred to me that perhaps Pistol wanted the security of his yard and was no longer seeking new adventures.  The end of an era for him and me?  Hadn't this been what I have been waiting for?  An older, mellow horse.  

Horse Panels

It was January and Pistol was eight months old. "I need to figure out a way to wean him," I had told Doris. Doris was a co-worker of mine who also owned horses. Although she had not spent time around a weanling. She listened with interest when I shared with her the many challenges I faced raising a colt. Doris suggested I borrow her horse panels. I eagerly accepted her offer and quickly came up with a plan.  I would set up a small corral in the yard and keep Lady in it for a couple weeks, or until I felt Pistol was weaned. The panels were delivered a weeek later.

After unloading the awkward unwieldy bundle, my son, Andy, and I each grabbed an end of the biggest panel. We guessed (neither of us having experience or instructions) that we should start with the panel that had the gate on it. With Andy at one end and I on the other, we pushed the large panel up off the ground, with the gate swinging back and forth; unsecured until the adjoining panel was attached. We stood there quietly for a minute contemplating our next move.

Pistol was watching and standing close by.  Pistol was always there, where ever anyone was, there was Pistol. He would look at, smell and taste every new thing, including people and animals. However, his next more, I would have never anticipated.

As soon as Pistol saw the standing panel he walked up to it and put his head through the top two pipes, pushing so hard that it abruptly pulled out of my hands. My son held on a few seconds longer. Pistol continued pushing forward until the top panel was resting on the back of his neck and the middle panel was pressed across his chest. He then panicked and took off running. The legs of the panel were digging into the ground, which didn't seem to slow him down. The gate was swinging violently back and forth hitting him from his front left hoof up to top of his leg. He ran about 30 yards, when suddenly, he stopped. It appeared that it suddenly occurred to him how to get out of that predicament, because he then turned his head sideways and pulled it out.  The panel fell back against him.  He backed away from it and ran to his mom. 

 

"He looks like he is fine," I told Andy, trying to calm his nerves and mine.  We were both shaking and upset.  Andy said angrily, "I hate that stupid horse!"  I knew that wasn't true.  But, Pistol had proven to be quite a pain and the "pain" was just beginning.

 

In the meantime, Pistol had found his mom and was nursing, which he does, I have observed, not only to fill his belly, but to feel safe and calm himself when something scares or upsets him.   

Tarantula Crossing

It is the time of year the male tarantulas are out of their holes and hunting for a mate.  These slow-moving hairy hunks are often found walking down the middle of the road.  I understand many people think they are ugly, but I see them as vunerable, handsome creatures.  I drive to and from work these days with my eyes peeled and rapidly scanning the roads, hoping my speed isn't faster than my tarantula-spotting reaction time. 
I recently read that female tarantulas can live up to twenty years.. which begs the question.. why not males?  I had to know.

Easy enough to google..   "If males are not killed during their search for a mate, they die soon after maturing.  Most males do not live through moult as they tend to get their emboli, mature male sexual organs on pedipalps, stuck in the moult." 

Now do you feel sorry for them?  So while the males are out risking life and limbs -- four pair of legs and two additional pairs of appendages to be exact.. the females are safely in their holes in the ground waiting.  Although either sex can be stung by a Tarantula Hawk; who then lay an egg in the paralyzed spider.  And, you guessed it, the tarantula's body becomes the fledgling insect's nest and food.  Now I am depressed.

But, even if I hadn't known the slim chance these large arachnids have of  living a long happy life, I'd still stop traffic to avoid a preventable demise.  The curious drivers, having been flagged down by me, always ask "Everything OK?".  I then point to the brown spot in the road, who is unaware he had been  about to become a permanent part of the asphalt.  Luckily, the drivers have always obliged, while smiling and sometimes looking at me like I may have come from another planet.  

It went by fast, the first month after Dad and the horses arrived.  I came home from work one evening and found a note on the kitchen counter.  My Dad had gone back to Arkansas.  When he left Arkansas the only possessions he brought with him were some clothes, his German shepherd and two horses. According to the note, my Dad's neighbor had called.  He told my Dad that he saw a car parked in front of  his house and he thought someone may have been stealing his belongings.   

 

Now I was the lone owner of two horses.  My Dad had been feeding and taking care of the them and I had not paid much attention. 

 

So the next day I went to the local feed store for advice.  I knew a brood mare and growing colt must need more than alfalfa. As I was purchasing a bag of pellets, I wondered if I was being gullible.  The store owner told me she had just what my horses needed. I even purchased a cheap scale to weigh the alfalfa I fed. I bought books on feeding horses and talked to everyone I could about feeding and horses in general.  I learned that every horse owner had different ideas. 

 

It was still summer and not suprisingly, very hot.  Lady always stood close to the house.  It was shady there.  It seemed she was always sleeping.  I didn't realize horses just stood around sleeping all day.  At that time, due to my very limited experience with horses, I didn't know that she was actually depressed. 

 

Of my few childhood encounters with horses, my first trail ride stands out in my mind, and not for good reasons.  It was during a family vacation at Bryce Canyon.  I was eight years old and on a big horse, who the trail guide referred to as "Wild Bill".   Going down that narrow trail in the canyon was bad enough, but I was riding "Wild Bill", which the trail guide kept reminding me.  I would have preferred trusting my own two feet.

Over the years, there were a few more trail rides at a local stable. And despite "Wild Bill", I grew up dreaming of owning a steed of my own.

 

My real love for horses came when I was thirteen years old.  I met a girl my age who owned a beautiful paint mare named Charlotte.  I had never known anyone who owned a horse. It was a short, blissful time in my life.  We would ride Charlotte every chance we got that summer.  We'd be gone all day, going out along the sandy washes in the Califiornia desert.  Riding double, riding single, walking...  Charlotte didn't seem like another species, she was like one of us girls.  I loved that horse and was thrilled when her owner told me  because I loved her so much, she considered Charlotte to be half mine.  But, my bliss ended when her family suddenly moved away to Oregon. I never heard from her again.

 

Wanting to be the best horse owner, I continued reading and asking other owners questions every chance I got.   Each night after work I would feed and spend time trying to build trust with Lady and rubbing and touching Pistol all over to get him use to human contact.  Which wasn't a problem.  Pistol loved to be scratched and rubbed.  

 

One evening while driving home I noticed the waterman was behind me. He was bringing me, what we who live in the desert consider more precious than gold, a load of water. Living where I do, you either had a well, or stored your water in an underground storage tank.  I had the latter of the two.

 

I had parked and just closed the gate behind me when the waterman pulled up.  I thought I would feed the horses first so they'd be occupied while I opened the gate. 

 

The horses were  always waiting  for me at the gate.  And on this day, they were happy to see me as usual.  Pistol always ran around excitedly, running past me, kicking out his legs. I was pretty sure he was still fine-tuning his aim.  Getting up the driveway was usually a challenge for me.  Many days I'd run from yucca to yucca, not wanting to play "chicken" with Pistol and not trusting his legs, which seemed to be constantly flying in my direction.  He'd kick out carelessly and come very close to making contact.  I know I was suppose to stand my ground and not show fear.  I did not want to test that theory. 

 

With the waterman sitting in his truck waiting and watching the show, I began walking up the driveway. Suddenly, I saw something  above my head.  It was Pistol's hoofs!  Before I could turn around, I felt his front  hoofs scrap against my back. I realized he had been on his hind legs. I flipped around  and saw him right behind me.  By then all four hoofs were on the ground.  I ran to take cover next to the closest yucca.  The waterman yelled out the window,  " grab a stick!" which I did to try to keep Pistol from getting too close to me again.  I eventually made it up the driveway, running from yucca to yucca.  I looked back and saw the waterman laughing and talking on his cell phone. He later told me he had been talking to his wife.  He had been sharing with her, what he who was sitting safely in his truck, thought was a very humorous escapade.