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TransitionsDecember 07, 2008 The early morning rain did not bode well for horse-trekking through the state forest, and the afternoon forecast wasn't so great either, but "I'm going," thought I. Tomorrow's forecast was much better, and ditto the day after tomorrow's, but tomorrow and the day after tomorrow the shotgun shooters would be out again. I much prefer the probability of getting wet to the possibility of getting shot. I did have an offer of a trailer ride for Monday or Tuesday, but trailering from old barn to new barn abridges the transition, like flying from the East Coast to the West Coast: you get to where you're going with no sense of the territory between one place and the other, and no time to take it all in. So at 10:15 Allie was saddled, bridled, and ready to go. Travvy was settled in Allie's soon-to-be-former stall, reasonably content with a squeaky clam and the Jolly Ball he had inherited from Pernod. Travvy played with it, Pernod didn't, so it was ipso facto now Travvy's toy. It was still drizzling as Allie and I passed along the western boundary of Thimble Farm, where a dent-and-twisted blue kiddie pool was lying on the dirt-and-turf road that leads down to Duarte's Pond. Whose was it and what was it doing there? Damned if I know. It elicited multiple snorts from Miss Allie and an unspoken request from me that Miss Allie not spook into the six strands of electrified wire immediately to our right. On the old wagon road that passes below the Shabazians' back pasture Allie was jig-jig-jigging as if trolls were lurking in the brush behind us. All five Shabazian horses were standing out in the rain, despite the availability of dry shelter. We trotted a lot on the trail that winds through the woods up to the state forest. I haven't ridden all that much this fall, and Allie isn't in peak condition, but Allie wanted to go-go-go so we moved right along. By the time we emerged into a wide-open fire lane of the state forest, the rain was slacking off. By the time we picked up the old Doctor Fisher road, it had stopped. (The state forest, for those of you who haven't walked, biked, ridden, or rollerbladed through it, is laid out on a grid. The major fire lanes are either north–south or east–west. The old Doc Fisher road is one of the rare tracks that continues on a diagonal for more than a few hundred feet. Lucky for me, its diagonal tends generally southwest, the direction I was headed in. Pretty soon I was riding along the backside of the Sheriff's Meadow field where Travvy and I often walk, and Misty Meadows, and the dojo -- all familiar terrain from my years at Crow Hollow Farm and numerous rides to and from the Ag Hall. I exited the state forest on a minor but distinct trail that winds down toward the Edgartown–West Tisbury Road, which I crossed in order to turn down Dan'l's Way. I blew off a couple of NO TRESPASSING and PRIVATE DRIVEWAY signs on the way, confident that I and other horsefolk had a bye from the relevant parties. At a rapid four-beat walk we covered the last few yards of our journey and arrived at Allie's new home. The two-stall barn -- not quite a barn, since it's adjacent to the house -- isn't visible from the road, though the pasture is. Megan, new barnmate, was already there. She put Sweetie, her 20-year-old Arab mare, into the smaller back part of the pasture. I put Allie into the larger front part. They squealed at each other rather dramatically. We gave them each a flake of hay. The squealing stopped. Megan gave me a ride back to my old barn, where I set about gathering my stuff and loading it into the truck. En route back to the new barn I stopped at home so Trav could have lunch. It was nearly 2:30. He usually has lunch around 11. When we returned to New Lane, Allie and Sweetie were standing companionably side by side with the fence between them. Good sign. I put a lead on Allie's halter. Megan took down the rails between front pasture and back. No squealing. I took Allie's lead off and we left the two mares to get further acquainted. Megan went home. After unloading my stuff, I picked out Allie's stall and put a bale of fresh shavings in. By then it was just about time to feed supper. My first thought was to feed each girl in her stall, and close the outside doors so they couldn't steal each other's food. Sweetie nixed that: when I closed the bottom half of her door with Allie nowhere in sight, she got frantic. I opened the door. Allie wanted nothing to do with her stall under any circumstances. When I closed the bottom door, she seemed to be thinking of jumping over it. When I opened the door, she bolted out. After several attempts to coax her into her stall, I put most of her hay out in the pasture. Sweetie, I'm pretty sure, ate most of Allie's grain -- which isn't much, so I wasn't worried. My writers' group meets nearby, so when we dispersed around 9 p.m. I went over to see how the girls were doing. Sweetie was standing in her stall, looking out. Allie was out in the field. She came over to see me. When she moved to Malabar Farm, she was so freaked out by the low ceilings -- at Crow Hollow the roof above the center aisle was three stories high -- that she peed while on the crossties. After that she settled in pretty quickly. Here's hoping she does likewise this time.
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