The Horse Chronicles
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The Big Red One

You have pressed me to tell of this. I know that I have mentioned Big Red in my writings, but the trauma of his accidental death and the meaning of his long life plague my conscience. This is, I know, self-serving. This pain have I buried far away in a desolate place.

But, let me tell you about the horse.

Big Red was an American Saddlebred Horse, and yes, he was truly solid sorrel red, with a flaxen gold mane and tail. It will be well worth your time to find a picture in a book or a magazine, of a Saddlebred. They are the sylphs of the horse world. And Red, even at the age of 35, when I met him, was exceptional. Saddlebred horses are gaited horses, and they carry their tails straight up in the air in performance, and occasionally in the pasture, too.

Now old Red was a retired professional, but not from the show ring. No, Red was a jumper. He had an actual career as a winning steeple chaser out at Meadowcroft in Western Pennsylvania. Imagine our good old Big Red horse galloping pell-mell across a grass course, taking fences and hedgerows in his mighty stride. We made no such demands on Big Red.

Red retired from racing to the dubious existence of an amateur level competitive jumping horse. His former owner is a local woman. She tired of him at one point, and she gave him to John Lenzner with the explanation that the horse was ill and would probably die soon, so would it be okay just to leave him in your pasture? Orphan a sick, old horse. Red was 25 years old then, and he did not die soon.

So, Red had lived here at the farm for over a decade before I arrived. I'm not sure what he lived off of - love for Miss Mare, possibly. There is plenty of pasture grass during the months of warm weather, and John provided the horses hay during the winter, but no grain, and no shelter. They must have been long, interesting years.

I did not get to know Red or the Mare very well for the first year while I lived here. Of course, that was before Tez came, after which I got to know all three of them very, very well. I used to call them to the fence whenever I had a half box of stale breakfast cereal. I remember the first time I ever did that for Red. His facial expression blossomed in to real interest in cereal boxes after that ("Like, oh boy! Real Food!") Yes, I thought about buying feed for Red and the Mare, but they weren't may horses - then. And once you start feeding them, watch out. You can't stop. And, they lived on John's side of the fence, for the most part.

After I brought Tez to the farm, John moved both Miss Mare and Big Red over to our side, a matter of convenience to him since his herd of Sementhal cattle was increasing. We enjoy our neighbor's calves when they come in the Spring. They are such goofy little souls, but watch out when they grow up. Swiss Sementhal cattle are really large and mean. The cows weight in at a ton, and bulls weigh in at 3,000 pounds. I fear them respectfully. Over the years, John has repeatedly cautioned me not to cross his fence line and walk his pastures, and one day I found out why.

On one of our muckier, rainy days, I was leaving Kate's house on foot with Reilly O'Dog, and we elected to take a short cut home across John's front pasture. There was only one six month old heifer in the pasture, and she acted peaceable. This, I am sure, was a ruse to lure unsuspecting tourists to her lair.

Reilly and I had hiked about half way across the soaked, muddy pasture - full of really deep cow-made pot holes, real ankle breakers, when the heifer charged. Charged at me, that is. She lowered her head and bellowed at me and then she began to run across the muddy broken ground at about 30 miles per hour. Unbelievably fast. Now, I know what you are supposed to do when an angry wild animal, such as an Alaskan Brown Bear or a six month old Swiss heifer, charges at you. You make yourself larger and louder than they are. You raise your arms and jump up and down and make threatening, growling and snarling noises. Which I did. Imagine a five foot tall, middle aged woman attempting to imitate a Sherman tank in your cow pasture, and you will understand that I simply became an even more attractive, and to this point stationary, target for the heifer.

Fortunately for me, Reilly O'Dog stepped in to save the day. When the heifer charged, he headed straight at me, running parallel and in the same direction as the cow. Before she reached me, she veered off and headed straight for Reilly. Guess my Sherman tank act must have had an effect on her. I just knew that Reilly O'Dog was doomed, they were so close together.  Reilly managed to double back and give her the slip, leading the heifer away from me, and he did make it safely to the fence. He took the long way home across the road. I have clocked Reilly O'Dog over flat ground with my truck. Twenty-five miles per hour is no big sweat for this dog. And the heifer was gaining on him in the pasture. Needless to say, I did not hang around long. I headed rapidly for the nearest V-gate, and the safe side of the fence.

Now all the neighborhood purchases its lean ground beef out of our neighbor's refrigerator. The cute little single-pound packages are labeled "Tootsie 6/97"or "Fancy / August" and such. I just love eating John's mean old cows!

I've digressed from horses to cows, when I should have been telling about Red's eating habits. Big Red lived to eat, and his very favorite food was 12% sweet feed. You have to be careful about not overfeeding concentrated feeds to a horse because too much feed can cause serious digestive problems, or so we've been told by the vet. Red knew otherwise. It was his great joy to discover that the man-door to the barn had been left ever so slightly ajar. He would walk into the forbidden area of the barn (the people side) and knock the lid off of the feed bin, and then he would gorge on sweet feed. He did this twice during one year, and managed to consume close to 25 pounds of sweet feed in one sitting. No, he didn't colic, though he certainly should have. Once, he opened a bag of sweet feed with his teeth and scattered it all over the barn floor. It was my last bag of feed. So, we did without for a couple of days. It's a long trip out to the Ag-Way feed store in Mars, Pennsylvania.

My buddy, Red. We all have such doting memories of this horse, especially his love of naps. Most people think that horses only sleep standing up, but that's not true. Your average horse needs about 7 hours of sleep each day, and they do it in two ways. When I see the horses standing very still in the pasture with their head lowered to chest level, I know that they are in "slow-wave" sleep, which they do about 5 hours each day. "Paradoxical sleep" is what we know as rapid-eye-movement sleep, and it is the deep sleep of a lying-down horse. Horses really enjoy sleeping. Tezzeray is a master at lying-down sleep, and I am sure that he far exceeds the text books for just plain passed-out sound sleep. Red also loved to sleep, stretched flat out on the ground in warm sun shine. And I loved seeing him asleep because I knew that this was the only time when Red's arthritis didn't bother him.

Whenever Joe and I were in the kitchen together, and we would see Red sleeping out in the pasture, we would speculate on whether he was really asleep, or just playing dead. After an hour, we would generally go out and call his name - just to be sure.

Big Red was invariably a kind, polite horse. If he accidentally caused a problem - like stepping on your foot in the barn, Red would act embarrassed. And it never ceases to surprise me as horses reveal how intelligent they really are, and what great memories they have.

One winter morning, on a weekend, Joseph and I were out cleaning the barn. It was a miserable morning, and we had not mucked out the barn in nearly a week. We had three horses at the time, each one producing upwards of twenty-five pounds of fresh manure daily. So, after five days of neglect, Joe estimated that we had moved close to 800 pounds of manure and wet, soiled straw, bedding and hay out of the barn that morning.

As we sweated and swore over our chores, a spotless new minivan slithered through the muddy paddock and pulled up to the barn bay door. Two women were in the van. The driver opened her door and stepped out into the mud. She was attractive, and seemed just delighted to see us.

She introduced herself as Patty, Big Red's former owner from his post-track days, and the woman who had given Red to John Lenzner. Patty had just stopped by out of the blue to check and see if her old horse was still around. I was really surprised, since we had never heard of her in the two years we had been at the farm. Big Red was not far away from the barn. I called to him and he shambled up to us.

Now, some people have told me that horses cannot see well from a distance of 12 feet. I beg to differ. Red was probably 60 feet from Patty when he recognized her. It was at this point that everything about this horse changed for me.

Horses' faces are almost all bone-covered skin with little muscle. They have thick jaw muscles, and wiggly, muscled lips and noses. But, the rest of it is all pretty immovable. So, when a horse pulls an observable facial expression, it gets my attention. Horses can speak volumes with their ears and their eyes.

Big Red recognized Patty instantly. To say that he was glad to see her again is a major understatement. He was genuinely thrilled. His normally dull expression pricked with interest, and he hurried to see her at the fence. It was obvious that Red was still bonded to Patty, and I thought to myself that, even after 12 years at the farm, what Red would really like is to finish out his days living with Patty.

I was jealous and hurt, and I was surprised to know that I felt that way. It is the way we feel when we invest our attentions in someone's physical needs on a daily basis without thanks or consideration, only to find that their heart belongs to someone else. I was also sort of angry with Patty. How could she just leave this old horse, who obviously needed her, alone like that without coming to see him once a week? And what about springing for a couple of bags of feed now and then? And what about having your own personal farrier stop by to do his feet, to file down his teeth? And what about his yearly shots? Tubes of wormer? It is what I did for Red, along with brushing him, cleaning his feet, medicating his injuries, keeping him from freezing to death, and picking up his shit. But Red did not love me. Red loved Patty, and this broke my heart on that day.

Before she left, Patty told Joe and I (between fork-fulls of manure) about her latest equine project. She had acquired for free a jumping horse: half Thoroughbred, half Belgian. The horse had been disabled by a joint problem. Patty's vet provided injections of some steroid preparation which relieved the horse of its pain. And now he jumps just fine! Great, I thought, your next victim. Some people will do anything to go over the rails.

If we had only had Red by himself, our lives would have been pretty uneventful. But, since we had Red and Miss Mare and Tezzeray all together, we experienced a daily routine of minor mishaps including kicks and bites, and minor horse-on-horse misdemeanors. Once morning when I let Tez out of his "condo," he ran at Red and knocked him down in the small stall. Nobody got hurt, and Red got up okay. It was then that I realized that the old horse had become physically inflexible and he could not maneuver quickly in small places. After that, I made sure to keep Red out of Tez's way in the barn, or to keep Tez on a halter line until Red was out of the way. Red knew the drill. He just needed a few more minutes than the other guys to get organized. Old people are like that. Most mornings, a hand gesture and "come on, Red, outside!" was enough.

There are always little incidents that bring one back down to earth - to the realization that these animals are horses, not people. And, under physical or emotional stress, they react like horses, not people. Bitterly cold winter nights tend to reinforce that realization, and vigilant respect for the horses' physical size and strength promotes the survival of their human care givers.

Red's demeanor was largely passive and tolerant towards horses, people, and dogs. He loved cats particularly, and if Hobbes put in an appearance in the barn, Red would riffle his lips through her fur with a look on his face like "mmmmm...you're so soft."

Anyway, we used to make the horses sleep in the barn on very cold nights, mostly because of Red. The two younger horses would have been just fine merely being able to come into the barn if they got cold, but due to the dominance hierarchy, they would make Red stand outside the barn door in six inches of freezing slush and mud. So, we enforced a curfew at dark during the winter.

On a very nasty night, we brought Red and Miss Mare into the larger condo area, and closed Tez into the small stall. Each horse had their own separate feed bucket, and all three of them were face-down in their grain, filling their bellies and warming up.

As we were leaving the barn, I walked up to Red to pat him on the neck and say good night. Well, he must not have recognized me in his peripheral vision, or he thought that I was another horse, or something strange in the dim night light of the barn, because he made a lightning grab for me with his mouth. His teeth closed firmly over my upper right arm and he effortlessly tossed me across the barn! Boy, were we both surprised! Red was really embarrassed when he realized that it was me he had grabbed, and we both acknowledged that this was completely out of character for this old man to physically abuse the barn help. Fortunately, I was wearing my old down barn jacket which is very thick, and it probably saved me from a broken arm. This was the only aggressive act I can recall of the old horse.

I cherish the memory of Red's reminder that horse owners frequently labor under the illusion that their pets are safe or benign or gentle. These are qualities we assign to them. We observe their behaviors and interpret them in terms of our own human nature. I feel very comfortable handling my horses casually. I frequently pick up their feet and groom them without putting a halter or a lead rope on them. But my trust in them is limited to my ability to move rapidly away from their big bodies, and I school myself to keep my body weight balanced and prepared to step (or leap) to safety.

Reading the body language of the horse is a meditation for me. Watching their silent statements is the only way for me to discern their needs and to amend their care as responsively as possible. I am not always successful, and I do make mistakes. My interpretation of Tez's sore back ankle was that he had "torqued" it running in the pasture; it was an abscessed hoof instead, and one that fortunately took care of itself. I still have not figured out old Beau's sensitivity to having his back touched. He will tirelessly carry a rider without complaint; yet, if you place your hand on his rib cage, he lays back his ears and says very seriously "Don't Do That!"

We used to let the horses out of the pasture during the day so they could graze on the landing strip. The strip is normally where Katie and I ride, and the horses know it well. If there is good grass on the strip, they are content to stay there. If the grass is burned by frost or by drought, they will sneak onto the lawn to nibble the fescue which stays green almost all year-round. They love lawn grass. We have an agreement about the lawn grass. If they sneak on to the lawn, and I see them, then I go outside with the lunge whip and I tell them to leave. They see me coming with the whip, and they put on a mock stampede: asses and elbows in flight back over to the strip. We only let them out of the pastures when we are home, so we can keep an eye on them. This has created a few minor problems. Once Tez came up on to the back porch and ate all of the poisonous red berries off of my grape vine Christmas wreath. He did not get sick. Now, having read about poisonous plants and horses in my new veterinary medical reference, I was horrified to discover that every single variety of decorative shrub and tree which surrounds my house is lethally poisonous to horses: rhododendron, yew hedges, red maples, wild cherry trees. But we have watched them eat these plants on several occasions without ill effect. Not anymore.

My favorite memories of Big Red are watching him gallop across the pasture with the younger horses. It was kind of a big deal for Red to wind his body up into a gallop. In his superannuated state, the muscles were good, but the joints are kind of slow to respond. So, Red almost always brought up the vanguard of our little herd, but he did it with great panache. He made a point of sticking his head up much higher than the other horses, and he picked his knees up as high as they would go. That marvelous yellow-haired tail carried straight up in the air as only a Saddlebred can do, streaming out behind him like a victory banner.

During the spring and summer of 1996, we managed to make some head way on improving Red's condition. Since he had not been treated for parasites in quite a while, he had become quite gaunt and lackluster. But eventually the effects of protein-rich feed, lots of hay, dental treatment, and regular foot care paid off. He gained a lot of weight, and eventually we stopped counting the bars across his rib cage. We gave him baths with real horse shampoo and conditioner so that his coat gleamed like a new copper penny in the sunlight. Red loved attention. He would stand absolutely still for hours to be brushed. Eventually he began to resemble the champion he had been in years past. It must have been difficult for him to be raised, trained, and conditioned to the best standards of care, and then to be abandoned and neglected. But time is the great enemy of all horses, and during the record cold winter of early 1997, we knew that Big Red's strength was slowly beginning to fail.

On the afternoon of January 21, 1997, we let the horses out to graze on the strip. Joe and I needed to run a quick errand - the 15 minute sort, so we thought we would just leave the horses out and close our front gate. While we were gone, we stopped to buy gas for the truck. When I went to start the truck, the battery had gone out. Since the service station did not carry what we needed, we had to tow the truck down the street and purchase a new one at a local garage. Our 15 minute errand had just become a major two-hour headache. When we got home, I walked around looking for the guys. Tez and Miss Mare had sneaked around the back of the house next to the pasture fence to graze on the lawn grass. Then I saw that Big Red was down and it looked serious.