Stable Eyes
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Lesson Learned It wasn’t fair! Just because
I left a pitchfork out I had to do all the evening chores by myself while the
rest of the family went to Cousin Joey’s birthday party in town.
At the age of thirteen, I couldn’t see what the big fuss was about.
It wasn’t like we didn’t have more than one pitchfork.
Nobody stepped on it. It
wasn’t lost. What was the big
deal? Responsibility is not easy to
teach or learn. It is an incremental
molding of character. A major facet
of mine was developed that day.
“So what?” I said out
loud, snorting through my nose and watching the cloud of vapor hang in the
frigid air. “I can handle this. My
cousins are all just a bunch of city slickers anyway.”
A feeling of arrogance and pride began to swell inside me as I started
the chores. Fifteen stalls to
muck, fifteen hay mangers to fill, fifteen different feed rations and
supplements to set up. I had peeled
two layers of clothing by the time I headed to the gate where Applesauce and
Misty were already waiting. “Afraid you’d be left out
all night?” I stroked Misty’s face, and then reached over to Applesauce.
“Applesauce, you’re just always ready for food,” I chided and
rubbed his neck so the layer of fat along the top crest wobbled back and forth.
Horses were not just animals to me. They
were not just a means of income. They
were better than friends. They were
my children and my teachers all rolled up in individual personalities.
I pulled off my gloves, and putting my fingers against my lips and tongue
let out a long, shrill whistle that ripped through the air and seemed to disrupt
the pristine whiteness of the bare, snow covered mountain.
I heard the dull thunder of hooves and turned to open the gate, not
appreciating the majestic
spectacle of flying snow, manes and tails approaching.
I was closing Misty’s
stall door behind her as the other horses poured in and filed into their stalls.
All except the new horse, Candy, who trotted up and down the isle heeding
warnings from the other horses not to enter their stalls, but not knowing where
she was supposed to go. “You’ll
figure it out, there’s only one stall empty,” I cooed encouragingly as I
latched the other stalls. Looking up
however, I gasped as I saw her dart into the last stall on the right.
That was Twister’s
stall. Twister was my favorite, but
years of abuse and neglect had left him aggressive and mean toward other horses,
especially around food. I grabbed
Candy’s halter and ran down the isle, expecting to hear squeals and hooves
clashing. But as I approached all I
heard was Candy contentedly munching feed. Twister
was not there. As I secured Candy in her proper stall the full impact of the situation
hit me in the gut. Our property was
50 acres fenced in barbed wire with a ravine bordering the south side.
Much larger farms bordered it on all the other sides.
Our closest neighbor was 4 miles away; the temperature would drop far
below zero degrees that night; and I was all alone.
I went to the fence and let out another shrill whistle.
Not surprisingly, I could hear nothing over the sound of my heart
pounding. I decided to go call my
parents before starting to search the fence line.
Then I heard a whinny. Not a
whinny like a morning greeting, but a shrill, panicked whinny.
Where was it coming from? I
ran about 20 yards past the gate, stopped and listened.
Up ahead, toward my right I heard Twister’s shrill cry again and heard
him thrashing in the woods. I raced
toward the sound.
I knew it was bad even
before I saw him. Horses are herd
creatures and he would not be out here unless he was trapped or injured.
I slowed as I neared him, not wanting to frighten him.
He was standing up, tossing his head, but as he tried to move forward,
his right hind leg jerked him back. He
was right on the property
line and I immediately thought of the barbed wire fence, even before I saw the
red snow. I will never understand
how he managed to get so entwined. The
bottom strand of barbed wire was across the top strand and his leg was caught
between the two. The bottom strand
was on the inside of his leg, the top strand on the outside, halfway up his leg
around the hock joint. The wires
were pulled tight and the barbs were cutting into the inside of the joint.
He lunged again and the barbs sank deeper into his flesh. “Whoa now, whoa boy,” I tried to comfort him.
I ran my hands along his neck, feeling the wet sweat.
I proceeded across his loins which were trembling and then
very carefully down his leg. The
wire was imbedded into his skin. I
tried to separate the strands and pull it away from his leg, my frozen hands
trembling. I remember the warmth of
his blood as it covered them, but they still trembled.
No matter how hard I tried, the wire would not give.
I needed wire cutters. I told
him to stay, to be calm, that I would be back, knowing all the while he could
understand nothing. Not to startle
him, I slowly backed away saying, “whoa, whoa, whoa.”
Once I was about eight feet from him he started rocking back and forth
against the wire’s snare in a motion that was slowly sawing his leg off.
I turned and ran as fast as I could.
The wire cutters were on
the peg board in the top of the barn, right where they were supposed to be.
I flew to the top drawer of the supply cabinet where rolls of gauze and
bandages were neatly arranged, and stuffed some in my pocket.
Next I grabbed a halter and lead, and then headed back up across the
field. It took an eternity to reach him. The
heavy snow boots weighted my feet and the snow sucked them into the ground.
My chest was throbbing, but all I was thinking about was Twister and
getting him out of that wire. I
slowed as I approached him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
His head hung low as he rocked against grip of the wire.
I slipped the halter over his head and spoke soothingly to him.
The wire cutters barely made a dent in the wire on the first try.
I squeezed with all my might and tried to work the wire back and forth
without sending it deeper into his flesh. The
blood was now starting to spurt. I
cursed the wire. Barbed wire can be
a safe and humane fencing, but only if it is properly maintained and kept very taunt. Routinely
walking the fence line was a time consuming chore.
With the shorter days and cold winter weather it hadn’t been done for
several weeks. I squeezed and
squeezed and worked the pliers back and forth and right and left.
The blood was everywhere. Perspiration
and tears ran down my face. After
all Twister had been through, to die like this, once again tortured by human
irresponsibility, “Oh Twister, I’m so sorry,” I sobbed.
Finally the wire cutters broke through the wire and I was able to untwist
it and peel it out of his skin. I
took the rolls of gauze and started wrapping them around his leg as tightly as I
could. Slowly, I led him across the field. He
drug the leg, leaving a line through the snow marked with red dots as the blood
was already coming through the bandage. As
we neared the barn I saw headlights pulling in the driveway.
Seeing the lights still on in the barn and sensing something was wrong,
my parents came running from the car. “ My mother and I worked on him continuously while waiting for the vet.
We alternated keeping pressure on it, replacing blood soaked bandages,
keeping him covered with dry blankets, trying to syringe water and electrolytes
down his throat. The vet worked on
him for another two hours. Forty
seven stitches later, we had done all we could do.
The muscles and tendons were so severely torn he would never be 100%
sound again, but he was going to make it. Without being asked or told that it was my responsibility, I took full
charge of his recovery for the following month: hand walking, keeping his stall
spotless, changing the dressing twice a day, administering medication, and
alternating “buddies” to keep stabled next to him so his confinement would
not be too stressful. My mother
never said, “Now you see why walking the fence line is an important
responsibility.” She never said,
“Weren’t you glad the wire cutters were where they belonged?”
She didn’t have to. Responsibility
is not effectively taught, and rarely learned through words.
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