Life With Archie: midlife with horse

Rain Rot

Archie came with spots. The vet who checked him out looked at them closely, peering at their bright red concentric circles on  his darker red summer coat and pronounced it Rain Rot. Rain Rot? Healed fungal spots had come back a brighter shade, giving him a curious counter- appaloosa shading. Fortunately all this evened out by mid July. Unfortunately, it came back.  By August, Archie had a sore bum and a cure was hard to find.

Home remedies suggested were vinegar and mineral oil but what I read on the internet said "let it dry" and mineral oil seemed counter productive. Plus, it was clear from the way stalwart Archie wiggled when I curried his sore bum, it hurt. A visit to Tractor Supply offered a confusing selection of miracle cures; Cowboy Magic, Cowboy Magic Krud Buster (I did like the sound of that--magnificent branding),  Muck Itch Skin Saver and some serious looking bottles identifying themselves as medical treatment of almost anything that appears on your horse's skin, besides eyeballs.  Treatment on each was a five day daily application, which generally used nearly a bottle of the stuff which came no cheaper than thirty bucks.

I bought the serious medical shampoo and spent five days applying it and picking gross scabs, watching in horror as they revealed oozing sores on my poor pony's back and boiling brushes, tack and my hands. I would have boiled Archie if I could have managed it.  Still, little progress and it spread to his forelegs (where apparently Rain Rot, becomes Mud Fever or Greasy Heel) in small hard little imbedded pellets, impossible to pick. Yuck.

Heather suggested a Betadine scrub and I used that for five days-twice. It did seem to slow things down but Archie's skin started to look like the before picture in a bad dandruff ad. I went back to a moisture shampoo to counteract the anti-moisture shampoo. Then I went to the vets-who sent me home with $60 worth of Uniprim which Archie gobbled up but quickly acted to gobble up his sores. One by one they flaked off (with some powerful currying from powerful me) and quickly healed over.  Yesterday Heather gave me a lovely Oster round brush that returned his pebbly legs to sleek. 

The thing about Rain Rot is--it comes back. Next year I am going to be ready. I have read everything I can on it and have a favorite page full of remedies which I look forward to trying--in order of appearance. I am particularly intrigued by the one suggesting you gargle with Listerine and then apply to horse. My English friend swears by a product enticingly called, Ranvet White Healer Cream (and if only available in the UK or Australia, which if you add in the plane fare, makes it rather more expensive than Cowboy Krudbuster) and suggests I also pick up a pot of Pottie's Green Ointment as chaser. There is the possibility that Archie's bout with malnourishment back in Kansas might be a contributer to his Rain Rot plight and I am also extremely attracted to the addition of some marvelous sounding "ration balancer" called "Buckeye's Gro N Win" on the logic of feeding my all-American quarter horse an all-American product to do battle with his all-American Rain Rot.

I think I'll buy the poor horse a rain sheet, too. Some cow pony.

Horse Stuff

Okay. Grey horse (sadly) gone. Red horse here. Now what? Archie seems pretty amiable and easy to please, but history unknown (an orphan from Kansas)--who knows?

He seems happy to have humans around him (thumbs up) suffers his daily groom- and -tack -up cheerfully, and gratefully accepts peppermint healthy horse treats without cheekiness.

Heather advises a baby snaffle bit for him with lots of room for play. The  full horse-sized bridle I'd bought for Hobbs is a bit roomy on him but will do for the present. There are only so many bridles a person can buy in period of two weeks. Archie stands patiently while I put everything on the shortest hole. One rainy day I traveled  to Dover, New Hampshire to buy an all -weather very reasonably priced Thorogood saddle which is ever so adjustable for the horse owner who may discover her thin horse has become a wide horse, and amusingly played witness to a saddle -buying ten year old whose mother phone- snapped photos to the girl's absentee trainer. The salesperson started them out with a $300 sale Wintec. Seven phone snap nays later, they went home with a $3000 Pessoa.  

Archie seems amenable to all. I bought some must- haves: wound salve, velcro brushing boots, a  plaid (very Scottish) Baker fly sheet and  s set of Heather- recommended  super comfy pair of stirrups (thoughtfully peaceful with my creaky knees). I grabbed a bottle of Absorbine on the way out because I love the smell and although it's horse liniment,  Archie is the kind of guy who will share.

Tab thus far? Not bad. I'd had my vintage Stubben saddle (too small) restored and hope to sell it on for a bit of profit as it looks pretty good after all these years. Vet? $300 soundness trial and vaccinations. Heather and I reached an agreement above Archie's board as he eats a LOT and apparently needs it--so all the hay he can eat was factored in. Where it went, wasn't. Talk about horse poop. In the stall, in the field, in the ring and sometimes in the aisle. Gross.  How to balance what goes in with, what goes out?

Archie, Archie, Archie

So--the first step in getting a new horse after having just gotten a new horse, and having had to give up not only the horse, but also all the Karma that goes with naming it--is naming it. Heather's barn is full of enthusiastic ten year olds with good ideas. "Silver" (the pony is red), "Feather" and my favorite, from the little girl who probably rides my new pony better than I do, "Golden Archway." I named him Archie.

And Archie stuck. His first two weeks he was Horse until I was certain he had all the Archie attributes. Heather  insisted he have a show name even though my ambitions probably extend no farther than competing in the egg and spoon race at a  local gymkhana, so I named him Sea Buckthorn which is a tenacious sea bush that is used extensively in Scotland to hold the dunes. It is thick, has prickers, and sports bright orange berries in the fall, shortly before they sour. Archie is sometimes orange.

I like Scotland. It works. Archie it is. Arrrrrchie!

Trading Places

  The Cowboy stood in the ring while his riders demo'd horses for prospective buyers. Apparently the format was thus: you strolled the stalls and wrote down the numbers of the horses you were interested in, sort of like choosing sushi, only you get horse instead of California Roll. One of the Cowboy's riders would emerge racing out of the stable, on board the chosen one, gallop it around for a bit, and if you cared to try the animal, you did the same. If you wanted to see more, you gave the Cowboy a nod and he hollered, "Bring out another one!" and expected to see the next horse galloping out pronto. 

This was fun. I wrote down the numbers of four I liked but not the cute pinto across the way. I rode a  skinny chestnut who was very sweet and obliging, then sent him packing, and "Bring out another one!" produced in order; a  lazy bright bay, a  bullish black and a dark bay who made me think.  They were all quarter horses, all picked up at sales in Kansas.  I had never been interested in quarter horses. Ever. They made me think of--cows.

It had been a very long day. I still couldn't wrap myself around the idea of buying a quarter horse when I had my fantasy set on a Highland pony, or a round Connemara or Morgan or  perhaps a  small cross bred with only a tiny bit of Percheron. Quarter horses had thick muscley necks, funny looking haunches and eyes stuck  far apart on the sides of their heads. I just couldn't do it. We were leaving Hobbs and that was hard enough, but to leave with an empty trailer...

I walked back down the aisle while Heather and her friend Sara sat out in the late afternoon sun, exhausted. I looked in at Number 4 and Number 7, who were eating their evening meals. They ignored me. The cute pinto pony gave me a whinny, but I ignored him, having at last and finally, gotten over Little Joe. Number 12, the skinny chestnut, came up to the stall door, looked me right in the eye, and gave me a slow, sweet nod.  He looked awful--seriously underweight, horrible raggedy, overgrown hooves, patchy coat-- but he had been a nice ride and he had a nice eye.  He didn't look much like a quarter horse but he also didn't look anything like a Percheron. What more could I ask? I took a last look at him and he nodded again and gave a little whinny, which I thought then was an unbelievable horse to human communication packed with significance, but know now, it means, 'more hay'.

The Cowboy was seated  in the aisle by the office, not unsurprisingly, right next to Stall 12.  We talked horse. I asked him how much. He wrote his offer on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I looked at it and borrowed his pencil, made a counter offer. We did that twice more until I felt he had made a decent offer for Hobbs-and had come down a thousand for the chestnut due to his bad condition. We shook hands.

By the time  I went outside to tell Heather, the "hands" had  hurriedly stuffed the scrawny chestnut int0 the  trailer. It took us a lot longer to sit through the Cowboy's yakking and sign the check and get his papers. "Ah," says the Cowboy, "Now girls you seem to have a fine horse here. Four years old, and some of the best quarter horse breeding in the country. You can boast about that once you get home." I dragged Heather out before she got riled and went to say goodbye to Hobbs. Heather had  humanely snuck in and untied him and he was eating his grain, but he came up to me and looked -like a baby would-- if you left it and forgot to pick it up. I felt truly awful, leaving him to yet another long trailer ride (The Cowboy said he would take him to --ironically--the Mennonite sales in Pennsylvania) and a lack of love. 

We drove out of the yard, slightly rearranging a gate post with the side of the trailer  (take that Cowboy!)and I read the new horse's papers, which Heather had accidentally stuck in her purse despite the Cowboy's conviction that they were his 'til my check cleared. 15.1 hands, sorrel (cowboy slang for bright chestnut) his paper name was an unwieldy Lucky C Skipster and he was a registered quarter horse bred in Kentucky. How he got to the midwest was anyone's guess, but he was a long way from Kansas and about to be farther yet, as we turned the truck, trailer and pony towards home.

Cowboy Trade

 We washed Hobbs again and before he could re-matt his silvery tail and gleaming dapples, he was loaded back into the trailer with his favorite diversion--hay, and headed for the sales. There are apparently, a lot of horse-men who grew up on Long Island or Rhode Island, or Queens but call themselves Cowboy. They talk cowboy, wear cowboy hats and ride swaggering, muscle bound cow ponies, although, apparently, the closest the ponies get to a cow, is a barrel. We hoped one of them would see Hobbs' potential and snap him up.

Our first stop was at a dusty local rancho/riding stable. Hobbs backed out of the trailer and we tried to pretend casually that we had no worries about his snatching the lead rope to dash off and join the barrel racing competition happening in the back field. The Cowboy cantered up on his beautiful steed, threw the reins to the ground, took one look at Hobbs  and shook his head. "Worthless," he meanly said, and cantered off. Worthless! This fine figure of a horse--worthless? We managed to convince Hobbs to get back in the trailer, no mean feat, and drove on.

Next stop, over the border--to Connecticut and Cowboy 2. This one had a lovely sales barn with green, green fields, a nice little ring and a dirt floor thirty stall stable with numbers over each stall. Hobbs nearly tipped the trailer over on its side when he started climbing to get out through the window--and on to Heather, in his eagerness to join the crowd. Heather  shot me the kind of look that said, we are not putting him back in.

The Cowboy, this one well on in years and a bit wider in the paunch but with a very nice cowboy hat and cowboy twang, even though we were in Connecticut, grabbed Hobbs and looked in his mouth. I realized we had not, ourselves, looked in Hobbs' mouth (which is how you tell how old a horse is--kind of like counting the rings of a tree--you count the horse's teeth and look for 'signs').  In fact even the thought of looking at Hobbs' teeth was a little terrifying.

The cowboy--an expert on everything, and old world on the dumbness of women, declared Hobbs to be: all Percheron (not a total surprise to us at this point) and  not more than two years old. Two? This giant?  A big baby?

He whistled for one of his 'hands' who disappeared Hobbs into a stall, and tied  him tightly to a ring in the  wall.  Hobbs bellowed. I felt weepy. Heather went in to talk deal with the Cowboy and came out shaking her head-the horse was worthless. The Cowboy would only offer a decent price if it was on a new horse. Suddenly this sounded a lot like trading in a Toyota.