by Ann Patty
Ma moved to this valley a few years ago. She took us from her—and our—northwest home and drove us five hundred miles away to live here. While my best bud JD had acclimated easily to everything, Ma was concerned about me. She didn't think I ever adjusted to one aspect of livin' the farm life. Admittedly so: I’d hatched some mental monsters in my brain over pigs.
Initially, Ma took me and JD to a nice ranch to stay. There was a lot goin' on there. Horses, lots of 'em, comin' and goin'. Even cows roamed the place. People came and brought us meals mornin' and night. You would have thought some kind of business was goin' on there at that bustlin' estate.
Ma came to visit us every single day. One day she announced, "It won't be long now. Your barn is being built. I think you’ll both like it." Three months after moving, we came home to our new digs. I love bein' home with Ma. She spoils me and JD rotten. I can even look from my stall and see her in the kitchen. If JD and I stand in a certain spot from our pasture, we can see Ma in her bedroom. This comes in handy in the mornin'. We can whinny for meal service. On several occasions Ma said she would love to build a barn house where all of us could live. Separate rooms of course! I wondered if she is joking.
Our new accommodations were different from where we once came. This area is open grasslands. Pictorial. Settled and dotted with farms, ours bein' one. Low to high green hills surround this valley and a great mountain looms to the east. "Vista Bonita" is our adopted ranch name—appropriately, since translated it means Beautiful View.
Now, there is nothin' wrong with my eyes. In human terms, my sight is far better than 20-20 vision. From my stall I can see forever. This might not have been in my best interest. You see, after the 'incident,' I became fixated on the pigs at Ma's pig-farmer friend's farm. It is the next ranch down, yet acres and acres away.
It wasn't long after arrivin' home that Ma began alternately ridin' me or JD out. Down the dirt neighborhood roads we explored. I was nervous bein' in a new place and all, ya know. I will admit I'm a bit higher strung than most Quarter Horse breeds. Ma says I'm not too bad—except when I encounter large white rocks abruptly perched in a perfectly natural environment. Ma tends to think I can't handle the stark contrast. That may be true, as sometimes I shy at large gray-and-white stumps too. Really, previously, that was my only issue. Now I have two—issues that is.
I'm not completely clueless. Ma got me out of the house often. I've been to horse shows, gymkhanas, ridden on trails everywhere, and have even been in parades. Ma insists on havin' a well-rounded horse. She told the farmer that educatin' your horse was a prudent thing to do. Not only for safety, but in case for some reason you need to re-home them. Ma says if somethin' ever happens to her, she wants us to go to another great home. She believes she can ensure our welfare if we are enlightened to our environment. In fact she advocates, "You are cheating your animals if they are not desensitized." Well, 'nough said 'bout that. Let's go back to me and my issues.
One day, Ma and I set out down the road. Another leisurely stroll. See, we always need to pass the pig-farmer's farm to git to where we are goin'. This fateful day turned my world upside down. Lulled by my slumberin' pace, we once again came upon the neighborhood pig palace. Now, I can see these pigs roamin' the fields right from my stall. They fascinated me to a lesser degree. Their meanderin' white bodies combed the meadows and I watched from time to time, ears perked, naturally. I should mention that adjacent, across our back fence, lies another farm that is home to pigs as well. These swine are black and did not evoke quite the captivation as the light-colored ones did for me.
So, as we were amblin' down our quiet little lane, it came to be that a hog lobotomized my brain. That is the only explanation I have to offer! Abruptly, from around the corner of a blue barn, came a four-hundred-pound squealin'-freakin'-shriekin' lily-white pig that belched out screechin' obscenities. Holy pigola! My heart stopped. My feet couldn't move. Adrenaline popped my eyeballs outta my sockets. My muscles went taut. My brain fizzled. My Ma said "Uh-oh." Then she dismounted and held my reins, just barely.
For all of a few seconds, the old singin' sour sow continued her trashin', settled into gruntin', then disappeared from whence she came. Perhaps she was just as distraught with my unexpected apparition. That did it though. I flipped O-U-T.
Within minutes, sweat drenched me. My frozen feet flashed to flee. Around Ma I spun. My nostrils flared as I sucked in the sow secretions My over-the-edge nerves shook my body. I blew so hard my snot sprayed Ma, drenchin' her coat. My chest heaved. I couldn't breathe. My knees buckled. I almost fell down, but no, couldn't do that—I had to run away. But Ma held tight. I heard her crackin', not-too-calm voice through broken words. Ma had been pig-shocked too.
Somewhere in there I heard Ma say the most ridiculous thing: "Lily, it’s okay."
Okay? There was nothin' OKAY about what just happened. Whatever planet she was livin' on wasn't in MY pig hell. As my meltdown continued, Ma did her darnedest to console me. Nothin' worked. My urge to yank my reins back and run home were overruled by my idiotic good manners. Instead I galloped circles around Ma, snortin' like a foghorn. Airs above the ground I pranced, not proudly. Ma told someone later that "Lily was not a terribly pretty filly on that horrific hog day."
Ma kept me there beside that swine's farm until it was apparent I was spiralin' out of control. "Face your fears, Lily girl," she said—and then those other stupid words came again, "It's okay." She actually thought I'd grow common sense right then and there. But I did not. So after a stellar effort on Ma's part, we—rather I—pranced all the way back to the safety of my barn, blowin', snortin', with steam rollin' off me. Ma vowed to bring me back. She's persistent like that.
My epic episode began a most severe disruption to my psyche that extended itself to every other aspect of my equine existence. From that day forward, I fixated on those freakin' swine across the field. I'd stand bogey-eyed at the fence line and stare at them pigs one and all until I tranced out.
When my favorite, delicious flakes of alfalfa, was dumped in my stall, I wouldn't just go eat like a normal horse. Instead, I'd grab a huge mouthful and run outside to the farthest fence line. There, all while starin' at the pigs, I'd munch my hay until depleted then run back for more. My googlin' eyes could not get enough. I was like those guys who fixate on a football game and retreat to the kitchen for beer refills. A trail of hay led from manger to fence line after every mouthful. Though, by our next meal the speckled hay line was consumed by me and my best bud JD.
Until the back barn wall was built, my stall used to come with an all-around view. I'd hang my head over the corner of my stall scannin' the horizon for swine. It didn't matter much which direction—north, south, east or west; it was all surveyed. I was incorrigible and relentlessly obsessed.
Day in and day out whenever the pigs were outside, I attended to the swine show. They were acres away and yet they grew into giant mutations in my mind. My anxiety festered and flourished. A few months later, the followin' spring, I was beside myself. Once perfectly mannered, now I had gone rogue. Oh, I let Ma catch me up, sort of, with grain now. And she could ride me, but I was severely distracted. And worse still, I didn't want to get my fancy pants up in that nice cozy trailer, let alone go anywhere. Once inside, I would sweat profusely and drip all over the floor mats upon arrival at a new place. I was okay once at our destination, but not terribly attentive. Yup, my manners sucked. Any new stress in my life set my newly acquired anxiety off to the races.
One afternoon, I refused to load. Well into the night Ma worked me. She would lunge me, lead me, and ground-drive me to get me to listen up. Completely and totally I checked out. Now, I already said Ma was persistent and I wasn't kidding; four hours later I stood dog-tired in that trailer. On more than one occasion I broke trailer tie snaps to escape just while Ma was securin' me inside. Once, I lurched back so hard a metal clip flew right past Ma's ear when it broke in two. She had a weird look on her face as I bolted for the open gate. Out in the pasture,
I ran with my lead rope flyin' on airs behind. I ran myself silly around the pasture. Then I relented, returned to Ma, and she led me to the trailer again. I got in. We went down the road. I sweated my pants off.
So for the better part of the spring, I got reintroduced to the trailer. Yup, I was a beginner in trainin' again. Once upon a time I was a self-loadin' horse—but no more. Daily, Ma put me in the trailer. She'd stay with me. Pet me. Talk to me and console me. I was fed my meals in there. Ma took me for short rides down the road with JD. I got better and better, and by summer, then fall I was back to my old trailer self. One day, there was a breakthrough: after trailerin' weekly, Ma exclaimed to one of her gal pals, "Look at Lily! She is dry as a bone. Not a bead of sweat on her!" You would have thought Ma won the lottery.
Now there was a little somethin' else here that I better mention. Ma walked me down to that hog farm every day for over a month. It wasn't easy on either of us. It took two weeks to get me to actually go near the farm. The first few days were fraught with fright on my end. I'd only go so far then refused to budge. With my head held high, my ears would perk. My nostrils could smell their stench. Yuck. I'd plant my feet, but pose my rear foot as if resting. This cocked back foot became my new trademark for 'I don't want to do it.' IT was whatever I decided that IT was.
Ma tried everythin'. She'd lunge me in tight circles to get me joined up to her again. She'd back me down the road in that direction. She grain-fed me every step that I took. She brought a lounge whip with her all the time. It wasn't to beat me—she never did that, although I'm sure she felt like it. The whip was used to make sure I respected her space. Admittedly, I got a bit too pushy at times and wanted to hide under her coat. The whip was a barrier I respected, even when I wigged out. I wasn't forced to go down to the farm all in one day; Ma was satisfied if I just went a bit further each day.
Some would say to just cowboy me down to the farm with spurs. Well, actually, Ma tried that one day early on, sans the spurs. I backed into the neighbors’ solid wood fence and broke it. Two times no less. I reared, bucked, threw tantrums, and spun—my spins made Ma dizzy sick. Don't know if I mentioned this, but I'm a reining horse. When I wind up, my sit spins are beyond fast. The first time Ma sat a spin on me, within a few turnarounds she had to pull me up. She almost threw up—as her horsey friends looked on and laughed themselves silly. Ma has absolutely no stomach for any rhythmic ride. She even gets motion sickness on a swing set! But, it does not stop her from spinning me on occasion.
I'm as incorrigible as Ma is patient. So, in favor of self-preservation, Ma elected to work me from the ground. I will not deny Ma tried every mind-over-matter trick to get me down our road. My typical stance of stoppin' and cockin' my foot in the usual refusal got Ma thinkin' up more strategies than most people would be able to muster.
Then came a day, almost at Ma's give-up point, I surrendered. She simply asked me one last time to march ahead. It was then I surprised both of us. I actually wanted to go see the pig farm! So I forged ahead, almost draggin' Ma to the farm. Once there, not a pig was in sight. Ma was elated. We went home, but returned each day thereafter. I got to where I could walk past the farm in a prance. Sometimes Ma would pony me beside JD down the road. Eventually, Ma could ride me past there with another companion horse friend at my side. I always did a little jig of course—and still do to this day!
Ma's insistence, persistence and patience paid off. By fall almost a year after the epic episode, I came back into bein' a reasonable hunk of a horse again. I returned to trailing without fault, even self-loaded again. I went to events and on trail rides without a fuss. In all, I worked through my anxiety that was trapped inside my psyche. BUT I still looked over at the white pigs from afar, from the safety of my stall. Not in distress, but in deep concern.
The black hogs on the back of our fence line, while bothersome, only fazed me when they got into their squealin' pig festivals—runnin' around like rodents, screechin' in play. And rushin' at the fence to see me if I was out. While all this was irritatin', it didn't put me over the top. Sure, when Ma rode me back along the fence line, we ended up in a discussion about how close I'd get. I still don't want to be in buddy-up proximity to one of them there hoggers. I'd veer clear, sometimes bolt or buck, and, well, truthfully I was not much of a good ride. Yet Ma persisted.
Now it’s spring again and lately Ma was showin' concern with me, well, because I was reacquaintin' myself with my pig fixation. By this time, a third stall had been added to our barn. I speculated a new horse pal would fill it. Or maybe I would. But NOOOooo. In came Ma's pig-farmer friend one day with a big silver box in the bed of his truck.
And, THEY went into OUR third stall. Then next thing? I could smell them in my barn. I couldn't see them. I sorta heard them, but I could smell them. The barn no longer belonged to JD and me alone. And that was five days back.
It didn't take long to make the association. The smell linked my brain to the colorless pigs across the way. I went from my stall where I smelt the small swine out to my paddock to scan for those scary monster mother pigs. I paced to and fro for a bit. I saw the farmer's truck drive back to THAT farm. Ma nodded her head. She got that I got it. Yet, the piggies didn't rock my world too much—yet.
I still ate food in my stall, but now re-entered my old habit: crammin' a mouthful of hay and retreatin' out to spy the source of the sore spot with contempt. Several times a day, Ma and Toby came out to the barn to check on the Piglets—and me of course. Ma would throw back the tarp flap of the pigstall. The piggies were young and needed to stay warm, so the stall was wrapped pretty tight to keep drafts out. When the tarp for the door was slung aside, I'd get a glimpse inside the Pigloo. I'd get a bit perturbed, and then upset when lookin' at the scurryin' Pink Piggies lookin' out at me. Sometimes I would turn curious. Occasionally, I'd even go outside and around back to where I could be right behind the pigstall wall. I couldn't see them. But I can hear them. Their oinks and grunts were weird. At times they sound so unearthly, I run from my stall into the adjoining arena. At the far end I stop, cock my foot, and display my trademark pose, thus declaring my wish that I don't want whatever disturbs me—namely pigs.
Hindsight is 20-20 ~ Isn't it always?!
Really I should have suspected there was somethin' other than another horse friend joinin' us. The day before their arrival, Ma and her farmer friend sealed that stall off tight with tarps. Even had one draped across the front door. "They need to be kept warm at this stage since they are so susceptible," the farmer said. I could hear Ma and her farmer clearly; I just didn't get their drift at that point. But, lookin' back, Ma's friend was educatin' her about baby pig habitat.
They took Toby's Dogloo and put a light in the dome. They need to have this on all the time," the farmer instructed Ma. A wall tube was secured. "They drink water from the nipple—just check the level daily." A metal box went from the farmer's truck to the stall, followed by bags of feed. "This is a self-feeder; we will just keep it filled up. Let me know when food gets low and I'll bring over more," the farmer instructed. Then he informed Ma, "I'll tie the feed bin tops up for now. When they get older, they will learn how to root the top up to feed themselves. That way the feed stays fresh and not so enticing to barn mice."
Ma asked the farmer about the flooring—half mats and half hard packed granite. She said she would put grass hay over the granite if that worked. Her friend said, "Perfect!" The farmer left and Ma continued to nail up the tarps even tighter. Then Ma inspected the pigstall from across our way and nodded a final approval.
I should have had an inklin' that somethin' other than was comin' to stay at MY barn. That the pair that was talked about came as in a pair of pigs! Our stalls, JD's and mine, were open, airy, and built to have a view in every direction. We have no barricades or bars on our stall fronts. Ma once said to someone, "Bars are for prisons. My horses prefer a room with an unobstructed view." She had the same philosophy for the backs of our stalls, but during that first blustery winter
decided otherwise. "You two can just see the world from your stall gates now," Ma informed us.
Slowly, walls have been added to our barn to ward off the weather. Due to this being a dryer climate, I think Ma had this notion that our new place had Hawaiian weather year round. So originally she opted for a less-is-more attitude towards enclosing the barn. It didn't take her long to figure out we were all still livin' in the northwest where it can be as blustery as the mountains.
Though eventually, Ma did raise a board or two more on our stall fronts. Particularly after JD and I kept bendin' over the top and knockin' stuff off the pegs below. But even with more boards up, it's amazin' how our necks grew to reach over the stall fronts. Restricted access and all, on occasion we'd still tip somethin' off the outside stall wall. Although our barn had an open design to grant us as natural an environment as possible, our stalls are well protected. When the weather dips low, Ma blankets us up cozy warm. I guess since pigs don't wear clothes and have no real hair, their substitute is a heat lamp in a closed-up closet.
