One Last Time

It's one o'clock, and I can't stop crying.

This morning I put Bugg on trailer, headed to new owners and a new life. The barn feels hollow, my view of our empty pasture is sad.

Her new owners have been wanting a Connemara for their grandkids to ride. A chance conversation over dinner a couple of months ago raised a possibility that today became reality.

Bugg's new home has other horses, regular trail rides, and two girls that want to see what possibilities exist. (My son learned to ride on Bugg's niece, Laurel.) It sounds ideal.

But it has been bittersweet.

The last several days I've been spending a lot of time with Bugg, re-playing the Parelli games, stripping out her winter coat, handling her feet. I was struck, time and again, by what a nice, nice pony she is. Sane, sensible, easy, kind. Since late 2008 the rhythm of my life's routine has been closely tied to her needs - daily feeding schedule, regular grooming, trying to keep her in work, blankets on and off during the bitter nights of winter. Mucking and scrubbing and hauling hay and scrutinizing grain. But she deserves better than the life of pasture candy, more opportunity to get out and about and have fun than I have been able - or willing - to provide.

I had high hopes, big dreams for us, when Bugg arrived two years ago. But having horses means having a having a horse-centric lifestyle, something I realized I'm never going to do.

While there are no regrets about Bugg's departure to better things, I do have disappointments. Two AI breedings that never took and now will never be repeated; there was a time when I would have sold my soul for a Go Bragh or Clearheart baby (and I'd have sold more than that for a good quality hard-colored colt by either one of them). Time and money and hopes never to be recovered - such is the lot of a horse breeder. Perhaps it's just as well, the horse market has been brutal the last few years. I'll never see the view of my dogs course hare from her back, or find out if I had the courage to learn to take fences despite my age (closer to 50 than 40).

Yesterday I was acutely aware of each thing being done for the last time. The last grooming, the last trim of her bridle path; the last time I'd rest my ear on her flank and listen to her healthy gut's gurgles. The last face rub; the last time our breaths would mingle as she nuzzled my cheek. The last time I'd scrub a water bucket, or throw hay, or dump grain into a pan. Once more I climbed on her back, Bugg's nose coming around to touch the tip of my boot before we moseyed around the paddock... for the last time.

As we walked out to the gate in the dawn's early light, Rick snapped a couple of pictures. She didn't mind that I interrupted her breakfast to put on a halter, and she liked the bits of apple as I led her out. She went on the trailer like she did it every day, rather than less than a dozen times in her life.

I treasure the lessons she taught me. Horses are smart, in their prey-animal ways. Bugg took to clicker training as easily as a dog, and better than most cats I've tried. But her run-or-be-eaten wiring challenged me to try harder, breath deeper, go slower. I trusted her with my life, as well. One day last year, while picking out her feet, my glasses fell off my face, somewhere under this 800 lb. animal with lightening reflexes and a keen sense of self preservation. Without thinking (foolish, foolish human that I am) I dropped to my hands and knees, feeling around in the straw bedding until I found my glasses. I pushed them up my nose and stood up - and then the stupidity of what I had just done struck me. Bugg was looking at me, one ear back, as if to say "silly biped, don't you know most horses would kill you for doing that?" She was right, of course, and all I had to offer was a cookie for her kindness.

It hasn't all been sunshine and roses, but that's more my failing than hers.

So this morning we took one last walk together: through the barn, down the driveway, between the trees, out the gate, into the morning's first rays of sunlight, and onto a truck. And I said a quick goodbye and gave her a slice of apple - for the last time - and sent her on her way.

Then sobbed all the way back to the house.

And then it was one o'clock and time to feed lunch; I'd walked halfway to the barn before I remembered, looking at the empty corral... and wiped away more tears as I turned away.

Godspeed, LoveBugg. And thank you.

Luck Runs Out - almost

I guess it's time to confess to a dirty little secret.

We have a beagle.

I've mentioned this hound a couple of times before, and after yesterday's trauma I suppose it's time to "reveal all".

This tale starts in early 2004 when the friend-of-a-friend asked for help if locating a beagle to adopt. At that time I had good connections with rescue and shelters (we lived elsewhere in NM at that time), so after clarifying the seeker's requirements (young adult, 15", altered, housebroken, good with kids), I put out my feelers. Over the course of a few months I screened several candidates, none fit the bill.

Until one day, a owner-surrender came across my radar.
To say that "Copper", as he was then called, was fat, is to make light of his girth. The dog was hugely obese, 56# in a 15" body. This, people, is what animal cruelty looks like. Obesity is easy to prevent, and puts incredible stresses on the body's joints and organs. It is mean and irresponsible to allow a dog - any animal - to eat so much that this becomes their condition.

At five years old.

I drove to Albuquerque, temperament tested the dog (with kids, food, toys, and basic husbandry), and found him charming and stable. I stepped outside, called the seeker, confirmed they wanted this dog, and bailed Copper out of the shelter and into my car.

Not the first time I'd brought home a rescue, not the last. But he turned out to be a rescue like no other. The old adage that "no good deed goes unpunished" may have flitted through my mind... I don't really remember.

I seem to recall it was a Thurdsay when I did this... the next day we all headed out of town for an agility trial, taking the new dog with us (he couldn't fly out until the next week as we were awaiting veterinary paperwork). Turned out Copper had a terrible vice: baying. Incessantly. The friends set up next to us at the agility trial actually moved to get away from the noise. We were pariahs all weekend.

No matter, he was leaving in a few days.

And leave he did, shipped out by air to his new owners, who had pined for a beagle for nearly three years.

And three days later I spoke to the new owners, to see how things were going. Oh, fine, they said. He's sweet and smart and the grandkids love him, but he's too tall so we're taking him to the shelter here.

Um, WTF? No, you're not. Read the contract, he comes back to me, on your nickle. No exceptions. (Too tall? Seriously? Whatever.)

So Copper was flown back to us - promptly dubbed "Boomerang" - and a new adventure began.

He arrived heavier than when he left - now a staggering 58#. Boomer was granted house privileges while we figured out how to place him again, and he relished in the new accommodations.

New Mexico Beagle Rescue was over-stuffed and unable to take him, so we agreed to foster Boomer until a new home was found. I took him back to the vet for a detailed exam (his initial trip had been to secure a Health Certificate so he could be flown out of state) - and we were shocked by what the vet found: bilateral subluxating patellas, lubo-sacral disease, and worst of all, a severe heart murmur. This was no longer a dog that could be placed in a pet home. We could return him to the shelter or keep him.

Hardly a choice at all.

So Boomer went on a diet. At that time Rick was the house-spouse, so Boomer joined the border collies on long daily walks in the 500 acre open-space behind us. A strict, high-quality diet, proper supplements, and countless miles later, a very attractive hound emerged:
This picture was taken just four months after Boomer went on a diet - still too heavy at 35#, but soooooo much better than he was.

There was, and still is, fall-out from his early years of being free-fed. Boomer had come to see food as his god-given right to consume at will. He counter surfs, steals food off the plate in front of you and sometimes out of your hand, walks on the dining table, tears open food bags, grocery bags, trash bags - anything that contains something remotely edible. Having a beagle has turned out to be a lifestyle, and one frankly that we don't particularly enjoy.

Boomer is also an escape artist - which he proved in spades yesterday and is actually the prompt of this post. One of my favorite stories involves my sister (and mostly because it [A] wasn't a failure on my part, and [B] it ended well) who came over to potty dogs while Rick and I were away for several hours. I had a HUGE sign posted, which she looked at after letting the dogs into the back yard. The sign said: do not let Boomer outside unsupervised. She ran into the back yard, only to discover Boomer was already gone. The sounds of screams from next door (we lived in suburbia at the time) drew her attention - Boomer had gone over the back wall, down a culvert, up the other side, through a neighbor's garage, into Vera's house via the cat door, and was eating her cat's food in her kitchen.

We bought Vera a bouquet of flowers.

Since moving to our Ranchero, keeping track of Boomer has become part art and part science. Because he digs (the only one of our dogs to do so), we have learned the hard way - repeatedly - that there's no such thing as a beagle-proof fence. He can go under, around, and through anything - and regularly does. Gates are no challenge. The dog-equipment industry has yet to invent a collar or harness that can contain him. (We should have named him Houdini.) Supervision is the only solution, as training (it took me three years and multiple attempts to get him to pass a CGC test) only works when you are vastly more interesting than some distant temptation. At night he wears a lighted collar and a bear-bell so we have some notion of where he is in the small dog-yard off the house.

This winter was harsh. We've had many many feet of snow and the ground has been frozen for four months.

We got sloppy about watching Boomer. By we, I mostly mean me.

Yesterday, just before lunch, I put Boomer out to potty, then the phone rang. I answered the phone and chatted for twenty minutes. Then it hit me. Fuck, Boomer's outside.

I grabbed a coat (it was howling wind) and dashed out the door - no Boomer in the dog yard. I stepped back in the mudroom, grabbed a leash, and headed to the barn. Boomer finds horse-poop irresistible, and has been known to break into Bugg's stall for a gorge-fest. It is, in fact, his preferred destination. This time - no Boomer. I knew I was in trouble.

After a quick survey of the rest of the ranchero, I went with the feeling in my gut: Boomer was off-property.

Fighting the panic rising in my system, I called Home Again and started printing flyers. I called all the neighbors (which covered 40 acres in 5 phone calls), let Rick know, and headed out the gate. I had posted four flyers and was was taping the fifth when the phone rang: A guy had Boomer in his garage, about 1/2 mile to the east.

Total elapsed time: a little over an hour.

Toll on my being: about 100 years.

While letting the microchip company know the dog was missing was the right thing to do, that isn't what got him back in my possession so quickly. It was the brass plate on his collar - home phone number, the word R E W A R D, and the microchip information. All of which is duplicated on his tags.

It was 15 degrees overnight; imagine if he'd been out all night. A 10 year old dog with cancer, not much body fat or coat. It was luck he didn't cross the main road, but stayed on "this" side, avoiding the traffic that routinely speeds down the hill. Boomer was trying to break into this guy's dogyard, where a bowl full of kibble is out all day for his own dogs. Thankfully the guy was home and heard the ruckus, caught Boomer easily, and checked the collar.

He wouldn't take the reward money I offered. Hey, I've got dogs, been there. No worries.

So now we have a hole under the fence to fill, gate mesh to extend, and I'm seriously considering electrifying the bottom interior of the dog yard. It already looks like a prison out there... hey, maybe I should consider concertina wire... No, I've got it: I'll train him to use a litterbox, so he'll never go out of the house again.

Yeah, right.

That is my confession. We have a beagle, and all too frequently he gets the better of us. Our first - and last - scenthound. A beloved member of our family, but... never again. One of these days his luck is going to run out, for good. And that will be very sad indeed.

Adios, 2009

What a year. Plans made, some executed, some abandoned.

A son sent off to college, now home for the holidays and easily mistaken for a man. I'm flabbergasted by how much more him he is - his good characteristics are even stronger.

The dogs had another banner year. Dot and Jake were retired, and Gin entered the field. Many trials were attended, the hounds earned some titles and national rankings, and much fun was had by all. I'm proud of them.

This time last year Bugg arrived, it's been a pleasurable education overall, having her here. We lost Mac and Junior this year, but have been joined by puppy Trek. Our pack is a compatible if diverse lot.

And although we lost my Uncle Doug in the spring, overall the family is happy and healthy and everyone's on affectionate speaking terms - a blessing.

Deepest appreciation to my many friends for a wonderful year. May 2010 be even better.

Hot damn

Electric fence - around here it's called "hot wire."

It's installed, it's working, I'm pleased as punch. Anthony helped me put in a bunch of extra t-posts (he got blisters, I wore gloves) and site the hole in the barn wall for the power cord, but I did it all myself. Now, I hope, Bugg will quit trashing the hundreds of dollars of field fence in search of - quite literally - green pasture.

And yes, I tested it on myself. Ouch.

Believe it or not

This is my very sweet and very white pony:

She loves mud as much as I hate it. I suspect her expression reflects her perspective of how much grooming will be involved to restore her to a presentable state.

Guess what expression is on MY face.

Gravity wins

Sooner or later, it was bound to happen.

The last couple of days the wind has been miserable, so Bugg hasn't been worked since Monday. Today is less windy and just above freezing, so back to "work" we went.

"Work" consists of a little grooming (enough to stay in the habit, not enough to pull out her winter coat), picking out her feet, then off to the round pen for some free-lounging to build muscle, play some Parelli games, and a little riding (bareback, rope halter and double-tied lead rope) to practice balance, seat, emergency stops, forward, backing, turns, leg yields, neck reining, etc.). Then ride back to the barn area for a quick brushing, followed by turn-out in the arena or pasture. She's regaining muscle tone and condition and I'm getting my seat back; we're up to about 45 minutes now.

To ensure Bugg doesn't pattern - or predict - our routine, coming out of the round pen varies. Sometimes we back out the gate, sometimes we walk around the outside of the pen, sometimes we ride out... variety is good. I have in mind to vary our routine getting from the barn area to the round pen as well, and today seemed like as good a day as any to start. So in addition to leaning over Bugg's back when I groomed her (standing on a mounting block) and occasionally swinging a leg over, I decided to ride her to the round pen today.

Unlike watching a child fall - which happens in slow motion - falling off a horse happens at full-speed. Which I did. Because I have occasional bouts of stupidity, I thought to ride past the round pen into a corner, then come back. Connemaras are know for being sensible, and to-date we've been successful with everything we've tried. However... Bugg broke into a trot, I asked her to stop, she didn't, I adjusted my legs downward (to remove all "forward" information from my seat), and while I tried to think through the mechanics of the emergency stop, my ass, back of my shoulders, then back of my head tha-wacked on the ground. I did hold onto the reins; Bugg whirled to a stop and looked at me, agog. "How on earth did you wind up down there, human?"

My back is sore, my ego is bruised, but my brains are just fine. Thank Gib for helmets (my old friend Gib works in helmet safety testing) that protect idiots like me from gravity. And yes of course, I got right back on the horse and rode her to the round pen, where we proceeded to burn off some of her pent-up jollies with free lounging before proceeding with any more riding.

Note to self: try variety after the safety parts of the routine have been confirmed. Because my seat at the trot clearly needs some practice.

Gettin' on a Groove Thang

This afternoon, strains of the song "Reunited" (by Peaches And Herb) kept going through my head, but my mood was so fine I didn't care. "Feels so good..." in particular.

Why, you ask? Because I've made my peace with Negative Reinforcement and its role in horse training, enabling me to make a lot of progress with Bugg this week. Since her arrival in December, Bugg has made it clear that she thinks she won the anti-lottery. OK she's got a new best buddy with a QH mare, Mouse (they have adjacent stalls and are turned out together), but the snow is not her favorite and the lack of humidity took some getting used to. And then there's this pesky human that keeps screwing up her life of leisure. Yes, that would be me.

For a while our daily routine was minor handling, just rubs all over with occasional treats. Her feet got picked out every day (still do), some days she was haltered and led around, and that was no big deal. Even playing the Friendly Game with either a lead rope or savvy string was no big deal. But the blanket - sorry, the monster on her back every evening - ooooooh, that sucks. The cold truth - pun fully intended - is that our California girl would freeze without her heavy waterproof blanket on every night. And some days, too. But Bugg made faces - tight lips, ears back, neck stiff - when it came time to put it on. After many weeks' work, she sometimes has to remember to look a little resentful when the blanket is brought into her stall.

In parallel to the blanket desensitization, I've been working on Parelli's Seven Games (you can read or watch, as you please). These use Negative Reinforcement (R-), which I avoid like the plauge in dog training. (Basically, it's applying a punisher until you get the right response, then removing the punisher. Icky stuff. And punishment is in the eye of the receiver...) It took a long conversation with my friend and mentor Jill to persuade me that R- (ie., pressure) has a place in working with prey animals, and that I would easily figure out how to switch to Positive Reinforcement (R+) and Negative Punishment (P-) as my skills improved. That gave me the confidence to plunge ahead.

The last few days there's been a new demand on her: round pen work at liberty. The idea is to get Bugg to build some muscle and understand pressure before we try trailriding. The first day I could get her to canter in one direction, only if I kept the pressure on and used a lounge whip. My neighbor (and friend, teacher, and coach) Elizabeth was able to get Bugg to go in both directions, and gave me some great pointers. She then gave me a challenge: Figure out how to keep Bugg at a trot (not a canter) and switch directions at will. With nothing in my hands.

I love challenges.

The second day we went back to the round pen, and I took a carrot stick with me. Once I got Bugg moving with the lounge whip (just the staff, the string was in my hand) I put it on the ground and switched to the carrot stick with string. Worked pretty well, better to one side than the other, but it was progress. I focused on her off-side and maintaining a trot.

The third day (yesterday) the weather sucked, really windy, getting cold, a front moving in. It was also late in the afternoon, so I thought I'd try and work Bugg in the arena on a lounge line. More or less OK to one side (with carrot stick) but hopless on her off-side. I asked Elizabeth for help, to show me the body position to use and talk me through it. Bugg wouldn't go to her off-side for Elizabeth either, so I decided to play "you win a prize!" and took Bugg back to the round pen. At liberty, I insisted she do a total of 10 circuits on her off-side, then quit. I'll spare you the analysis, but this appears to have been very successful. On the way back to the barn I played a clicker-game called "touch the monster" (basically a modified targeting game) to acclimate her to a mounting block. That went great.

So today - day four - I take Bugg out of the arena to the mounting block from yesterday. I stand on the mounting block and brush her, even leaning over and putting weight on her back to do the far side. Switched sides, same thing. She was a relaxed rock, wahoo. So off to the round pen. At liberty, I was able to ask her to go around at a trot, switch sides, switch again, and again, hold a trot for multiple complete circuits. My "off" switch needs a little work, and she did have one good burst of cantering that I didn't really ask for. But it was SO COOL to play with her and it felt great, like we both knew what the other was doing most of the time. So then I played the Porcupine Game with her, and just barely asked her to move her rear, both directions, very softly, and got instant responses. Perfect. So I tried one more thing, asking her to back straight up by putting my hand on the end of her muzzle. Wow, that worked the first time. I decided to quit while we were ridiculously ahead and get Bugg-a-boo her dinner.

OK, guess this R- stuff works, even for a non-believer like me. Tomorrow I'll try moving her front end by asking very softly, and see how that goes. And ask Elizabeth to set the next challenge. There's a new level of trust and understanding, and I believe we'll be dancing soon.

Despite the cheezy 70's love song.

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Tues's update: 19 degrees and snowing, so no round pen today. Oh well.

Homecoming Queen

She's here!!!

I'm pleased to introduce Bugg, an 11 year old Connemara Pony.

Bugg has been living in southern California for the past few years with my friends on their ranch as a broodmare. The realities of the economic decline have affected the equine markets, forcing us to leave her open this year; with no plans for her for '09 either, I decided to bring her here and put her back in work. My neighbor, Elizabeth, has been itching for somebody to do Parelli with and this is a perfect opportunity for both of us.

Despite 8" of new snow today and 15 degree temps, Melissa of BlackJack Transport got Bugg here before bedtime. Melissa fell in love with Bugg in just a few hours (Connemaras win a lot of converts); Bugg came off the trailer, looked at the snow, and walked the 200 yards through a mild blizzard to her new stall. Let's hear it for sane ponies!!

Welcome home, sweet Bugg-a-boo. We're gonna have a lot of fun.

The above photo is from June 2006. Nice extended trot, eh? New pictures once we have some daylight.