Welcome to what is known in the Chinese culture as “Ghost Month”. As we settle into the heat of August (finally!), I thought I would share something that I wrote when I was in Taiwan in 2005. It’s called “Feeding the Hungry Ghosts”:
The seventh month of the Chinese lunar calendar is known as ‘Ghost Month’. Rather than saying that ghosts do not exist or attempting to exorcise and banish them forever, the Chinese have traditionally ‘invited’ the spirits of the underworld to enter temporarily into the land of the living, for a month of gifts and feasts in their honour.
This celebration has a dual purpose. It gives the living a chance to honour their dead ancestors, and it acts as a sort of ‘insurance’ against paranormal acts of revenge. The hope is that if the ghosts are fêted with enough gifts and dinners, they will leave the humans alone for another year. (And we thought Halloween was cool.)
The first day of Ghost Month, which fell on August 5th this year, is known as the day when the Gates of Hades are opened, so that the spirits of the underworld are free to wander among the living. Families will have larger-than-usual meals all month long, and many leave empty chairs at the table for the dearly departed. It is difficult to tell how seriously the Chinese take this celebration. It is more like a superstition than an actual belief. In keeping with their adherence to numerology, lucky colors and other omens of good luck, the Chinese believe it is better to be safe than sorry.
On the fifteenth day of Ghost Month, Buddhists celebrate Putu, to preserve their karma for the afterlife. By honouring the dead on this day, which is loosely translated as ‘the day of deliverance’, they believe they are securing themselves a good standing in their next incarnation. They will ‘come back’ as something or someone better than they were in this life.
Followers of Taoism call this day Chung Yuan, or the Festival of the Hungry Ghost. The living refer to the spirits as ‘good buddies’, out of a mixture of reverence and fear. Taoists fashion paper houses and cars, clothes and special items that they will burn on this day, for their loved ones to use in the afterlife. Over 200,000 tonnes of fake ‘ghost money’ is burned in ornately carved barrels outside front doors every year in Taiwan, as a means of appeasing the ghosts and warding off bad luck. The Taipei City government challenged tradition this year when they introduced an incentive to cut down on the air pollution caused by the symbolic burning of ghost money. Specially designed bags were distributed to households, so that residents could send their fake money (labelled with the names of their intended ghosts) to the city incinerators. There is no word yet on how many people actually broke with tradition and chose to become environmentally friendly.
Along with symbolic gifts and feasts for their own honoured dead, many Chung Yuan participants will leave sacrificial offerings for the lonely ghosts who have no living relatives to care for them, to avoid being haunted and harassed by them in the future.
In Buddhist temple courtyards, huge tables are customarily laden with pigs, sheep, chicken, geese, fresh fruit and cakes. Beautiful lanterns hang on tall bamboo poles, lighting the way for the guests of honour from the spirit world. A statue of the King of Hell, Di Zang, sits in front of a sacrificial altar or chair. This display is often done at the gates of a village if no temple is available. The Buddhist priest sings solemn musical rites, and monks chant incantations known as ‘ghost music’, in a language known only to the spirit world. Finally, rice is thrown into the air in distribution to the lost souls.
At night, private households will keep incense burning outside. The more incense, the better the prosperity in the coming year. This festival makes Taiwan quite a fragrant place. The Chinese believe that the land and humans are ‘yang’, which is positive. Water and ghosts are ‘yin’, which is negative. Special floating lanterns are placed on the water to guide the ghosts back to the spirit world. School children spend hours creating these elaborate lanterns, in beautiful shapes like lotus flowers.
Businesses place elaborate displays at street level, outside their entrances, to ensure the ghosts won’t mess with their prosperity in the upcoming year. An altar is set up for the King of Hell (looks just like Buddha to me but what do I know?) and employees are given time to pray and burn incense in front of the altar, while singing along with special-guest monks. This is a sign of true prosperity, by the way, if your business has its own singing monks. Tables laden with everything from sports drink to dried squid snacks line the sidewalk. As explained to me by a Taiwanese colleague, the sacrificial offerings are distributed to employees at the end of the day.
The Chinese traditionally believe in reincarnation and so Ghost Month can be a dangerous time, as lost souls seek substitutes to take their place in Hell. There are several rules to follow during this time, such as:
1. Never Whistle. Whistling attracts ghosts, who may torment your household or try to steal your soul.
2. Don’t get married, start a new business or move house. This is just asking for trouble.
3. Do NOT speak ill of the dead. (Even if it’s true.) This will bring tears and heartache to your household.
4. Stay away from riverbanks and don't even THINK of going swimming. Water ghosts are always looking for someone to take their place.
5. Don’t bury anyone, because adding to the number of the dead is not a good idea.
On the thirtieth day of Ghost Month, (September 3rd this year), the Taoist priest chants liturgies and holds up a ‘seven star sword’ that lets ghosts know it is time to return to the underworld. When the gates are ‘shut’, the priest cups his ears to avoid being deafened by the wailing of the spirits who are lamenting their return to Hades. Until next year.
-30-
Friday, August 28, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Here comes the sun, little darlin'
The Farmer spent the evening sorting the lambs while I was away on a business trip with my day job. He sprayed red paint on the foreheads of the females and put them all together in one pen. Of course, he didn’t warn me about this detail before I went to the lambing area the next morning, so I received quite a shock. I was met at the door by an escapee lamb with something that looked like a gunshot wound on her forehead. Oh, my heart.
“Uh…there’s a lamb loose here,” I said.
“Does she have a red mark?” the Farmer asked. “It’s ok, she’s going out anyway. Let her go.”
But the lamb would have nothing to do with the open door to the field. And could you blame her? In her seven months of life she had never once been outside that room.
I grabbed my camera and headed outside. “You don’t need my help, do you? I want to get a picture of them when they step out the door for the first time,” I announced.
The Farmer muttered something incoherent, then climbed into the pen and started nudging lambs out into the aisle.
They weren’t going willingly. I waited outside for what seemed like a very long time, as the Farmer tried to coax the lambs out the door. “Stay out of sight,” he said. “If they see you, they won’t come out.”
I beg to differ. I bottle fed more than half of those lambs. Chances are if they saw me they would walk out without a fuss, I thought. But I obediently ducked behind the tree. Just then the Farmer growled and the few lambs that had been sniffing the threshold and blinking at the sun bolted forward onto the concrete ramp. That’s all it takes – one lamb goes and the rest follow. A stream of cumulus clouds with legs shuffled, ran and rolled down the ramp to the soft earth of the barnyard.
“Watch your camera case!” the Farmer warned.
“Where is it?” I asked, looking at the spot on the ledge where I had left it.
“It’s right there, on that lamb,” he said, sternly. Honestly, the man has no sense of humour some days.
When I saw the lamb running with my camera bag strapped around her neck and bouncing on her behind, I laughed so hard I nearly cried. It took a few moments to tackle her and retrieve my muddy bag. The sheep ran to the corner where the hay bales were piled. There they stopped. And sniffed. And baahed.
They had never felt or smelled the earth beneath their feet before. They had never had the warmth of the sun on their faces. I watched them as they blinked and bleated, huddled together, moving en masse like a swarm of white fluffy bees from one corner of the yard to the other.
The cows stood and watched from a distance. One brave lamb, one of my bottle babies, touched noses with Mocha, the yearling calf. Hopefully the presence of the cows will save them from predatory coyotes. We lost a sheep last week and I don’t want to lose another.
A few hours later I went back to check on my sheep. They were huddled together on the concrete ramp outside the lambing room.
“Aw, come on girls, you’ve got to go and eat,” I said.
“Oh don’t worry about them – they have eaten,” said the Farmer. As I looked around at where he was pointing, I could see they had leveled the weeds and plants in all corners of the barnyard. But they hadn’t made it out to the pasture yet. Perhaps tomorrow.
It was growing dark, and all the adult sheep were already in the barn. The lambs could hear them in there, talking on the other side of the wall. Soon they too would be looking for shelter.
I went into the hay storage, beside the turkey pen. I turned the light on and tried calling the lambs.
“Here, girls. Come in here. It’s nice in here.”
The Farmer looked at me. “Are you trying to get sheep to do what you want them to do? Are you nuts?”
I turned the light out and went to talk to the lambs. I squatted down and three little ones immediately padded over to touch their noses to mine. I had been their sole source of nourishment with my baby bottles of milk replacer, for the first eight weeks of their lives. They knew me.
“Listen. Girls. You have to go in that room over there. You will be safe there. And tomorrow, you have to go and get a good feed in that field. Ok?”
They looked at me with their glassy eyes. I knew they would sort it out, but still I worried.
And as I walked back to the house, I heard the coyotes calling to the setting sun.
-30-
“Uh…there’s a lamb loose here,” I said.
“Does she have a red mark?” the Farmer asked. “It’s ok, she’s going out anyway. Let her go.”
But the lamb would have nothing to do with the open door to the field. And could you blame her? In her seven months of life she had never once been outside that room.
I grabbed my camera and headed outside. “You don’t need my help, do you? I want to get a picture of them when they step out the door for the first time,” I announced.
The Farmer muttered something incoherent, then climbed into the pen and started nudging lambs out into the aisle.
They weren’t going willingly. I waited outside for what seemed like a very long time, as the Farmer tried to coax the lambs out the door. “Stay out of sight,” he said. “If they see you, they won’t come out.”
I beg to differ. I bottle fed more than half of those lambs. Chances are if they saw me they would walk out without a fuss, I thought. But I obediently ducked behind the tree. Just then the Farmer growled and the few lambs that had been sniffing the threshold and blinking at the sun bolted forward onto the concrete ramp. That’s all it takes – one lamb goes and the rest follow. A stream of cumulus clouds with legs shuffled, ran and rolled down the ramp to the soft earth of the barnyard.
“Watch your camera case!” the Farmer warned.
“Where is it?” I asked, looking at the spot on the ledge where I had left it.
“It’s right there, on that lamb,” he said, sternly. Honestly, the man has no sense of humour some days.
When I saw the lamb running with my camera bag strapped around her neck and bouncing on her behind, I laughed so hard I nearly cried. It took a few moments to tackle her and retrieve my muddy bag. The sheep ran to the corner where the hay bales were piled. There they stopped. And sniffed. And baahed.
They had never felt or smelled the earth beneath their feet before. They had never had the warmth of the sun on their faces. I watched them as they blinked and bleated, huddled together, moving en masse like a swarm of white fluffy bees from one corner of the yard to the other.
The cows stood and watched from a distance. One brave lamb, one of my bottle babies, touched noses with Mocha, the yearling calf. Hopefully the presence of the cows will save them from predatory coyotes. We lost a sheep last week and I don’t want to lose another.
A few hours later I went back to check on my sheep. They were huddled together on the concrete ramp outside the lambing room.
“Aw, come on girls, you’ve got to go and eat,” I said.
“Oh don’t worry about them – they have eaten,” said the Farmer. As I looked around at where he was pointing, I could see they had leveled the weeds and plants in all corners of the barnyard. But they hadn’t made it out to the pasture yet. Perhaps tomorrow.
It was growing dark, and all the adult sheep were already in the barn. The lambs could hear them in there, talking on the other side of the wall. Soon they too would be looking for shelter.
I went into the hay storage, beside the turkey pen. I turned the light on and tried calling the lambs.
“Here, girls. Come in here. It’s nice in here.”
The Farmer looked at me. “Are you trying to get sheep to do what you want them to do? Are you nuts?”
I turned the light out and went to talk to the lambs. I squatted down and three little ones immediately padded over to touch their noses to mine. I had been their sole source of nourishment with my baby bottles of milk replacer, for the first eight weeks of their lives. They knew me.
“Listen. Girls. You have to go in that room over there. You will be safe there. And tomorrow, you have to go and get a good feed in that field. Ok?”
They looked at me with their glassy eyes. I knew they would sort it out, but still I worried.
And as I walked back to the house, I heard the coyotes calling to the setting sun.
-30-
The eternal holiday
Normally by the 1st of May or so we are able to sleep in past 6am. We wander out to the barn once a day to make sure there is nothing amiss, but we don’t have to do a whole lot of hands-on caring for the animals. They have been weaned, medicated, and kicked out of the lambing pens. We are basically on holiday from our farm work, except for tending the garden and doing some minor maintenance. But this year, we are at August 1st and I am still trudging out to the barn in the mornings, my eyes barely open, to feed the fattest-assed lambs you have ever seen.
We were expecting 80 to 100 lambs this year, from our 44 ewes-in-waiting. Last year each ewe had at least two – and some had three or four lambs. But after a rainy summer of 2008 that yielded moldy hay, Mama Nature decided to cut back. The ewes didn’t have more than one or two lambs this winter, and they rarely got to keep more than one. We lost a lot of lambs, due to the cold snap in February and the poor hay, which equals poor milk. We ended up with only 30 lambs surviving. It was incredibly depressing. I was ready to turn in my lamb-feeding bottles for good.
Since we had so few lambs for our efforts, we didn’t want to lose any more to viruses, parasites or any other mysterious ailments that always seem to strike a few of them down when they are first turned out of the barn. So we kept them in. Some of them have been in there for seven months now.
The ewes went into confinement just before Christmas. The first twins were born New Year’s Day, and the next bunch started January 18. They kept coming for the next month or so, as we battled day and night to keep them alive. The Farmer built them an infirmary playpen in the basement. I ran home on my lunch hour to bottle feed orphans. We warmed the frozen ones in a blanket in the bathroom, over the furnace vent.
It was exhausting. By April, things were fairly well under control. We stopped losing lambs, as we had found a combination of whole-grain corn and molasses-laced sweet feed that seemed to supplement the dusty hay quite well. We even taught our two youngest lambs to self-feed from calf bottles strapped to the side of the pen. I’m going to try that on a larger scale next year.
Now when I go into the barn at night, I am sure to carry a flashlight. Not because I don’t know my way to the light switch by now, but because I might get bowled over by a huge lamb – with horns – that is lurking in the aisle after having stepped out of its pen. After seven months, layers of hay and manure have accumulated to elevate the lambs so that they are on raised platforms. The walls of the pen are easy to step over now. They look like they are doing the hokey-pokey. “I put my right hoof in, I put my right hoof out…”
When they see me moving toward the old freezer that holds the sweet feed, they get frantic. They are hooked on that stuff, big time. After filling the feeders with fresh hay – beginning with the big pen on the right, then the one across the aisle, then the smaller ones at the back of the barn (always in the same order), the bawling begins. They know my routine. When that last feeder is stuffed, they know the sweet feed is coming next. I quickly sprinkle a pailful of sweet feed over each pile of hay. They climb on top of each other to get it. Eventually they each get their snout into some, and the noise stops. Except for the one lamb who grunts while he eats. He has to work on his table manners.
While they are chowing down, I fill their water buckets. Then I often have to climb up onto the bales – I use a stepladder for this, to knock some more hay down for the next feeding. By now I am sweating, my clothes are full of hay, my hair is a halo of dust, mosquitoes and damp wool, and I am tired. This has been my main source of exercise all spring and summer.
It is all about to end. The lambs are going on an eternal holiday. The males ones, anyway. I have not named them. Unfortunately, I know some of them without names. I recognize the one who came on stage with me at the Literary Follies. He gets his fat head stuck in the feeder every day now and lies there waiting for me to free him. I know the New Year twins. They have horns and are the biggest of the bunch.
And then there is the full male. He was never castrated, and his tail was never bobbed, because we didn’t think he would make it past his first few days. But we kept him in our basement infirmary and fed him stolen colostrum until he was strong enough to return to the barn. I am hoping that someone will buy him and start their own herd with him as their ram.
In any case, the boys are going to market on Monday morning. They are getting a free pass to the Greek Festival, if you catch my drift. We will keep the girls, medicate them against parasites, and put them out on the pasture next week.
I can’t wait to see their little faces when they feel the warmth of the sun and smell the fresh green grass for the first time.
And then my holiday will begin.
We were expecting 80 to 100 lambs this year, from our 44 ewes-in-waiting. Last year each ewe had at least two – and some had three or four lambs. But after a rainy summer of 2008 that yielded moldy hay, Mama Nature decided to cut back. The ewes didn’t have more than one or two lambs this winter, and they rarely got to keep more than one. We lost a lot of lambs, due to the cold snap in February and the poor hay, which equals poor milk. We ended up with only 30 lambs surviving. It was incredibly depressing. I was ready to turn in my lamb-feeding bottles for good.
Since we had so few lambs for our efforts, we didn’t want to lose any more to viruses, parasites or any other mysterious ailments that always seem to strike a few of them down when they are first turned out of the barn. So we kept them in. Some of them have been in there for seven months now.
The ewes went into confinement just before Christmas. The first twins were born New Year’s Day, and the next bunch started January 18. They kept coming for the next month or so, as we battled day and night to keep them alive. The Farmer built them an infirmary playpen in the basement. I ran home on my lunch hour to bottle feed orphans. We warmed the frozen ones in a blanket in the bathroom, over the furnace vent.
It was exhausting. By April, things were fairly well under control. We stopped losing lambs, as we had found a combination of whole-grain corn and molasses-laced sweet feed that seemed to supplement the dusty hay quite well. We even taught our two youngest lambs to self-feed from calf bottles strapped to the side of the pen. I’m going to try that on a larger scale next year.
Now when I go into the barn at night, I am sure to carry a flashlight. Not because I don’t know my way to the light switch by now, but because I might get bowled over by a huge lamb – with horns – that is lurking in the aisle after having stepped out of its pen. After seven months, layers of hay and manure have accumulated to elevate the lambs so that they are on raised platforms. The walls of the pen are easy to step over now. They look like they are doing the hokey-pokey. “I put my right hoof in, I put my right hoof out…”
When they see me moving toward the old freezer that holds the sweet feed, they get frantic. They are hooked on that stuff, big time. After filling the feeders with fresh hay – beginning with the big pen on the right, then the one across the aisle, then the smaller ones at the back of the barn (always in the same order), the bawling begins. They know my routine. When that last feeder is stuffed, they know the sweet feed is coming next. I quickly sprinkle a pailful of sweet feed over each pile of hay. They climb on top of each other to get it. Eventually they each get their snout into some, and the noise stops. Except for the one lamb who grunts while he eats. He has to work on his table manners.
While they are chowing down, I fill their water buckets. Then I often have to climb up onto the bales – I use a stepladder for this, to knock some more hay down for the next feeding. By now I am sweating, my clothes are full of hay, my hair is a halo of dust, mosquitoes and damp wool, and I am tired. This has been my main source of exercise all spring and summer.
It is all about to end. The lambs are going on an eternal holiday. The males ones, anyway. I have not named them. Unfortunately, I know some of them without names. I recognize the one who came on stage with me at the Literary Follies. He gets his fat head stuck in the feeder every day now and lies there waiting for me to free him. I know the New Year twins. They have horns and are the biggest of the bunch.
And then there is the full male. He was never castrated, and his tail was never bobbed, because we didn’t think he would make it past his first few days. But we kept him in our basement infirmary and fed him stolen colostrum until he was strong enough to return to the barn. I am hoping that someone will buy him and start their own herd with him as their ram.
In any case, the boys are going to market on Monday morning. They are getting a free pass to the Greek Festival, if you catch my drift. We will keep the girls, medicate them against parasites, and put them out on the pasture next week.
I can’t wait to see their little faces when they feel the warmth of the sun and smell the fresh green grass for the first time.
And then my holiday will begin.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
A Pedicure for the Belgians: No Small Feat
Ashley and Misty, our two Belgian horses, spend their days wandering, trotting and occasionally gamboling over the rocky glacial moraine in our pasture. Two months after the snow melted, we began to notice splits in their hooves. They were long overdue for a hoof trimming. The Farmer was making his usual trek to Timmie’s one morning when he noticed the Hearthstone Farrier Services’ truck. He walked right up to Dale Gladwin, took his card and made an appointment. He made sure to warn the farrier that we had very big girls.
On the big day, the horses began to whinny as Dale backed his trailer up to the stable and hopped out. I noted that this man, who would soon attempt to manhandle over 3600 lbs of Belgian heavy horse, was no taller than me.
The Farmer had secured the girls in their tie stalls, where they were eating their breakfast corn and hay. Their jaws stopped simultaneously when they saw Dale. The Farmer had cleared out the main area of the stable, outside the stalls. The girls watched as he fastened cross ties to either side of the room and stood with arms outstretched to measure the distance. Ashley snorted in commentary.
“So you want to go first, do you, girl?” the Farmer responded. Ashley allowed herself to be led out of her stall and clipped into the chains. She tugged on them gently to test their strength, then relaxed and set her gaze on Dale.
The farrier spoke in soft tones as he let the horse sniff his gloves. He asked her if she had a sore foot. Ashley shifted her weight nervously. She turned to bite at a fly on her side but the chains restricted her movement. She met my eyes and snorted.
“It’s ok, girl,” I said, and sprayed her down with repellent so that she wouldn’t fuss as much. Dale ran his hand down her front leg and tugged on the fur at the fetlock. The hoof lifted, easy as pie. He turned to straddle the leg and bent it up between his knees, exposing the underside of the hoof. As he reached for his clippers, Ashley stiffened and pulled her foot back out of his grip. He scolded her gently, and repeated the process. Several times. He suggested I feed her a bit of corn: anything to distract her. I held the corn bowl under her nose and she slurped at it, dropping wet grain onto his back, in his hair and down the neck of his shirt. Finally he was able to clip her hoof, brush the soft frog pad underneath, and check for any damage. By this time he was covered in sweat. And wet corn.
Next he pushed his tool block under Ashley’s nose and firmly pulled her leg out in front of her to rest upon it. With her leg extended like that, she looked like a spa client ready to have her toenails polished. As Dale straddled her foot once more to file her hoof, she quickly pulled it back from him, tossing him into the hay. I shot a glance to see if he would lose his temper. He just picked himself up, brushed himself off and walked in a big circle, muttering under his breath.
This painstaking process continued until all of Ashley’s hooves had been nicely cleaned, trimmed and shaped. When she refused to move, he gently tapped at her ankle until it annoyed her enough to lift her foot. It only took about an hour and a half…I told her how pretty she was and she snorted at me.
Next customer! Misty was nervous from the get-go, after watching Ashley fussing about. She broke her cross ties in the first five minutes. We refastened her and the Farmer and I each held a lead tied to her halter as back-up. Then we watched as she flung the farrier into the hay, again and again.
“Okay sweetheart. I know you’re stronger than I am,” he cajoled, “now be a good girl and give me your foot.”
Nothing doing. He tapped her ankles. She shifted her weight. He massaged and pulled at her leg. She just turned and looked at him. I tried to distract her with corn and she just took the bowl in her teeth and threw it across the room. Soon the Farmer had an idea. He slid a piece of plywood under the horse’s hoof, and the farrier chipped at her hoof with a chisel. And that’s how we got Misty’s front hooves trimmed. By the time he moved to the back hooves, however, Misty was losing all patience. And even a gentle horse might turn to kicking if her usual fussiness doesn’t work. So he called it a day. Two hours, and six out of eight hooves trimmed. Not bad for our first time.
After splashing his face and downing a glass of ice water, Dale gave us our bill. We were amazed that he had only charged for a regular trim, even though the job had taken two hours.
“You have to charge us more for your time,” the Farmer said.
“No – I consider it an investment,” Dale replied. I was amazed that he agreed to come back in another eight weeks. We thanked him and promised to do our homework
The next day I tried to lift Misty’s hoof using the lead rope as a sling, the way Dale had taught us. She flung me into a still-warm pile of manure and I made a mental note to muck out the stalls before trying such foolishness in the future.
On the big day, the horses began to whinny as Dale backed his trailer up to the stable and hopped out. I noted that this man, who would soon attempt to manhandle over 3600 lbs of Belgian heavy horse, was no taller than me.
The Farmer had secured the girls in their tie stalls, where they were eating their breakfast corn and hay. Their jaws stopped simultaneously when they saw Dale. The Farmer had cleared out the main area of the stable, outside the stalls. The girls watched as he fastened cross ties to either side of the room and stood with arms outstretched to measure the distance. Ashley snorted in commentary.
“So you want to go first, do you, girl?” the Farmer responded. Ashley allowed herself to be led out of her stall and clipped into the chains. She tugged on them gently to test their strength, then relaxed and set her gaze on Dale.
The farrier spoke in soft tones as he let the horse sniff his gloves. He asked her if she had a sore foot. Ashley shifted her weight nervously. She turned to bite at a fly on her side but the chains restricted her movement. She met my eyes and snorted.
“It’s ok, girl,” I said, and sprayed her down with repellent so that she wouldn’t fuss as much. Dale ran his hand down her front leg and tugged on the fur at the fetlock. The hoof lifted, easy as pie. He turned to straddle the leg and bent it up between his knees, exposing the underside of the hoof. As he reached for his clippers, Ashley stiffened and pulled her foot back out of his grip. He scolded her gently, and repeated the process. Several times. He suggested I feed her a bit of corn: anything to distract her. I held the corn bowl under her nose and she slurped at it, dropping wet grain onto his back, in his hair and down the neck of his shirt. Finally he was able to clip her hoof, brush the soft frog pad underneath, and check for any damage. By this time he was covered in sweat. And wet corn.
Next he pushed his tool block under Ashley’s nose and firmly pulled her leg out in front of her to rest upon it. With her leg extended like that, she looked like a spa client ready to have her toenails polished. As Dale straddled her foot once more to file her hoof, she quickly pulled it back from him, tossing him into the hay. I shot a glance to see if he would lose his temper. He just picked himself up, brushed himself off and walked in a big circle, muttering under his breath.
This painstaking process continued until all of Ashley’s hooves had been nicely cleaned, trimmed and shaped. When she refused to move, he gently tapped at her ankle until it annoyed her enough to lift her foot. It only took about an hour and a half…I told her how pretty she was and she snorted at me.
Next customer! Misty was nervous from the get-go, after watching Ashley fussing about. She broke her cross ties in the first five minutes. We refastened her and the Farmer and I each held a lead tied to her halter as back-up. Then we watched as she flung the farrier into the hay, again and again.
“Okay sweetheart. I know you’re stronger than I am,” he cajoled, “now be a good girl and give me your foot.”
Nothing doing. He tapped her ankles. She shifted her weight. He massaged and pulled at her leg. She just turned and looked at him. I tried to distract her with corn and she just took the bowl in her teeth and threw it across the room. Soon the Farmer had an idea. He slid a piece of plywood under the horse’s hoof, and the farrier chipped at her hoof with a chisel. And that’s how we got Misty’s front hooves trimmed. By the time he moved to the back hooves, however, Misty was losing all patience. And even a gentle horse might turn to kicking if her usual fussiness doesn’t work. So he called it a day. Two hours, and six out of eight hooves trimmed. Not bad for our first time.
After splashing his face and downing a glass of ice water, Dale gave us our bill. We were amazed that he had only charged for a regular trim, even though the job had taken two hours.
“You have to charge us more for your time,” the Farmer said.
“No – I consider it an investment,” Dale replied. I was amazed that he agreed to come back in another eight weeks. We thanked him and promised to do our homework
The next day I tried to lift Misty’s hoof using the lead rope as a sling, the way Dale had taught us. She flung me into a still-warm pile of manure and I made a mental note to muck out the stalls before trying such foolishness in the future.
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