As many of you are painfully aware--because you caught wind of my weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth--Pookey Bear is once again under the weather, having suffered for several days with intermittent colic.

Not to worry! We are now throwing everything but the kitchen sink at him, confident that he will mend.

In the meantime, no new photos--just like those celebrities, he doesn't want to be caught not looking his best!

But we felt it was important to celebrate his birthday with an artist's rendering (courtesy of his 'auntie') and a few words about the glowing report he received at his recent doctor visit.

Thanks to top-flight veterinary care, a fabulous farrier, and an incomparable nurse (that would be me) Pookey Bear's feet are finally starting to look better, both inside and out. He has been feeling better for several months, with most days being completely painfree, and his gait (in boots) being very relaxed and relatively sound. But yesterday's radiographs showed that he is also improving on the inside: he is growing good sole on both feet, his medio-lateral balance is improving, and he grew enough toe in four weeks that Joe actually had to put some muscle into the nippers!

Amazingly, he walked on the concrete at the clinic completely barefoot, and looked very comfortable doing so. It is amazing because it is just eight months after his tendon surgery, and just a few short months since he was still battling acute pain from abscesses. Dr. D and Dr. W have okayed more hand-walking and light hand-jogging to rebuild lost muscle mass. (I assume that will be working for me, too? If Pookey winds up looking like Obvious Conclusion, am I going to wind up looking like Flo Jo? Or is it likely the best I can hope for is Billie Jean King?)

If Pookey could talk (my other half insists he CAN'T!) I know that he would like to thank his farrier, doctors, banker, owners, and friends for all of their help and support.

But I suspect that he might also add the following:

"Today was my 12th birthday. I was hoping for some carrots and a cake. Instead, they hung a bag of fluids on me, threw me in the trailer, hauled me for hours, rasped my achin' dogs, and bombarded me with yet another round of gamma rays. Then one of my doctors--who has always been so nice to me!--stuck his arm someplace I didn't like, and as if that wasn't enough, my caretaker stuck a garden hose someplace else I didn't like after I got home!

"They say they are trying to help me. Yeah, right...thanks a lot for the help! What's gonna happen when I turn 13, a catheterization and a colonoscopy?"

A rope, a round pen, and a little magic

Saturday morning I left Pookey Bear at home munching timothy, and ventured eastward to witness an amazing demonstration of horsemanship.

Our friend Dwayne Rhea, a clinician from Sulphur Springs, was conducting a mini-clinic at a veterinary hospital open house, using the black filly pictured above as one of his subjects. We arrived early enough to see her in her natural state in the round pen, wild-eyed, shivering in the howling wind, petrified of everything that moved.

I figured Dwayne had his work cut out for him. It seemed to me as if getting her to lead--or just to drop her head--would be amazing enough, but getting her to load willingly in a trailer, as the demonstration promised? I'd have to see it to believe it!

Amazingly, in a little less than an hour, he did just that. Not only was the filly quiet and relaxed through the head and neck, and following him around like a puppy dog, she also loaded happily into the trailer, multiple times, without a hint of fear. Most remarkable of all, the final time he loaded her, he did so after removing her halter and lead!

To someone who has to beg their been-there-done-that gelding to please, please, puh-leeze get in the trailer (Puh-leeze? Where are the carrots? Where are my helpers? Where is the broom, and the buggy whip?) it was an incredible feat. And he did it all without whips or pulleys or gimmicks--simply by gaining her trust, and showing her what he wanted.

No question about it--as soon as Pookey's feet grow out another couple of inches, we are working on loading, and--if the stars align--maybe even on backing out of the trailer! If I can get him to do that happily, willingly, and calmly, I figure I might just take my show on the road.

Dwayne, could you use someone to 'open' for you?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Asking her to move her hindquarters

"Oh, so that's what you want!"

The Reward

Me, not so much...

Pookey Bear had an absolutely wonderful, stupendous day yesterday!

Me, not so much.

I woke up at the crack of dawn to head over to a surgical center in Fort Worth, where I was taking my sister to have her gallbladder removed. This brought back a flood of unhappy memories from my gallbladder surgery 20 years ago: suffering the agony of repeated attacks, writhing in pain in the hospital bed while they waited for my lab numbers to get decent enough to operate, enduring life-threatening complications after a botched surgery--and, to add insult to injury, sticking rigidly to the recommended diet afterwards, only to pack on 45 pounds in one year.

Not a happy time!

Fortunately my sister was in good health to start with, and--as the doctor predicted--her surgery went great.

So great, in fact, that within twenty minutes of being wheeled into recovery, she was standing up and drinking a Coke!

When the young doctor bounced in with photos of her innards, he spent a great deal of time waxing eloquent about what incredible shape she was in, how absolutely remarkable that a woman her age had such a youthful body, that he had called over other doctors and nurses to share in his amazement, and that they had all insisted upon seeing her chart, to verify that she was in fact not a twenty-year-old, which her lithe, athletic frame seemed to declare.

I stood silently by, trying to blend my pasty, wrinkled, XXXL frame into the wallpaper, hoping I would escape the scrutiny of the flat-bellied medical team.

But no! One of the nurses turned to me with my sister's bag of belongings, and said,

'Here, Mom, why don't you hold onto these while your daughter gets dressed.'

Mom?!?

Given her age, that would put me in my seventies!

Needless to say, this facility will not be receiving a donation from me during this year's fund-raising drive!

It's official!

Yes, it's official!

Pookey Bear is on the mend.

His visit to the doctor/farrier last week went very well, and Joe just sanded off a bit of hoof here and there, working mostly on his long toes. Then, when his appointment was over, he was able to walk barefoot on the concrete, and he has been walking sound ever since!

We even got the go-ahead to practice a little bit of showmanship just for fun, and to start the process of weaning him out of his Soft Ride boots while he is in the comfort of his deeply-bedded stall. That process is going very well; he is up to about an hour a day completely barefoot with no ill effects. I also have increased his 'turnout' time in the round pen, but I am battling the grass, so he still must wear his muzzle.

Why is it that grass will grow everywhere you don't want it to grow, but it refuses to grow where you want it?

At any rate, we are thrilled with his progress, and have been celebrating each small milestone along the way!

Now, for some photos. The first is Pookey today, in all of his sleekness. The second shot was taken exactly one year ago, just a few weeks prior to his founder. Note the dapples, the apple rump, the cresty neck, and the 250 extra pounds he was carrying!

For all of you 4-Hers, 4-H parents, and other competitive adults: take a shot at guessing his body condition scores, before and after.

The official answer will appear in our next post.

The judge?

Pookey's banker, Dr. Allen.

The prize?

A week's supply of beet pulp!

May 2011

May 2010

Stay tuned...

Incredibly happy, exciting news about The Pookster's latest appointment coming tomorrow!

Being a bit gun-shy, I wanted to wait 24 hours before posting, to be sure all was well.

IT IS!

Show me the protein!

Here is a photo of Mr. Wonderful's 'bad' foot, looking...well, looking pretty wonderful!

He continues to motor around well, and appears to be relatively pain-free. Both of his Girls were home over Easter, and pronounced him 'great'!

Tomorrow he will visit Joe the Farrier for a good old fashioned rasping, and hopefully, he will once again be good to go!

As for me, I have been falling down on the job.

After my hay-hauling debacle I decided to start on the Dukan diet, which is surprisingly similar to Pookey's: no sugars, no carbs of ANY kind, no fat, only high-quality, lean protein and (after the 'attack' phase) low-fat veggies, and lots of water.

This means that my gastronomical options taste about as good as soaked and rinsed bermuda-grass hay: pretty lifeless and unappealing.

Of course I have somehow managed to scarf down enough water, heavily peppered chicken, and fresh spinach that I have NOT lost weight on the attack phase. My manual assures me that I WILL lose weight on the attack phase, as many as ten pounds.

I am not sure what I am doing wrong, but I will persevere.

I am weak as a kitten and am prowling around like one as well, waiting to pounce on any unclaimed scraps of protein, but come September 1st, by golly, I am going to look like Kate Middleton!

Pookey says when that day comes, I am welcome to ride him. We will go galloping through the pasture, the wind blowing through our glorious manes, racing alongside the flying pigs...

Hay Run

First, three seemingly unrelated facts:

1) Six months ago, I quit going to the gym;

2) Six weeks ago, I ran out of asthma meds;

3) Yesterday, my horses ran out of hay.

Thanks to Fact No. 3, I woke up this morning determined to pick up 30 or so bales of hay from Mr. Lewis in Canton. To that end, I arose bright and early, hooked up the trailer, and headed south.

Hubby was unable to accompany me due to ‘prior commitments,’ but as a demonstration of his undying affection, he did throw a spare tire in the bed of the pickup, along with our very best high-lift jack.

Additional seemingly unrelated fact:

4) The wind was howling like a banshee.

After wandering around Canton for a bit, I found Mr. Lewis’s office, got the key to the barn, and jumped back in the truck, feeling very optimistic about loading those 30 bales of hay all by my lonesome.

My optimism dimmed a bit when I arrived at the hay farm and eyeballed the setup. After wrestling the locks on a couple of gates I approached the hay barn, which was incredibly massive, with doors the size of the Brandenburg Gate. Unfortunately the barn faced south, the direction the gale-force wind was blowing from, and I had a terrible time battling the wind as I struggled to swing open the first door.

Using all of my weight as leverage I eventually dragged it out forty-five degrees or so to the point of no return, when the wind caught it and slammed it back against the barn. Leaning against the trailer to rest, I realized that opening the second door was going to be impossible—there was too much dirt piled up in front of it, and I didn’t bring a shovel. The trailer would have to stay where it was; I would be carrying the hay bales out.

So I cautiously peered inside.

Being late in the hay year, it was clear that most of the hay that originally had been stacked down the center aisle had been sold, as I saw a yawing black hole in front of me, lined on both sides from floor to ceiling with solid walls of hay. I ventured into the darkness, carefully crunching my way along on the bed of loose straw that lined the floor, moving deeper into the cavernous building.

Finally, near the back wall, I saw an opening to one side where someone had thrown down a few bales of hay. Having forgotten my climbing gear, I began grabbing handfuls of hay and wedging my boot into the tiny openings between bales, working my way up to the seventh or eighth row, where I could see a small flat area. Huffing a bit but feeling empowered, I triumphantly stood up, only to shoot straight down as my boot slipped into a crack between bales.

After clawing my way back upright, I felt my way around to find a solid bale to stand on—it was too dark to actually see, but tiny pinpricks of light were peeking in through old nail holes in the tin, so I was able to navigate a bit by feel and a bit by sight. Of course with each cautious step I took toward the loose bales in back, I could see clouds of dirt, dust, and pollen rising up off the bales and drifting along through the stuffy inside air. I began coughing a bit, reflexively, berating myself for letting my asthma meds run out, and for not bringing along a bottle of water.

Feeling my way along the wall, I was able to locate a stack of bales that I could pull from. Of course I had forgotten my hay hook, and my gloves as well, but thank goodness the strings didn’t hurt like wire did! I carefully placed the first few bales to form a little staircase, then trudged up my makeshift stairs to begin the arduous task of tossing hay down.

A couple of dozen bales into the job, I sat down to take a break.

It was midday. The temperature in the barn had climbed up into the nineties; the air was so filled with particulate matter I could almost feel it bumping against my face. I realized I had been working for nearly an hour, and did not have a single bale on the trailer, which was so far away from me I could barely see it, parked outside the doorway, taunting me.

I opted to begin Phase Two of the job, which involved trudging across the ‘floor’ of hay bales to toss my keepers over the side. Hitching the first bale up on my hip, I stepped toward the alleyway, only to plunge straight down in another hole. But this time, I had the bale I was carrying to use as a counterweight to pull me out!

I somehow managed to roll it to the edge of the stack, where a push sent in crashing down into the darkness below.

One down, twenty-four to go.

My work soon fell into a comfortable rhythm: yank, heave, step, crash, claw, hitch, cough, heave, push. For a fat, asthmatic fifty-four-year-old woman, I made surprisingly short work of those sixty-pound hay bales. An uncontrolled slide down the wall of hay to the bottom left me only a little breathless, and I eyed the distance between me and the trailer as I initiated Phase Three: carrying the bales out of the barn.

Did I mention that I had not been to the gym in quite some time? Or that my chronic health problems have rendered me quite weak in both the upper body and legs?

Thank goodness my core is fine!

I clocked myself carrying the first bale to the trailer at two minutes. The transport process went something like this: lift, cough, step, cough, rest, lift, cough…

By the time I finished the first dozen bales, I was sweating like a pig, and sucking in huge lungfuls of air every time I broke through the doors.

I sat down to rest on one of the bales, knowing that it might be a mistake, if I got too comfortable, or if my joints froze up and I was unable to move. Moments later I had popped back up and went back in for another bale. This process continued for quite some time, with decreasing efficiency and increasing coughing, until finally I had all of the bales outside.

Time for Phase Four.

I knew that this would be the hardest phase: getting the bales up in the truck, and on the trailer.

There was a time when I would have ‘tossed’ them in.

This was not that time.

I pushed, pulled, twisted, and torqued, and somehow managed to get the first few bales in the back of the truck. Hopping up in myself, I began my stacks as per hubby’s instructions, keeping my tie ropes taught and remembering when to alternate edge, flat, edge, flat. I have no idea where I got the strength to throw that last bale on the tie row, but my oh my, it sure felt good when I stretched out on top of those bales to let the wind blow some of the chaff and sweat off my hair and face!

I lay there panting and coughing for several minutes, before I saw him, hovering just above me: a bumblebee, nearly the size of a ping pong ball, darting about, flapping his wings.

“Ah,” I thought. “A scout bee. How lovely. Surely he will signal the rest of the hive to come attack.”

I carefully slid my cell phone out of my pocket, checking to see how many bars were visible, and wondering if Canton had 911 service yet.

Thank goodness the wind was strong enough it was carrying my fear pheromones off to the south, so with the bee in a holding pattern just inches from my nose, I flipped over and rolled straight off the side of the hay stack, crashing to the ground with only the spare tire and high-lift jack to break my fall.

Urged on by the prospect of an entire hive of bees attacking, I threw myself back into the stacking task, quickly filling up the trailer with the remaining bales.

Closing the door was piece of cake: once I got it halfway, the wind slammed it shut. Of course it hit so hard it broke the 2x4 stop on top so I had to drag it back out from the inside of the barn, then struggle to hold it while I fastened the baling wire/baling twine closure device. I only cut my finger once, while trying to screw the hasp back in using my fingernail after it broke off. I finally just duct taped it back on and dragged myself to the truck, cranking it up and settling back to enjoy the blast of icy air from the vents and the soft cushion of the bucket seat.

I can imagine how attractive I must have looked when I pulled up to Mr. Lewis’s office to drop off the key: hair disheveled and dusty, face covered with grime, hands and shirt blood-encrusted, and cheeks a lovely shade of fire-engine red that you just can’t buy in a bottle.

It was nearly dark when I got home that night.

I heard the horses whinny as I pulled in the drive, and I thought to myself: you will EAT this hay, and you will ENJOY it, and if it has too much sugar or starch in it, you WILL be jogging down the road to burn off those calories!

As for me, I’d already burned my share.