The Horses--And Mule-- Go to the Fairgrounds!

Elementa and Juliane

Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011

       It was off to the nearby fairgrounds for a little cross-country schooling for four of our equines--Elementa, Nitelite, Kip, and Brit the mule.  More about mules in a moment.  

       This next picture is four-year-old Elementa jumping telephone poles for the first time with Juliane's brother Hadrien Dykiel:

Elementa and Hadrien

Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011 

       And here is Anne Dykiel schooling our little yet intrepid 12.2-hand pony, Nitelite.  Anne is also looking back to see if her little daughter Dana is okay:

Nitelite and Anne

Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011

       Next, of course, is eleven-year-old Dana on our ten-hand pony Kip:

Kip and Dana

Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011

And last, our athletic little pony mule Brit, ridden by Juliane:

 

Brit and Juliane 

Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011 

  

Anne Dykiel brought her flip camera, so here's a brief YouTube of the jumping:  

                

                             Mule School

                           Brit                                                    Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011



           As you've seen in the photos and YouTube, our little pony mule Brit is an extraordinary jumper.  Yet, that talent is not unique to her:  mules, as a rule, are excellent jumpers!  Mules are also terribly misunderstood.  When I was growing up, Perry Como often sang a song with the following stanza:

       A mule is an animal with long funny ears,
       He kicks up at everything he hears.,
       His back is brawny but his brain is weak,
       He's just plain stupid with a stubborn streak,
       So, by the way, if you hate to go to school,
       You may grow up to be a mule.

But before we get to that cautionary--and totally absurd--tale, let's make sure of our terminology:

       --  male mule = john mule

       --  female mule = molly mule 

       --  A mule is the offspring of a jack (male) donkey and mare        (horse).  


       --  A hinny is the offspring of a stallion (horse) and jenny or jennet (female donkey).

       --  A burro is another name for a small donkey. 

       --  donkey x zebra = zedonk

       --  horse x zebra = zorse

      A mule is a hybrid and is usually--but not always--sterile.  A donkey has 62 chromosomes and a horse, 64.  A mule has 63, and though a jack foal is usually sterile he still should be gelded for the same reasons as a horse.


      A mule can be any size:  it all depends on the size of the donkey.  A "Mammoth Jack," which is any donkey 14.2 and up, crossed with an 18-hand shire can produce one wicked big baby.  A miniature donkey crossed with a miniature horse will result in a miniature mule (under 38 inches).

     "You actually ride her?!"  People have asked me that question.  I believe it's because most mules they see are probably donkeys carrying various loads in Mediterranean countries or, as has happened on several occasions in Iraq and Afghanistan, hundreds of pounds of explosives attached to timing devices.  I doubt radical Islam will accord these poor creatures martyrdom despite their tragic deaths.  Anyway, with no vested biological interest in the future, what would a mule want with 72 virgins, anyway?


       But back on task.  Yes, we ride our mule as many people do theirs.  Mules now compete successfully in eventing and dressage.  In fact, mules are legal to compete at the highest levels in the U.S.  But not CDI's.  Those are international competitions and governed by the FEI (International Equestrian Federation).  And, as I understand it--and I don't really understand it--they are not permitted to enter show jumping competitions.  A certain views of aesthetics?  Fear of more (and good) competition?

       Mules are highly intelligent, athletic creatures generally more hardy than horses.  Their muscles are smoother than those of horses and therefore pack more power.  They rarely need shoes and are more resistant to various bacteria and pathogens.  For further information visit this web site: 
 http://www.luckythreeranch.com/mulefacts.html
 
       The donkey half of the mule evolved in the mountains of northeast Africa.  They formed loose constellations rather than tightly bound herds.  That's the reason their bray is so loud--so they can communicate up and down and across mountains.  They don't flee immediately--as do horses, who are animals of the plains--when they sense danger.  Such a reflexive response would lead to death by falling. Instead, they freeze and evaluate their situation.  They decide then either to stay where they are or to move off quietly.


       So, given their independent decision-making, why should they listen to us?  They shouldn't, that is, unless we offer them considerate and kind leadership, and opportunities to learn without coercion.  They need to see the why in the question you're asking.


       Famed natural horseman Pat Parelli--also the founder of the American Mule Society--states:  "You gotta' treat a mule, like you ought to treat a horse."


       I once watched a moving program on mules and their handlers
who were in China during WWII.  Several soldiers remembered how these mules became their best friends.  With tears in their eyes, they told how they were all loaded in a Navy amphibious transport to relocate to an island in the South Pacific.  The ship was blown up by the Japanese.  Most of the men were lowered to safety in lifeboats.  But when their ship finally broke apart they witnessed the heartbreaking scene of the mules swimming amongst the boats searching for their respective handlers.


      Most horses would not do this.  Remember The Black Stallion?
After the storm and dramatic shipwreck that opens the movie, the Black happens to swim by Alec, who grabs onto the lead line attached to the horse's halter.  But the horse wasn't swimming around looking for the kid who gave him sugar.  A horse's DNA tells him to "Get the hell out of Dodge!"

      So, if you want a great and devoted friend, and an incredible athlete, consider purchasing or rescuing a mule.   Here's a place in New Hampshire that often has terrific mules and donkeys for adoption:

http://www.saveyourassrescue.org/

   Ainslie and Dolly                                                                                                       Anne Dykiel copyright 2011

       Next week Dolly will have a rider on her back for the first time.  We plan to video it, so please join us next week, too.  And many thanks for reading The Windflower Weekly.
                                                          --  Ainslie
  





      



      

        

Gil Merrick Clinic and Mystic Valley with Tica and Turkeys

    Tica                                                                                                    Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011

            On Saturday, June 4th, I had the opportunity to watch my instructor Linda Parmenter ride Tica in a clinic with Gil Merrick.  Mr. Merrick has held numerous positions in the dressage world, the last as USEF High Performance Dressage Director.  In addition to his busy schedule as a clinician, he heads his own consulting practice, Mastery Concepts, developing programs that enable participants to achieve their goals efficiently and effectively.

        This commitment to excellence played out before my eyes as I watched this gentle master of communication skillfully elicit the best from each horse and rider.  Through the use of gymnastic exercises--never forced--Mr. Merrick virtually charmed harmony and alignment out of each pair.  Tica had never been to this venue--the beautiful Ark in Harvard, MA--and the declining shafts of late afternoon sun that fell in light streaks on the dark footing concerned her.  However, in combination with Linda's tact and Mr. Merrick's ability to come up with just the right exercises,  I witnessed flashes of brilliance I'd not seen before in my mare.  Here is a photo--somewhat grainy due to the declining light--of Linda and Tica:

                Tica and Linda                                                                Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011
                              Gil Merrick clinic



    
      One week later it was off to the beautiful grounds of the Mystic Valley Hunt Club in Connecticut.  As I watched the competitors and their teams set up in the temporary stabling in the indoor, I was reminded of the nomadic Mongols and their yurts.  Rugs, curtains, chairs, coffee jars with daisies on card tables, foodstuffs and drink, not to mention shavings, hay, supplements and equipment were arranged with a simultaneously efficient and often aesthetic eye.  

       I myself added a bit to the agrarian dimension.  I brought three one-week-old turkeys.  (Baby turkeys are called poults.)  I had left my husband Jim to take care of eight horses, our two dogs--one aged and incontinent--two cats, a parrot, a bunny, and fourteen chickens.  So I thought the least I could do was take care of the the turkeys.  Here are Lewis, Clark, and Sacagawea:

      Until last year I had never given turkeys a second thought except on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Oh, I'd known that  Benjamin Franklin wanted the wild turkey to be our national bird.  One reason he cited was its great intelligence and courage.  But those were wild turkeys, radically different from the stupid, unfortunate things placed on my table.  It would not be until decades later that I had my first "non-platter" turkey  experience.  I was in my local grain store and saw two cages full of two-day-old poults.  They were adorable and so I took two home.

       What first impressed me was how gentle and quiet these little creatures were.  They didn't panic and run around at the sight of a human looking down at them as did my baby chicks.  In fact, they easily allowed themselves to be held and would close their eyes when I scratched the sides other heads.  But perhaps this lack of fear and willingness to bond with non-turkeys was just another aspect of their limited IQ.  I had also been told that they were of such diminished mental capacity that they would look up into a rain
storm and drown.  This called for research.


      I googled "turkey intelligence" and came up with the national intelligence department of the government of Turkey.  Next I punched in "turkeys and rain."  National rainfall of the country of Turkey, anybody?  So, then I just hit "domestic turkey" and up it all came, including a Butterball web site with hundreds of recipes.  And then, finally, an article about their emotional intelligence.  Domestic turkeys--i.e., those engineered by us--carry a defective gene that can cause them to exhibit defective behaviors such as looking straight up at the sky during a rain storm.  These are known as tetanic torticollar spasms.


      Turkeys have many and varied vocalizations they utilize to communicate with one another.  As of yet, very few are understood by us.  But we do know they are highly social creatures and will play and dance seemingly for the sheer joy of it.  And they appear to experience emotional loss.  When a member of a flock is injured, dying or dead,  others in the flock will stand vigil for several hours.  Biologist refer to this as the "great wake."   http://animals.howstuffworks.com/birds/turkey-drown.htm

       The two little poults I had last year--more frequently than not--would choose to be with people if they were outside.  In fact, they would happily perch on the back of a chair and hang out when ever I had friends over.  Once, my friend Anne and I were on the lawn trying to elicit pleasant sounds from our recorders.  At the sound of the first notes, the little poults came running up, fluffed out their feathers and took a seat next to us.  It was as if they were taking in a lawn concert at Tanglewood.


      So, are domestic turkeys stupid?  I don't think so.  Yes, they're awkward and can't fly but that's because they have been grossly genetically mutated and manipulated by us.  Their breasts are so over-developed that they often tip forward and fall down.  They've been bred to be so huge that their legs break down because they are unable to support their own weight.  They can't fly for the same reason. 


      Time and again I have witnessed and--and at times, myself-- engaged in the convenient caricature.  It makes it easier to shoot, consume, or vilify creatures.  More on this in a future blog when I talk about coyotes.

      But back to dressage at Mystic or rather, turkeys at Mystic.  My little turkey threesome were a charming addition to the stabling area.  They quietly slept, chirred, and cheeped and pecked at their hay bedding.  The competitors loved them.

      The first day was sunny and warm so they were happy, but the second was cold and rainy.  My babies were cold!  What to do?  Here's what I did:

                      Turkey poults at Mystic in Apron                      Lois Yukins Copyright 2011                                                                                         
    
       I had an apron with me.  All you horse people reading this know it was not to whip up gourmet meals but to protect me from the mud and manure of daily equestrian life.  It had pockets which I stuffed with hay and then stuffed with three turkey poults.  Now warm, they immediately went to sleep.   I sat in a chair with them for a while but was soon bored.  I wanted to watch the show even if Linda and Tica weren't in the ring.  So, off the four of us went.  And it wasn't long before I ran into "S" and four star international judge Lois Yukins.  Lois and I have been friends for nearly twenty years and she couldn't resist taking this snap with her I Phone.  Thank you, Lois!  (I think.)

       I will be giving you updates on Louis, Clark, and Sacagawea.  I have never had full-grown turkeys.  Sadly, last summer my two little poults, as well as six of my chickens, fell victim to a fox who used a rock to launch herself my coop.  But the coop has now been repaired, and we're only going to let the poultry out when we're outside to provide some degree of predator deterrent.

          Tica and Linda were absolute stars, coming up with scores of 65+ and 68+ for First Level 1 and First Level 3, respectively.  Here is a snap taken in Tica's warm-up prior to her best test yet:

       Tica and Linda                                                                                                     Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011


    
       The Mystic Valley Hunt Club is a beautiful venue for any kind of event.  The cross country course is gorgeous, and I spent a number of hours hand-grazing Tica in the lush grass.  Here's what it was like, dragonflies and all:

             Tica and dragonflies at Mystic Valley                                          Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011


       I am hoping that my finger and shoulder will be healed enough to ride Tica at King Oak.  Then Dressage at the Seacoast and--with luck--NEDA Fall.  I did miss riding her, though it was a treat to see what she could do with Linda on board.

      I should also mention Linda's wonderful dog Jackson who was at the show with us.  He came to Linda this winter via a Doberman Retriever Rescue program.  He hadn't had much training, if any, when he arrived, but now he is a perfect citizen.  This was due to Linda's unwavering commitment and training methods.  Unfortunately, he tested positive for heart worm.  Happily, he will recover.  But what the X-ray also revealed was that someone had fired a round of bird shot into Jackson's chest.  Miraculously, it didn't damage any vital organs.  I can only hope that when the time comes for whoever shot this dog to arrive at those "pearly gates," standing right next to St. Peter, there will be a pack of Dobermans baring their pearly teeth. 

       This is Jackson at Mystic Valley:

                   Linda's Jackson                                                         Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011
                                   Mystic Valley 


  
       And last, but never least, is Dolly snacking while on yet another trail ride with Tica:

              Dolly at Stream                                                                                                 Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011


       Tomorrow after lessons a group of us will be heading to the Groton, MA, fairgrounds to introduce the horses and Brit the mule to some of the little cross country jumps there.  I will be packing my camera, so please check next week's blog.

       See you soon and thanks for reading The Windflower Weekly!

                                                                -- Ainslie  

       




      

Tica Breaks My Finger and I Take Her To Saratoga

       First, before we get to the finger story and Saratoga, I wanted to let you know that Dolly continues to learn that people are a good thing (that is, at least good people are a good thing):

                     Dolly and Miabella                                                       Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011




      How did Tica break my finger?  Whenever students ask questions like, "Why won't she canter?!" or "Why won't he stand still
when I'm trying to get on?" or, simply, "Why is she doing that?" the official technique here is to answer such questions with another question.  For example, "What are you doing to cause her to do that?"  Of course, it's easier--and natural--for kids (and some adults) to want to find fault with the horse when they are frustrated.  During the first lesson they learn that they are the ones who are supposed to be in charge--that they are training the horse.  And, hopefully, by the end of the lesson they've achieved a measure of success in directing their equine partner and feel empowered rather than frustrated.

       So, no, Tica really didn't break my finger; her reins that were in my hand when she bolted off at a gazillion miles an hour did. 


      The day before that happened, Juliane, Elementa, Tica, Dolly, and I had had our golf course experience.  So, I now decided simply to pony Dolly behind Tica.  These days she was leading in-hand very well--giving to pressure--so I thought I'd give it a shot.  All went well until we got to the huge steel plate that the water department had placed over the stream that runs as an outlet from Nagog Pond.  Now, Tica, like all horses, is suspicious of any unknown object that moves or makes a noise.  We've worked a great deal trying to desensitize Tica, but she still doesn't trust fully yet.  Here she is returning across the steel plate after the first golf course caper:

                         Tica                                            Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011


            I'd say she looks pretty relaxed about it that day.


       And here's Dolly, equally relaxed.

                                         Dolly on Metal Plate Bridge                 Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011


       Since Tica decided that on this particular later day she now had "issues" with the metal plate, I got off and led her across.  In case Dolly balked, and to avoid having to drop the lead in case I ran out of length, I unhooked her.  I was reasonably confident she would follow Tica.  She did.

       To avoid temptation I decided not to take the trail that ran along the golf course but another trail that ran by the pond.   Just as I re-mounted Tica, an animated Dolly surged surged past with an "I-know-where-we're-going attitude," and trotted quickly out of sight.  I pressed Tica forward but no Dolly was to be seen.  I called her name.  The horse who often whinnies in return was silent.  I turned to the trail I'd first planned to take and Tica paused, sniffing the air in the direction of--sigh, yes--the golf course.   I called her name again:  a return whinny.  That's where she was.
      
       As Tica and I walked up the trail I called again.  I didn't really want to show myself and hoped Dolly would come cantering back.
       "She's over here!" a male--and unfortunately, very human voice--replied.
       I peeked between the trees.  Two hundred yards away two men stood with Dolly on a putting green!
       "Dolly!  Dol--ly!"
        Perhaps it was the increased combination of urgency and fear in my voice, but Dolly came flying off the green and rejoined us in the woods.
        I decided I'd pony her for the remainder of the ride and hooked the lead to her halter.

       All that went very well until the return ride and that metal plate.  Tica said no.  Rather than dealing with her refusals and keeping Dolly's mind--and head--off the knee-high grass, I decided to dismount and lead them both across.  Tica very slowly, and very carefully--and therefore, more noisily--began to pick her way across.  Dolly had no such problem.  Striding ahead on my left she pushed me into Tica, who immediately determined that our newly combined width posed a clear and present danger to her existence.  Hence, her (and my finger's) gazillion mile an hour blast-off.


       Dolly shot off in the other direction, but thankfully I'd dropped her lead.  Otherwise,  Tica and Dolly could claim to have re-invented a form of medieval torture.  I glanced at my hand.  The middle finger was twisted and at an angle I'd never seen before.   And it hurt!  I grabbed it with my other hand and yanked it back where it belonged.


       I then carefully walked Tica back over the plate and collected Dolly.  But on the return Tica recalled that, going in this direction, she had panicked.  And if she had panicked, well, there had to be a good reason.   Maybe it was the horrible yank in the mouth that stupid human Ainslie gave me when I tried to get the hell out of Dodge.  Of course, it doesn't matter that it happened after she became frightened.  It just confirmed that her initial reaction had been correct.  I tried to undo her rein from one side of her bit so I could have her walk behind Dolly, but my finger kept dislocating.  After five dislocations and five adjustments, I gave up and put the reins behind Tica's run-up stirrups.  Tica would have to negotiate the metal slab on her own.  As soon as Dolly and I disappeared around a bend I heard the sound of high-stepping hooves on metal!  Tica re-joined us.


       Fortunately, Juliane was at my house so she was able to take care of Dolly and Tica when I got back.  I drove to the doctor, who sent me to a hand surgeon who said the break was tiny but the finger badly traumatized.  So, he sent me to yet another place to get a custom splint.  The good news:  I could still ride.


       Four days later I drove the four hours to Saratoga Springs, New York.  Jennifer Symon, owner of Tica's half-brother Navarro and a dear friend, saved me.  She did absolutely everything--set up Tica's stall, gave her a bath, did my tack, and gave me bed and board.  One evening's dinner included a bottle of wine called "Fourteen Hands," the label of which had the image of a red horse head with a blaze.  Dolly, Jennifer knew, was 14.2.  And Dolly has a blaze.


       Tica was a star--the best she's ever been.  And if I hadn't made some silly mistakes--and been in pain--I think all our tests would have been in the sixties, instead of just the one which was 63+.  But, nonetheless, I was completely happy.  Here, I must also thank Emma Griffin, Jennifer's instructor, who warmed me up on the second day.  The test I rode after that was the best ever in my life.  And Tica knew it was her best, too.  Never until that moment had I seen her look so simultaneously proud and content.  Here we are warming up with Emma, who, though out of the picture, I am sure, is directing me to turn my right hand up:

   Ainslie and Tica                                                                                                   Jennifer Symon copyright 2011

   Americaucana chick                                                                                                  Anne Dykiel copyright 2011


        Since we now have, hopefully, a new fox-proof poultry coop, we are replenishing our chickens.  The above is an Americaucana chick which is a cross between an Aracauna--a Chilean breed--and a variety of American breeds.  The cross apparently remedies a lethal gene that pure Aracauna may carry but preserves the unique color of the eggs, which may be blue, green, or basic brown. These birds are also known as the Easter Egg chickens.

       And we also have six of these adorable little critters:

      Polish Crested Chick or "Top Hat"                                                               Ainslie Sheridan copyright May 2011



       Polish crested or "Top Hats" are known for amusing crests of feathers shooting out of their heads.  You can see a little cone on top from which these crests soon will emerge.  These little guys originally hail from Mongolia but were made popular by wealthy Polish nobles of the 14th century.  The crests--especially on the roosters--are so extreme that they make it difficult for them to spot predators.  I've also read that this causes them increased anxiety.  So we will have to be extra-vigilant on their behalf.  (It's either that or a trip to the Shear Madness salon up the road in Littleton.)  It is also an interesting and little-known fact that Big Bird of Sesame Street was modeled on a Polish Crested Rooster.  Remember those feathers sticking up out of his head?

      Here is another lesson going on.  This time it's Sarah on Kip with Juliane teaching.

Dolly checks Out a Golf Course and the Sky Is Blue But I'm Grumpy!

     Dolly                                                                                              Ainslie Sheridan copyright  2011

          
      I am leaving for Saratoga tomorrow with Tica and was hoping to have a quiet, or rather, a reasonably quiet week; didn't happen.  My broken arm is still healing--i.e., sore--and just two days ago I managed to dislocate a finger on the hand that belongs to aforementioned broken arm.  But let me backtrack.


      Here at Windflower we are fortunate in that we abut two hundred acres of conservation and private land that permits horse access.  We are also fortunate that surprisingly few people use it.  And so--as part of our horses' training and before they are mounted--we take them out on a lead and pony them.  They get accustomed to the trails without having the added burden or anxiety of a rider.  They learn to negotiate bridges, streams, stone walls, and logs.  It's a great help to them both physically and mentally, not to mention, just plain fun for them.  Sometimes, if its miserable weather, and we're pretty much guaranteed not to run into hikers we will just let them follow loose behind.  

      But, before this happens, we ensure that the free horse is bonded to the horse being ridden.  They are turned out together for a good two weeks.  In the wild it is the mare who controls when and where the herd moves, and since I have mostly mares, it seemed natural to adapt this to our trail riding.  I've done this with geldings but only with mixed success.  They are less committed to a mare's leadership.  It's not because they are guys--a stallion would absolutely follow the mares.  I think it's just that geldings--for obvious reasons--are less wedded (couldn't resist) to the importance of preserving the integrity and future of the herd. 

      So these past two weeks Dolly has been busy bonding with Tica, my Andalusian and four year old Elementa, my half-Andalusian.  We thought it would be great for Dolly to get out on the trail:  She hasn't been off the farm since she got here and has been doing a lot of good groundwork and is wonderfully obedient in-hand.  So Juliane got aboard Elementa while I led Tica on foot so I could take some photos.  It soon became clear that I would get better pictures if I didn't have to hang on to Tica.  Juliane decided to lead her while still riding Elemta.  But Elementa was a bit full of herself so after a while we decided to let Tica loose as well.  After all, Dolly was subordinate to both horses, so why not?

   Why not?!  Because Tica dominates them both and there was rider aboard to govern her.  Things went well for awhile, that is until Tica saw the golf course and it's unending invitation of green grass.

       This is how the conversation would have gone if Tica and Dolly were human:

      
      Tica:  "Hey, Dolly, you know I'm the true herd leader here:  Let me show you how I earned the title.  Follow me over this inconsequential stone wall and you'll not only lose the rocky footing and meddlesome mosquitoes, but have access to the best grass you've ever had in your life."
      
      Dolly:  "Wow, and I thought Windflower's grass was good.  But this--!!!


     Exit Tica and Dolly stage left over stone wall.

       I know, I should have gone after them instead of taking a picture but that might have gotten them running and there was no one there anyway because of the weather.  So Juliane rode along this little paved road you see in the above photos and they gradually followed: But not before checking out several fragile, expensive, and, no doubt, exceptionally tasty putting greens:

         


      I must spend some part of this evening with my husband and daughter so I'm afraid I won't get to the broken finger this blog.  Details of that will have to wait until next week.   But I will tell you that I have had to cut the middle finger off of the right hand of my white gloves in order to accommodate my splint.   It is therefore regrettably unavoidable that during my dressage tests it will appear as if I am in a constant state of "flipping the bird."  I'm hoping that the purple vet wrap--much prettier and cheaper than the skin-colored
drugstore equivalent--will inform the judges that I intend no 
disrespect.

     Papa Cardinal                                                                                                               Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011

  

      Our cats are still under house arrest.  They got out once and managed to take down a poor little baby robin.  We are being super-vigilant, and there will be no parole until this cardinal papa and his babies are out of danger.

                        Two cardinal babies                                Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011
  

      Not a hint of the beautiful red feathers to come, but they are in their own homely way somehow endearing.

     I haven't seen the fox family for a while but my friends have and fear that the number of kits has been sharply reduced.  No more than two have been seen out of the original six.  I'll get back there next week and try to get a head count.  I hope it will be closer to six than two.

      I will be back from Saratoga late Sunday night so I hope to have my next blog out by next Monday evening.

      Until then, and thank you for reading The Windflower Weekly.

     Ainslie

Dollys Story

                           Dolly                                           Ainslie Sheridan copyright May 2011

Please note:  This blog was just updated to include an improved YouTube of Dolly's Story.

                 I had a bet going with myself.  Which would come first--the "Rapture" or this--? 

                

        No, no not the cardinal!  I mean those little dapplings of blue sky behind it!  Having endured mud, slime, irretrievably lost horse shoes, and unrelenting grey and rain, I was betting on the Rapture.  But then yesterday the sun peeked out for a few nano-seconds causing Mr. Cardinal to burst fourth into song.  Even though it was a long shot--the blue sky came through at the last--or rather, first.

       But still I  wondered about this "End of the World" thing--that is until I heard at noon yesterday that New Zealand was in the clear since it was already the next day there.  I mean, you can't have a "semi-Rapture" can you?   I know one or two equestrian Kiwis who would feel totally deprived if, say, Ugandans got to see "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse" and they didn't.    I, myself, am curious as to what the Book or Revelations means when it says the fourth
horseman rides a horse of "no color at all."  Is he mounted on a cremello?  Perhaps, it's an albino?  However, my curiosity is not invincible, and I will be happy to wait several more decades to find out.

      This blog may appear, upon first glance, as short but it really isn't.  I decided to do a YouTube on Dolly's initial plight at the auction house followed by her first three months here at Windflower.   It turned out to be quite a project.  So much has happened these past three months.  I hope you enjoy it.

       I hope to have another short blog this Wednesday but if rains again all this week I may be too grumpy.  Friday I leave for Saratoga which should provide a great deal of material--good, I hope.  I have a lot to do to get ready.  My Andalusian mare Tica,  is a glorious white; that is, when she is gloriously clean.  We are no where near there yet.  I'm beginning to think I should have listed her breed as Fresian on the entry.


       Talk with you soon and many thanks for taking the time to read this.


Ainslie

Windflower Farm and Mother Nature

                      Windhill Amada and baby Navarro                                                          Ainslie Sheridan copyright May 2011


            
        Amada:  This blog is a little late to be celebrating Mothers Day but not too late to be celebrating mothers.  The above is a photo I took over twenty years ago of my first horse Windhill Amada and her foal Navarro when we lived in Groton, MA.  I had Amada from the time she was four months old until the day she died at age twenty-one.  I still miss her acutely and there is not a day that goes by that I don't think of her.
      
      Fortunately, she lives on in her now twenty two year-old son who resides in Saratoga Springs.  Navarro is treated by his owner--and now my good friend-- Jennifer Symon as the king he is.  She continues with his dressage and Navarro still performs all grand prix movements.  I will be staying with Jennifer when I go to Saratoga in a little over a week and am looking forward to seeing Navarro once again.
       
    
      Mother Nature Takes On My Trailer--Again!

        In previous springs there have been times when it has been difficult to use my trailer.  Mother Nature has caught me napping and allowed birds to build their nests inside it.  Once, I actually had to borrow a friend's trailer so I wouldn't have to terminate a nest of newly-hatched barn swallows.  Another time it was a nest of robins,
but that time I wasn't scheduled to go anywhere so they stayed until after they had fledged.
      
      Last year I simply removed a robins' nest and that seemed to convince the parents that they needed to find a more hospitable building site elsewhere.  But this year's pair was more tenacious.  I had to remove the following and its two subsequent facsimiles:

   Robin's nest                                                                                              Ainslie Sheridan copyright May 2011        
       
         I just couldn't bear to keep frustrating them, and I found it distressing to keep leveling their home.  Once I wasn't quick enough and there were already two beautiful blue eggs.  A different form of deterrent was in order:

    "Wesley," the Owl                                                                                            Ainslie Sheridan copyright May 2011  
       

       'Wesley the Owl', named after the real Wesley in Stacey O'Brien wonderful book by the same name, and who normally stands watch by my fireplace, did the trick.  I don't know whether it was his predatory (sort-of) appearance or his rather prodigious self that thwarted Mr. And Mrs. Robin, but they did go elsewhere.  In fact, I believe it likely they are the robins who built a nest in a bush growing next to our deck.  Two cardinals have also decided to raise their young there.  Both nests are within easy access of our two felines who are now furious to find they have been relegated to the temporary rank of "indoor cats".
  
       We've also been fortunate to have a number of Baltimore Orioles arrive this spring.  They are so very pretty and their song seems a constant celebration of life.  Here is one I took with my long lens with an added  Photoshop filter:

         Baltimore Oriole                                                                                    Ainslie Sheridan copyright May 2011




                        Mother Nature's Orphans

        And then there are always the motherless babies that occasionally come our way.  This teeny squirrel was delivered to me by our next door neighbor.  She and her husband run a popular restaurant here in Acton, and she found some of her employees trying to dispatch it with a broom.  It had been feebly attempting to climb into their dumpster obviously in desperate need of sustenance.  

     Baby gray squirrel                                                                                                      Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2010

    
       That same squirrel four weeks later enjoying life in a ferret cage outfitted with sleeping bag and heat lamp:

                  Four  week (approx) grey squirrel                                  Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2010

       And two weeks later:

                           Six week (approx) grey squirrel                    Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2010

       I became very attached to this little critter who I named "Reese", (Japanese for 'squirrel').   And I like to think she liked me.  Whenever I worked in my study I would let her out and she would run all over.  I had to keep a close eye on her though because--as you know--squirrels love to chew.  She liked to take paper from the waste basket back to her cage.  She would tear it into small pieces and pad her little hammock with it.  I did have to interrupt her diy efforts once when I saw her heading toward her cage carrying a twenty dollar bill she'd confiscated from the top of my bureau.

      But wastebasket paper and twenty dollar bills didn't hold a candle to her love of chewing plastic.  I often had to interrupt my work to wrest ballpoint pens from her clutches.    Once I left my room to take a phone call and came back to find wet blood-red splotches all over the carpet, tables and chairs.  It seemed a scene from a teen horror flick.  I was in a panic:  With all that blood she had to be dead or certainly ready to be dead.  Then I saw her curled up on a towel on my bed.  Reese and the towel were drenched dark red.

       I touched her with my hand.   Nothing.  I touched her again.  This time Reese sprang to life, ran up my arm and sat her wet little body on top of my head.  She seemed fine, but how could she be?!  Then I saw lying next to the towel--a Bic pen that had been chewed in half.  Only a trace of its red ink remained.  Arrghh!  My panic and sympathy immediately shifted from Reese to me.  After a good washing with doggie shampoo and an unwanted encounter with my blow dryer, Reese was restored to her natural immature gray.   I caught myself in the mirror and saw that my hair now had swaths of red running through it.  I looked like some misguided mom who was making a dismal attempt to bond with her "Goth" daughter.  I hopped in the shower for my unscheduled shampoo.  But it would take several months before my study lost its "chamber of horrors" look.  As for Reese--she spent the remainder of the evening sleeping off her colorful adventures curled up in the pocket of my bathrobe.

       
       As Reese got older--and she became more and more frenetic--I realized I had to do something.  Perhaps I could have her neutered and then she would calm down.  But that was against Massachusetts law.  In fact, just having her was against Massachusetts law.  I called my brother Pat on Long Island who knew Marc Marrone--you know, the pet guy who frequently guested on Martha Stewart's show before she was sent to the slammer.  He called Mr. Marrone up and asked  about the suitably of a squirrel being a pet.   This was his response, "That squirrel is going to kill your sister!"


       Then, in the mail, came a dvd about squirrels I'd ordered while Reese was still nursing from her eyedropper.  Maybe it had some relevant advice.   I popped it into the player.  My husband Jim walked into the room just as the first scene flashed on the screen:  It was a beautiful Victorian home going up in flames.  Then the narrator's voice, "The majority of house fires in the U.S. are caused by squirrels."  
      "Ainslie, I'm sorry--that squirrel has got to go."
      
       So the next warm day I opened the window to my bedroom and placed a tree branch against it.  It was a ten foot drop.  Reese ventured  in and out several times before deciding to curl up for the night in her hammock in the ferret cage.  I closed the window.
      
       The following day was also warm.  Once again I opened the window:  Reese happily scampered out.  After several hours she still hadn't returned.   I left to run errands.  When I got back I opened my study door to find not one, not two, but three squirrels running around bouncing off my walls.  (No doubt they were looking for twenty dollar bills and Bic pens.)  But as soon as they caught sight of me two of them launched themselves through the window.  The third--I  presumed it was Reese--paused on the sill a few moments, gave me a nano-second of a glance, then rushed out to join her new-found friends.  I closed my window and pulled the curtain.


      I saw her--at least, I was quite sure it was she--several times afterwards.  I got to within touching distance but if I held out my hand, she was off.  I was glad her wild genes were kicking in.
Not many people would react well to a squirrel landing on their head.


       More baby squirrels came the following years but by then I had found a squirrel rehabilitater two towns away.  She had a great set-up--several large out-door cages in which she would  over-winter the babies.  Then in spring, she would give them what's called a "soft-release."  She'd open the door to the cages during the day and, if they were back before curfew, they were closed in safely for the night.  In time they forsook their cages to permanently make new homes in the forest. She told me I'd been lucky with Reese.  Squirrels are highly territorial but, from the way I described it, she thought perhaps Reese had just had her first heat cycle.  Hence, the two playful and congenial friends.


       Anyway, here is what to do if you ever find a baby squirrel:
        
        1.  Put it under a heat lamp.
        2.  Hydrate with lukewarm Pedia-lyte or Gatorade.
        3.  Twelve to twenty-four hours later give it puppy formula.
        4.  Then, don't do what I did with Reese, but call a 
              rehabilitater.  A large veterinary hospital with a wildlife  department should be able to refer you to one in  your area.
  
       I have to admit, I do miss Reese--her swinging on the end of towel, perching on top of my head to survey her environs, and her little pocket naps.  I hope she has been able to keep off the roads, stay away from the predators, and enjoy an unending supply of acorns.  I also like to think she misses sharing Snickers bars with me.


                            FOX NEWS! 

      Mother Nature has playing a few not-so-funny ironic little jokes on me.   The robins were but the first.  Last week I had to take my trailer in to my mechanic to be serviced.  It also had a flat tire.  It wasn't on the rim yet, and I didn't want to pay to have it towed.  I would take the risk, but I had to drive the  four miles to his shop super slowly or things could heat up--literally.  So I got up at five a.m. to avoid infuriating commuters.  As I was brushing my teeth I glanced out the window to the chicken coop below to see a mass of white feathers. 

       Uh-oh, this didn't look good.  I ran out the door to the coop.  My little white Cochin hen was nowhere in sight.  But, standing less than twenty feet away from me, was a fox!   Usually, foxes will usually bolt at that sight of a human.  Not this one--she was on a mission:  She had come back for yet another chicken.  
     
        "I'm sorry, you need to go.  You can't have anymore!"  I had to wave my arms before she trotted off.  I'm pretty sure it was a she.  She was small and reluctant to lose her place in this drive-up "McNugget" window I'd provided her.

       My coop was under repair so the chicken wire was missing.  It was surrounded by a four foot typhoon fence but that's nothing to an
agile fox.  And I had forgotten to shut the little door that leads into the chickens' interior roosting area.  It wasn't her fault--it was mine.  I felt sorry I had let that little chicken down.


      And speaking of potential fox targets:  Before the Concord fox kit family relocated I often saw this red squirrel just feet from their den.   Once, when she hung upside down and faced out with her belly, I saw  her swollen teats and knew she was feeding her own babies.  I was relieved on her behalf when the fox family relocated. 

     Red Squirrel Mother                                                                                           Ainslie Sheridan copyright April 2011  

       It has been interesting and a little disappointing to see how some people react when they see my fox pictures.  I showed one woman in a pet store a photo of the vixen.  "Oh, nasty!" she observed.  But the vixen was simply yawning in the sunshine.  Maybe it was those exposed canines.  Another friend mentioned a fox on her property and right away was told the best way to dispatch it was a shotgun.  In Japan's Shinto religion the fox is a creature of veneration.  I've often wondered if this deification had anything to do with the essential role the fox played in controlling the mouse population in the rice fields of ancient Japan.  Rice is vital in Japanese society--nutritionally, of course, but it also has spiritual dimension.

      One shouldn't blame a fox--or for that matter a coyote, raccoon, or a hawk--if it kills something you have.  Protecting your pets and your livestock is your responsibility.  I ought to know--I have failed my own critters on several occasions.  Once--years ago--a fox killed fifteen half- grown chicks I had running around the barn.  I'd just let them out and gone on to feed the horses.  A mere forty-five minutes later I was having coffee in my house.  I happened to  glance out the window--inert little feathered bodies lying everywhere!  And just next to the barn a  fox--carrying one of the chicks in its mouth--headed across my pasture towards the woods.  I tore outside, scooped up the remaining live chickens, tossed them into a stall and shut the barn door.  There were but seven left.


      I was upset and angered by this excess.  Why couldn't she have taken just one?  That I could almost live with.  Everyone has heard what happens when a fox gets in a hen house--an utter and complete massacre.  Still too upset to pick up the dead chicks, I went back into the house.  Then, through a window I saw her again.  I knew my other chicks were safe so I just watched.  She took two little bodies in her mouth and trotted off.  But she was back in fifteen minutes and took yet another two.  The trips continued until all the dead chicks had been removed and taken, no doubt, to her den and grateful kits.


       I got on the computer and read about foxes.  Well, they don't kill to excess.  If they have more than needed at the moment they will larder their food for later.   There is no excess killing in the hen house.  If the fox hasn't taken what it has killed it's because it has been prevented by a more fortified coop or increased human activity. 


       To cap the sad events off that night my friend Alison was planning to arrive with Chinese take-out.   Jim was off on a trip and my children were sleeping at friends' homes,so it would be a fun "girl's night in."  But when she arrived I didn't see the tell-tale grease stains on the brown paper bags. 
      "Where's the Chinese?"
       "I decided to stop at the supermarket instead."  She pulled out a large roasted chicken.
       "Alison, put your coat back on.  We're going out to dinner!" 

     
    




                    Fox Family YouTube

      And here is my third YouTube video of the Concord Fox kits with lots of photos of their brave hard working mother.


      Next Sunday we'll have an update on the horses, including, of course, Dolly.  
     

       Dolly                                                                                                       Ainslie Sheridan copyright May 17, 2011



        At least, that's my plan.   I just can't train well in this mud mess--not even in my normally well-drained dressage arena.  And Saratoga is the weekend after this! Can anyone still remember how to spell "sunshine"? 

     Well, griping aside, I will see you in a few days.  And thank you for reading The Windflower Weekly.

     Ainslie