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Hairy ChristmasDecember 26, 2006 The night before Christmas nothing was stirring because I fell into bed almost immediately after feeding bedtime hay to my four charges at Barn #1. Fortunately the bed was not too far away because I'm staying at the farm's guesthouse. I'm pretty sure I didn't see the clock hit 10 p.m. Christmas morning: Drag self out of bed just before 7 a.m. Already feel like I'm running late. Feed, put hay out in pasture, walk down trail alongside back pasture to old dirt road, where my kind clients have stashed their Ford F250 in the woods for my use. Rhodry jumps in, even though it's a good deal higher than Uhura Mazda, and sits on the back seat. Drive through Chicama Vineyards (permission obtained in advance) to Barn #2, which is where Allie lives. Big doors are a couple of inches open. I'm sure I closed them tight last night. The last couple of mornings it's looked as if some critter was getting into the tack room and polishing off the cats' kibble. I suspect the feral cat who roams the area and wonder if he's managed to force the doors open. Open doors. Aha! An elf has paid a visit: an adorable little tree stands by the tack room door, wreathed in tinsel, decorated with little red balls, and there are lots of presents underneath it. Feed horses, put hay in paddocks, let Pernod out of his stall (Dolci and Allie were in/out overnight -- stalls are much easier to clean that way!). Feed three voracious barn cats, the eldest of whom gets half a small white tablet for his thyroid disorder (he's high or low, can't remember which). Watch long enough to make sure he gets his medicine. Drive down Stoney Hill Road. F250 is an automatic. Automatics always feel like they're trying to run away with me. This is one big mo-fo truck to have trying to run away with you, especially over the moguls between Barn #2 and the main entrance to the vineyard. Barn #3: Fill two juice bottles with hot water at the house. One goes into the two-year-old colt's feed -- he had a major life-threatening colic this past summer, seems to be allergic to several kinds of grain, and now gets soaked hay cubes and alfalfa pellets. While that's soaking, hay everybody and make up grain for the other two, a mini and a Quarter Horse. Rhodry engages in staring match with Theo, the huge, imperious gray barn cat. Feed, check water, pick paddocks, clean stalls. Back to Barn #1. Start coffee (swiped from main house because I left mine at home), go do stalls. Quit after two: need infusion of breakfast. It's 10:15 a.m. Start lunch round. Finish last (double-size) stall, leave full wheelbarrow in aisle, pile lunch hay into cheapo plastic wheelbarrow, and wheel it out into the big pasture, with Rhodry supervising. While I'm shaking out five or six flakes of hay into separate piles, Rhodry yelps. I turn: he's under Manoog, the two-year-old Friesian, falling on his butt and looking startled. He keeps crying. There's a mean scrape on his lower left hind leg, and a couple hunks of loose fur on the ground. It doesn't look so bad, but he can't walk -- he barely hobbles, as if the bad leg is useless and he can't figure out how to use the good one. I coax him back to the barn -- he figures out how to hop on the good right hind, but he's still one hurtin' puppy. Trying hard not to think of current credit card balance (thanks to Morgana V, we're in four figures again), I call my vet, whose answering service relays my message to the on-call emergency vet. (Island veterinarians have worked out a cooperative system for handling emergencies; everyone takes turns, and no one gets burned out.) The leg doesn't look or feel broken, but Rhodry's clearly in distress and who knows what's going on inside? 12:10 p.m. We arrive at Vineyard Vet Clinic in Edgartown, about five minutes before the vet. I lifted Rhodry into the truck; now I lift him out. He hobbles gamely along. By 1 p.m. he's been x-rayed from hip to paw. Nothing's broken, somewhat to vet's surprise, because Rhodry still won't put any weight on that paw. I admit that Rhodry's a bit of a wimp when it comes to pain: when he steps on something sharp he whines and limps till he realizes he's OK. More good news: he has few signs of arthritis and his hips are in very good shape for a dog his age. Vet's assistant makes a big fuss about how handsome he is and how good. We like her immediately. She says that Rhodry fared better than a cat who recently got stepped on by a horse and broke half the bones in its paw. We leave with several days' worth of Rimadyl for pain relief and some chlorohexiderm-soaked gauze pads to cleanse the wound with. Vet helps me lift Rhodry into the truck. Says he used to have Bernese Mountain Dogs but it was too hard on his back and now he has Jack Russells. On the way home I promise Rhodry that I will never, ever get a Jack Russell. Midday chores get done late, but they do get done. Rhodry stays in the truck -- Uhura Mazda this time. Barn #3 gets lunch hay around 1:20, Barn #2 at more like quarter to 2. Do stalls; make up evening grain. Back to Barn #1. Coax Rhodry into guesthouse. Wrap Rimadyl in slice of sharp cheddar. He eats it. Dump abandoned wheelbarrow, sweep aisle, get supper grain ready. Leave shortly -- through the vineyard in the F250 -- on supper rounds. Miss my buddy riding shotgun. Reach Barn #3 by 5 p.m. -- it's dark at 5, but maybe not quite as dark as it was a couple days ago? By 5:30 they're all fed and the venerable Quarter Horse has her rain sheet on -- it's supposed to rain, and there's a front coming through tomorrow, with high winds and a drop in temperature forecast. Down the Stoney Hill Road and through Chicama Vineyards one more time; stash truck in woods, hike up the wagon road and path to the guesthouse. Rhodry has moved a bit but not much. He hasn't finished his breakfast yet. By 6 p.m. Barn #1 is fed. Primed with a couple of biscuits, Rhodry finally eats his breakfast. Whew. He hobbles around as if he's about to lose his balance: into the bedroom, back to the living room. He doesn't like the tile floor and finally settles on the living room rug. I do the soaking thing. This morning he insists on coming to the barn with me. He's mastered the hobble and is putting more weight on the bum leg; he's amazingly agile over a low stone wall. Whew. When I let Howie and then Manoog out of their stalls and point them toward the double stall, beyond which is the pasture, Rhodry tries to herd them. Uh-oh. I'm sure he's learned something, but it isn't what I wish he'd learn, which is to stay out from under the horses' hooves. But he's on the mend, and that's enough.
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