A GIRL'S VACATION - Summer of 2000

The Farm at Shelburne

The doors closed and the engine purred quietly awaiting the driver’s command.  The car groaned into “leveling” position, adjusting for the loads of luggage in its trunk and the occupants of its interior.  Soon the Caddy would roll out the driveway and into VACATIONLAND!

Four ladies who had never traveled together before, but held the common thread of horse lover that bound them in friendship, embarked on a journey that would take them to the green mountains of Vermont and the Adirondacks of New York over the next four days.

Each passenger on this adventure would soon reveal their own unique personality that richly blended with others for the enjoyment of the trip. 

Phyllis was the “take charge” person in the group.  Ruth was the mischief-maker who liked to knock on men’s rest room doors among other things; Carolyn was the one who became known as the wrong-way driver, while I was simply referred to as “the boss”.    The Boss would later be known for spilling things on herself or dropping things in her tired stupor.  Just couldn’t seem to hold on to anything for long.

By late afternoon, the car was piloted into the parking lot of the American Morgan Horse Association Headquarters and Museum.  After touring the hub of Morgan activities, it was off to the motel.  A not-too-friendly innkeeper who confirmed their reservations with a rude politeness first greeted me. After surveying the premises and finding just one lonely small bar of soap and two towels which was to be shared by four adults, Phyllis took it upon herself to ask for additional toiletries and linens. Big mistake…  The manager was outrageously indignant when Phyllis made her plea.  He insulted her, and turned away with the parting words – not to comeback to this establishment again.  There was no worry of that!  It upset everyone, but not for long as the modern buggy was spurred on to dinner at the famous steak house down the road.  After a waddling good feast, the ladies decided to go for a stroll to burn a few recent calories they had just acquired.  Off to a mall with Carolyn solidly behind the wheel. 

It was becoming more apparent as the miles passed by, that our volunteer chauffeur had a bit of dyslexia when it came to white directional arrows on the black pavement.  It seemed that the downward arrow meant forward to Carolyn and the upward arrow meant backwards.  She just couldn’t get the hang of those arrows, no matter how many times she encountered them. 

As the ladies began to march ahead with great gusto, Cathy and Carolyn quietly faded into a local popular hunt – Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Parlor, while Phyllis and Ruth continued their trek to conquer fat cells.

That evening, Ruth decided to entertain the sleeping quartet with her own musical renditions of Miss Piggy.  You see, there is no subtle way to put it - Ruth snores.  Oh dear, now the whole world knows!!  Carolyn was too scared to move too much and awaken “the boss”.  She was the most silent member of the sleeping quartet.  We never heard from Ruthie again, so I don’t know if she ever got any sleep after we teased her so much.  Probably felt so guilty (as Ruth does) that she must have stayed up all night thereafter.  There was no more snoring from her pillow for the rest of the trip.

After a restful night for Ruth, the rest of the weary travelers packed their bags and departed from the dust bunny motel post haste.  It was a glorious day in the comfort of the Cadillac as the car gently followed the slow bends, opening up a new delight of landscape with each curve in the road.  As the car climbed the last roadway to the Inn and found a shade tree to park under, the doors opened and everyone stepped back into another time.  You could feel the ambiance of the old Vanderbilt/Webb estate beckoning you into its great vista rooms.  They were decorated with freshly cut flowers from the ground’s own Victorian gardens.  We were graciously greeted and invited to visit the estate before breakfast.  Out through the wide screen doors, we ventured onto the tranquil and endless manicured lawns and wonderful gardens that lay before us with Lake Champlain as the backdrop. 

After sampling the English garden with its fragrance, herb patches and beauty, the four of us strolled slowly back to the Inn and were ushered into the great dinning room.  Like ladies of nobility, we were seated in the grand hall.  Once again the décor of the room, the elegance of the fine china and bouquet of flowers made for such a pleasing sight.  Classical music played softly as we enjoyed the fresh fruit cups, crepes and other delights.  Soon it was time to leave the inn and hop on the wagon tour of Shelburne Farms.

The guide was pleasant enough, but Ruth, Phyllis and Carolyn thought that my version of the history of the farm was much more interesting.  After all, Bob and I had first hand knowledge of the farm when we stabled and raced Trillium Reflection on these very grounds 15 years ago.  Both of us have visited and toured the farm many times since then and had watched its restoration from the beginning.  Each time we came, we acquired a little more history of the majestic model farm that once totaled more than 4,000 acres. 

Everyone was awestruck by the Mule Barn with its inner courtyard that equals two football fields and the large corner turrets and copper roofs that stand boldly on guard against the blue sky.  This building once housed more than 100 mules in its day.  Now it is home to one the country’s finest cheddar operations, with the cheese made from the farm’s own prize dairy of Brown Swiss cows.

There was one special tour of the farm yet to be taken and that would prove to be one of the highlights of the trip.  The Breeding Barn or horse barn was now opened for tourists and so we horse crazed ladies boarded a van for the spectacle we were about to be treated to.

I had heard the stories of the magnificent riding arena that was a marvel in its day and still is today.  The story goes that Dr. Webb imported the finest Hackney stallions to be put at stud for the local farmers to improve their stock.  What Dr. Webb didn’t understand, was that Vermonters already had what they considered the perfect horse – the Morgan, durable and strong enough in the mountains and in the fields, fancy enough for a carriage.  Why fix something if it isn’t broke.  His kind offer of his prized Hackney stallions’ services for little or no stud fee, had no takers.  The proposed breeding program of Dr. Webb for the local inhabitants was a failure.  Adding insult to injury, the advent of the car, eventually over-shadowed the horse and its prominence in transportation and farm labour.  His beautiful stable and dream was abandoned.

The stable had fallen into disrepair over the years and was sadly neglected.  However, funding was found to restore it and what a prize it is.

As you enter through the mighty stone arches of the building, it is the immense size of the structure that literally takes your breath away.  Imagine if you will, a riding arena more than 400 feet in length and over 140 feet wide.  Imagine that facility filled will 60 box stalls, tack rooms, coach rooms, a balcony overlooking the arena, and a hay loft that goes on forever.  Imagine the hustle and bustle of grooms and trainers doing their daily routine.  Once again, just imagine life with the horse and carriage and how it must have been in this place so long ago. 

The great stable is looking for a purpose as the tour guide explained.  They are thinking of hosting special events and market type activities.  Being the horse people we were, we simply blurted out with all the enthusiasm we could muster – “it should be used as it was originally intended – it should be used for horses!”  Novel idea, the tour guide suggested.  “We’ve never had that idea put forth, but then again, we never had horse people before.”  She must have thought us a little strange, but the more she lingered on our proposal for horse events, the more she seemed to like it.  She must have thought those people from Canada have some good ideas!  We suggested a number of activities from polo matches for charity fund raising, to a Vermont showcase show for the Morgan Horse. 

We said goodbye to Shelburne Farms and headed south to Middlebury and the UVM Morgan Horse Farm. It would be our final destination of sightseeing for the day.  One quick stop at a tack shop along the way, and then on to UVM.

The young lady giving the tour (which happened to be the last tour of the day) was rather lackluster in her presentation.  Her “ho hum” guided tour was met with just as much enthusiasm by her guests.  She seemed a little off guard when I filled her in on some bio of some the farm’s famous residents, such as UVM Dexter (Moonraker’s sire) and the great world champion stallion, Royal Fleetson.  Of course, being an old timer in the breed I knew my Morgans and was quite willing to share some bit of history with friends, even if the official tour guide didn’t. 

Off to the famous Middlebury Inn.  We decided to dine in the inn’s pub room.  We chose the room because of its name – “The Morgan Room”.  Photos and paintings of famous Morgans hung on the wall.  The food was excellent and the evening most enjoyable.  Take Charge Phyllis took charge all right and stumbled on her way up the grand staircase to the ladies room.  After dinner and a quick walk about the historic town, we headed back to Shelburne and our new accommodations for the evening. 

After a restful night, we awoke to rain – lots of rain.  Ruth was our weather person who checked conditions every morning on her way out for a run.  I don’t think she ever did get a run in.  We dressed accordingly and headed off for our complimentary breakfast at the little establishment down the road.  You have to wonder when something is free.  Believe us, nothing is free.

We crowded into the tiny restaurant waiting patiently for our turn to be seated.  There were line crashers that day (not us) and a restaurant that was short of staff and short on temper.  We would later comment that a few of the waitresses needed a “happy pill”.  After an infinitely long period of time standing elbow to elbow, Take Charge Phyllis decided to investigate the seating situation and report back.  She marched forward, but with discretion, only to be quickly ushered back in line by the sergeant-in-arms.  It didn’t seem to matter that some ignorant patrons pushed their way by us and seated themselves.  It seemed to be the “pick on Canadians” day at the restaurant and other patient individuals. 

Phyllis decided she might pour us some coffee while we were waiting and headed towards the deserted coffeepot.  Take Charge Phyllis was once again dissuaded when one poor desperate soul grabbed the pot to pour himself a cup.  “That’s against the law, sir” the waitress bellowed for all to hear.  “You can’t serve yourself in here.”  A little embarrassed – or maybe a lot embarrassed, he retreated back to his seat.  Eventually we got service – well maybe not what you would call service.  As we were seated waiting for the waitress to finish taking our orders, Ruth’s school mom training came alive.  Ruth gritted her teeth every time the waitress opened her mouth.  It became a joke eventually.  All you had to do was look at Ruth and try not to laugh.  Her face said it all.  So, at every restaurant, we had a few chuckles when the waiter or waitress tripped up on their grammar and repeated such slang terms as “OK” and the like.  We wasted no time exiting that place.  Out in the pouring rain we dashed to the car.  It was off to Shelburne Museum for a day’s adventure. 

Only Phyllis had the foresight to bring an umbrella and it was far too small for all of us to fit under.  In the gift shop, Ruth and Carolyn decided to purchase the over-inflated priced clear garbage bag rain ponchos.  (Phyllis had another word for it, but it can’t be printed here – something to do with what the male species might use on occasion, if you get my drift.)   I declined to purchase the flimsy plastic and said that I wouldn’t melt in the rain.  Sure enough, the rain stopped mid way through the tour. 

We managed to take in about one third of the sites before leaving to catch the mid afternoon ferry across Lake Champlain to New York state.  Timing was perfect when Carolyn turned into the parking area at dockside.  She was particularly nervous when the cars were being loaded onto the ferry.  Parking attendants guided each driver into their prescribed tight space on the lower deck.  There was barely enough room to open your door and exit the vehicle.   All Carolyn could do was think of Bob’s car and that she better not scratch or ding it.  It might be an old Cadillac, but it was still as Cadillac!

The ferry ride would take one hour to reach the shores of New York State.  Everyone enjoyed the scenery, even on a cloudy day.  The shoreline was always in view.  Rocky projections of small islands jutted out of the water like stone green icebergs.  We decided to scout the waterline for signs of the mystical lake monster “Champ”.   It probably wasn’t sunny or warm enough for Champ to surface for a visit, as he was not sighted. 

Once the car rolled off the lowered drawbridge of the ferry, we headed what we thought was north towards Lake Placid.  Mistakenly we followed the highway (pardon me, that should be “route” as they call the highways in the U.S.)  9N, assuming that “N” meant north – NOT.  But being of the female persuasion, we didn’t drive too far out of our way before logically stopping to verify directions.  (I don’t know what it is about men, but they would never admit to being lost or helpless.)  Ruth, the only available lady in the group, liked the look of the attendant who gave us proper directions.  We told her she was robbing the cradle, but that didn’t seem to deter her.  She liked his smile, at least that’s what she said.  Back south we headed and picked up 9N that eventually headed north towards Lake Placid. 

On route we decided to find a rest room so that we might be more comfortable.  After a long stretch of scenic but winding highway, we came upon three signs – “clean”, “flush”, “toilets”.  Carolyn decided to signal and turn into the gas bar when Ruth noticed one more sign – “Phil Has Worms”.  That was the kicker that turned us all off – and so without missing a beat, Carolyn signaled back onto to the road and we continued.  I don’t think the bait sign went well with the theme of clean washrooms!  Soon we found a respectable place with washrooms, but once again, Carolyn had some difficulty in the rest room.  All I could here from a frantic sounding Carolyn was the word “SHI…..”  You see Carolyn had drop the car keys in the toilet bowl.  Since I was the one with dropsy, this wasn’t expected from Carolyn.  Luckily she had just flushed the toilet so at least the water was clean and the keys hadn’t penetrated any further.  After a little try off, the keys turned over the ignition and off we were again.

Eventually we found our way to the Olympic town of Lake Placid.  Wrong Way Carolyn some how made it into the parking lot of the motel, but only to the annoyance of other drivers trying to navigate around this detoured blue Caddy that was determined to come in the wrong way. 

Our accommodations were spacious and quite nice – pool side too.  Unpacked and ready for food, we strode off again to the Cadillac with Wrong Way Carolyn, who once again, thought that they had painted the angle parking lines wrong. 

We found a nice pasta place to dine at.  After dinner Take Charge Phyllis headed for the washroom.  You have to understand something about Phyllis.  She has great difficulty figuring out those little people characters you see posted on the washroom doors.  So in she went – INTO THE MEN’S WASHROOM!  Hardly frazzled by the episode, she excused herself and went into the appropriate bathroom.  One fellow told Phyllis that she might be quite welcomed in their rest room.   I’m not sure if that was a compliment?  There would be other episodes (two more in fact) where Take Charge Phyllis would enter the sacred domain of men.  In one of these instances, Wrong Way Carolyn followed right behind Phyllis into the men’s room only to notice a man standing there in bewilderment.  Ruth inevitably had to ask the question – were his hands up or down?  Carolyn was so embarrassed; she just wanted to make the quickest exit as possible.  And Take Charge Phyllis didn’t even notice the man!!

Once back in the hotel and after an evening swim in the pool, we decided to get ready for bed.  We all seemed thirsty, but only Ruth was still dressed.  Ruth devilishly encouraged myself and Carolyn to come with her to the vending machines down the hall.  So Ruth headed off along the passageway with Carolyn in her PJ’s and a sweater, and me in my “Pooh” nightshirt and jacket.  Strange looks were given by the passerby.  These vending machine vixens turned a few heads while they were dropping their coins in the machine, as Ruth of course (the famous lamp post lady) made the most of it.

In the morning, after one of Ruthie’s marathon morning put together, we left the hotel for a “shop till we drop” outing.  I think every boutique and antique store in Lake Placid saw our faces and sometimes wallets.  Ruth made her big purchase in one of the antique shops; an ornate lead/brass clothing hook featuring a large horse head in the centre.  She was so worried about Customs that she had us all going.  She was afraid she would be over her limit and for those of you who know Ruth, she kept repeating “I can’t lie”.  Wrong Way Carolyn assured her that it would be fine since the rest of us weren’t over our limit and she could just pond off some of her purchases to one of us.  Still Ruth was skeptical and continued to repeat the commandment “Thou shalt not lie”.

Exhausted, we made one more trip to Ben & Jerry’s before opening the trunk of the car one last time and making tracks north to Canada. 

The border crossing was a non-event, much to Ruth’s relief.  I thought Carolyn handled the nice customs officer well.  We stopped for dinner one last time and reminisced about our trip.  We must have made an impression in the restaurant as one old gentleman came over to our table to compliment us on our sense of humour.  He told us we would all live long lives if we kept that up. 

So as we headed out the door, once again Take Charge Phyllis entered the men’s room.  I don’t know, but I think her husband should know about her wayward tendencies….

Finally, the car turned down a familiar driveway and the trip was over far too soon.  We gave each other a hug and said goodnight.

WHERE THE DEER AND THE MORGANS DO PLAY

by Catherine Sampson

 

You must be wondering what on earth has the Morgan horse got to do with deer, if you're trying to hum the altered lyrics from that famous song "Home on the Range." Well, it's a rather long story but the two (deer and Morgan) do fit together in an odd sort of way as you will soon learn.

 

While away doing the horse show thing in late June one of the farm's boarders discovered  a wee fawn lying in the tall grass at the fringe of our woodland property. They decided to leave the fawn for the moment on advice of one zoo, but returned the following day only to find it was still there. With all good intentions of saving it from harm's way, especially since we were about to cut the hay fields, they cradled the tiny fawn in their arms and brought it home to their city dwelling. They placed it in the confines of their kitchen until they could figure out where to find a suitable zoo or animal welfare agency to take him. None was forthcoming.

 

After a week of desperation and  regular intense feedings in rather crowded quarters, the farm was contacted and asked if they could take the fawn until a suitable home could be found for the "abandoned" little one. Their attempts to find a rescue organization was fruitless. When it was learned that the deer was a buck I jokingly finished a conversation, asking the family to "take good care of Bucki" hence the name stuck. After consulting with a veterinarian concerning  any disease which a deer might carry that could affect horses, the farm agreed to keep the diminutive 16" fawn on an interim basis. So life began anew at the self-proclaimed temporary wildlife orphanage better known as the Trillium Morgan Horse Farm. 

 

The general suspicion was that the fawn was not abandoned but simply the result of a misguided, but well meaning "kidnapping" (a term used by animal rescue personnel).  During that same period a young doe had been spotted on a daily basis in close proximity to the discovery site so it was presumed that the baby was hers. Eventually, the doe moved on leaving Bucki totally dependent on human kindness for his very survival.

 

Now the monumental task at hand was for the well being of this young deer while searching for an appropriate home. What to do? 

 

First priority was to establish a volunteer group of foster moms to handle the demanding feeding routine of this newborn fawn. A schedule was quickly drawn up with feedings dedicated at four hour intervals. For the first while finding volunteers wasn't a problem but as the month passed by it was evident that more foster moms were needed in order to maintain the feverish feeding timetable Bucki required. By word and mouth, trying to keep a low profile as not to exploit the young deer with curiosity seekers, the farm recruited others to help out. Bucki grew and grew under the constant eyes and attention of his care givers and the company of Morgan horses. 

 

No one had ever had the inclination or opportunity to raise a deer before so the frenzied search for information on "Cervidae" began in earnest. This was the infancy of the internet so finding credible advice was scarce. Through libraries and in conversation with deer farms and zoos these sources produced some insight. With the farm's knowledge of raising foals, this too was added to the stash of applied deer management. But it was Bucki himself who taught us about Bucki. He showed us his alien habits which of course are quite normal for a deer; he showed us what food stuffs he preferred and how we were to communicate with him through posture and deer language, sort of mimicking "the road runner" beeps. Talk about linguistic barriers!  

On his outside adventures restrained by a cat  harness, Bucki took a shine to the old Morgan stallion, Foxy. With "David  and Goliath" muzzles meeting, Foxy blew typical warm horse greetings into Bucki's inquisitive reaching nose. Bucki quickly retreated from the acquaintance. Yet, day-after-day  he would steal a glance of  unquenched curiosity as he silently tip toed by the old horse's paddock carefully avoiding that big wind in the face.

Then came the day when Bucki found some meager semblance of freedom. He was introduced to the expanse of the indoor arena. He would quickly learned that this was playtime!! 

Dutifully, he would follow his foster mom passing the horses in cross ties focusing warily on the barn cats and dogs before entering into the arena. He was a stand up comedian, entertaining on all four long reaching legs. Speedier than the swiftest racehorse, quicker than the fast twitch of a cutting horse, there went Bucki, flying full tilt with rapid fire of dirt pluming behind him, dodging imaginary logs and rock. And that tail - flagging straight up - trotting like a park horse and sniffing the air with a regal presence and who can forget those radar ears and enormous angelic eyes, full of innocence and mischief.  That was our Bucki.These White Tails are marvelous creatures, perfectly adaptable with a conformation design in harmony with their natural environment and ultimate challenge.  The strength and power in their hind legs can be menacing yet they appear as graceful as a ballerina and as silent as a cat. 

Bucki had his favourite moms who devoted most of the time to him. I was his early morning mom. I had the honours of giving Bucki his first feed of the day. I was eagerly greeted with hordes of deer kisses and loud howls of hunger as he clambered onto my lap reaching for the temperate bottle of warm nourishment. During these 5:30 a.m. meals, Bucki downed each bottle with utter contentment as he suckled hard and fast, pulling and pushing on the nipple with gusto. It wasn't unusual for him to polish off 34 ounces at one go making room between bodily functions of course! Finally satisfied, he would drop to his knees in solitude and curl up for a little nap as his neighbours munched away on their morning hay. 

Laurie handled the majority of Bucki's afternoon feedings and outdoor exercise time.  At the end of each session, Bucki could be heard wailing through the barn for his companion. Laurie always offered him lots of hand rubs while making gift offerings of apple slices and clover buds to chew on. 

He warmed to her company and soft assuring voice as she positioned herself in a restful pose on the foot stool, strategically placed within the camouflage of the converted horse stall. The miniature Sherwood Forest was designed to encourage natural foraging admist an  assortment of tree branches, dandelions and the like. 

But his most trusting mom was Ruth. Ruth got the night shift with Bucki and it was during this feeding that he became the most active and playful. Anyone who knows Ruth, knows the patience and love she has for animals. Bucki bonded completely with her over the many late hours of evening quiet. He would hasten to her call when she would cheerily announce "Bucki ---- it's you're nighttime mom." It would be Ruth who would come to the rescues in the scary thunder storms and the perils of harness catches. It would be Ruth who would gently wipe the crust of sticky pablum from his nose and forehead. And it would be Ruth who would have the last of the goodbyes when he was given over to the care of Chris and Pete for safekeeping and final release. 

By the middle of his third month it was evident that we could no longer give him what he needed. Bucki was becoming bigger and stronger  with each new light of day. In just two and a half months he had grown six inches at the shoulder and gained 30 lbs. in weight.  It was difficult to maintain him in the small dog harness he had graduated. He strained to run free when his walks took him from the stall to the arena. The playing had become more aggressive too.The hind stance, the bunting and the "catch me if you can" was increasingly more energetic and prolonged. He was eyeing the kick boards and was now able to reach the top edge of them when he jumped up to greet his moms. The daily log book was consuming two pages of detail rather than just a paragraph. It was time to move on!

Although we had found domestic deer farms that would take him, all of us knew that he deserved a chance to be returned to the wilderness if possible. He would not be happy confined nor would his wild inbred spirit betray him. And so it was through contacts at the Ministry of Natural Resources that a wildlife sanctuary was found. 

Since the location of the deer keepers cannot be divulged for the privacy and security of the animals, we can however tell you that Bucki adjusted well at the Sanctuary as witnessed by his transporters. When Laurie, Ruth and I opened his crate in the large dense natural bush compound, he very cautiously took his first steps out of the carrier and onto the path which would eventually lead towards ultimate freedom. 

Greeting him was another young fawn. At first Bucki was a little taken aback. He'd never seen another fawn before. Soon after he introduced himself to 17 other fawns of similar size and circumstance as he explored the grounds of his new home leaving not a twig unnoticed. Bucki now had 18 new friends that looked just like him! He had in essence entered deer academy. The human influence would now slowly be withdrawn allowing him to act more on his instincts.

The next summer, the wildlife sanctuary reported that all of their 23 rescued fawns had been successfully released, including the tiny fragile three legged doe. She had lost her hind leg in a farm machinery accident. And what about the affectionate and cheerful Rudy and her curious friends and the big late summer buck who would stomp in defiance at our approach?  All of them were free at long last to travel and revel in the timberland forest uninhibited by fence or hand.  They were declared real bona fide deer no longer wards of humanity's goodwill.

Bucki became love struck about mid March, just as the weather started to break. A faint scent of spring anointed the cool and silent still air. The north had seen a heavy snowfall that winter past stunting last autumn's six foot high chain link fence. The less imposing fortress would entice the deer to explore their outdoor domain beyond the protective bounds of the wire.  

A wayward doe, lingering outside the compound had made her presence known to our Bucki. He must have seemed utterly irresistible! With the lure of the soft eyed doe Bucki went head over heels, or rather heels over fence and found a mate to share the early spring with. He and his young miss returned on occasion to the easy feeding grounds of the compound area. They were not seen again.

 

In the magic light of a cool fall evening, the White Tails will come again to browse on the hay field for the last feast of summer's sweet alfalfa flowers. When the flag is raised and bounce engages, we'll wonder how Bucki’s life was. He will be welcomed  by the applause of  the poplars in a gentle breeze, sheltered by the mothering arms of the great spruce, pine  and balsam, we bid him adieu.

-----

Postscript:  There were hard lessons learned here. Public education about wildlife is needed.To share with you our experience is our way of helping bridge that lack of knowledge and ignorance.If you find a fawn by the edge of a field or forest, leave it unless you know for certain of its mother's demise.The doe places her  fawn in a quiet area and teaches it to lie still and silent. The fawn doesn't travel with its mother for the first while. It stays in the same location, unless moved for safety.The doe doesn't stay for long periods, as fawns are born without scent as a protection against attracting predators.  Therefore, the doe doesn't want to leave her scent on her helpless fawn. White Tail deer are primarily browsers and are not like the domesticated European deer in petting zoos who generally graze. Deer chew cud, just like cows, enabling them to eat, flee danger, and finish their food later. Deer are very timid but social and will take to humans readily if given the chance. (Not wise when they are to be returned to the wild and the presence of hunters, their most dangerous adversary.) Finally, in Ontario it's illegal to keep deer without a permit. Let's face it, a doe makes a better mom and teacher than we substitute humans could ever be. 

WINKS, CHUCKLES AND TEARS FROM THE STABLE

I thought I might pen a few moments from my past that remain truly memorable. Some are funny, some are sad, some just plain silly. Hop on the hay wagon and listen in as I tell some wild tales that are in fact true stories and not fables. (No names are used to protect the identity of the person(s) involved.)

A STRIP TEASE MOMENT

This incident happened years ago, but was so hilarious Bob and I will never forget this day as it is burned in our memories.

We owned a playful young stallion that we purchased in hopes of gelding and making a nice lesson horse out of him. He was quite the character and very mischievous. Not bad, just a joker much like Opal. That is one thing I like about stallions; they are never boring and full of personality.

This one particular day our Gambler (that was his name) decided to have some fun with his handler who was leading him out to pasture for a pleasant day on the grass. Normally well behaved, he must have had a glint in his eye during that brief walk to the gate. The petite blond on the end of the lead shank strolled right along beside him. I think her shiny black dome pants were an attraction to him. Not sure what you call these things; Bob calls them dating pants,  but what happened next brought us to hysterics.

In an instant, the folly began. Gambler snatched the silken material between his teeth popping the fasteners on the pants. It left the embarrassed woman naked with just a skimpy thong barely covering the unmentionables. The harder she tried to retrieve her pants with one hand while hold onto the lead shank with the other, the more Gambler tossed the flimsy pants in the wind shaking them like a rag. I'm sure if a horse could laugh, he would be laughing tears. Bob and I were beside ourselves with laughter watching the stallion tease the woman for what seemed an eternity before he became bored with his antics. Eventually he dropped the pants, The owner quickly pulled them on the refastened several strategic domes. Not a word was spoken as she return from the pasture but she did have a scarlet face!

DON'T WEAR YOUR HAIR IN A PONY TAIL

This is another classic from the past again involving a young stallion.

We had a two year old Saddlebred stallion in for harness training many moons ago. He wasn't a particularly rowdy lad, but his hormones were raging with spring in the air. I wouldn't say he was a terrible bright individual, but he was quite stylish in his jet black coat, prancing to the beat of his own drum. We were in the early stages of long lining the young stallion when a strange incident happened. I had an assistant at the time heading the horse with a shank for the first few lessons while I long lined from the side, my header walked slightly ahead and to the side of the horse holding a loose safety line. After a few laps of the arena, the stallion slowly started to change his posture to a more regal pose. His gait became a little more lively. "Oooh, he stepping out quite handsomely ." I thought to myself. Then I noticed the neck stiffen and the nostrils flare. He was quite intrigued by my handler's pony tail that was sashaying from side to side. The stallion's eyes widened with excitement and he focused intently on that pony tail. At the last moment before he was about to mount the unsuspecting woman, I pulled him up and yelled my cautious to her. Never again did she put her hair in a  pony tail when working around this teenager young stud. That was a close one.

AN ARCH ENEMY FOR CAPTAIN

I have a plastic life size horse head I bought to demonstrate bit pressure during one of my workshops. We were going to rig sensors to it so it would register how much pressure was being exerted by different bits. One day the head was resting on the bench in the main aisle. I don't remember how it came to be there. The thing always reminds me of the movie "The Godfather" with the gruesome beheaded horse in the bed. I guess it also has a negative effect on good old Captain.

Bob was playing around with it one day pretending it was a live horse and even vocalized whinnies. Well,,,, Captain perked right up in his stall and grew another foot in height as Bob approached his stall with head in hand. Captain growled his disapproval that this bodiless horse would dare enter the sanctuary of his space. He screamed and banged at the door his protest. To this day, if anyone carries that dummy horse head around, Captain becomes very agitated and bold. At 16.1, who wants to argue with this large Morgan!

NECK REINING

Another funny bone moment was when a client of ours - let's call B, was working on his cantering on his mare LE. He set up for the big heave ho and put the mare into the canter phase. All was going well until the mare momentarily lost her footing slightly. The sudden drop of head and unbalanced rider found our Mr. B in a very awkward position to be riding the canter.  Round and around he went at the canter clinging to his horse's head while somehow balancing on her neck. Thank heavens it was a Morgan with strong muscles and not a horse to panic easily. I think he might have been trying to steer her by using the horse's ears but we were all laughing so hard, the tears coming down our faces skewed our view. I'm not sure how many laps of the arena he made but it was more than two. After an endless period of time, the mare broke to a trot and then to a walk with Mr. B still hanging on for dear life to her head and neck while wrapping his legs around her neck. LE finally stopped and lower her head to deposit Mr. B on his feet no less, his nerves rattled but all in one piece.

WHIP CROSSING

Once upon a horse show, we were having difficulty loading a junior horse in the trailer on our way home. We had practiced loading at home and even trailered her prior to the show. She was good being loaded to go to the show but when it was time to go home, she preferred to stay on the show grounds. After half an hour or longer, we were getting exasperated. By this time, we had a small crowd of helpful spectators sharing with us their wisdoms for loading. Now this is rather embarrassing since we don't normally have any problems loading our horses. We train them beforehand so this sort of thing doesn't happen. After being nice for so long, a fellow show competitor by the name of Mr. D suggested we give the mare one good crack of the whip as a last resort and see if that would persuade her bullish attitude to move forward. This is not what I like doing but it was getting dark and the parade of trailers were quickly dwindling from the show grounds. Sooooo,,,, I wound up real good and as I released the lash to its target, Mr. B (yes, the same Mr. B from the story about Neck Reining) walked into my path. The whip laid hard on it new target and as Mr. B yelled out in excruciating pain, the mare jumped into the trailer before the whip was recoiled. I'm sure she was thinking it would probably be aimed at her next. The horse was loaded, Mr. B had a stinging arm and I was red faced. He never let me forget it and warned passersby that I was deadly with a whip. That raised welt on his arm lasted for a week or more.

MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL

I had purchased a couple of Morgan mares to use in my lesson program a few years ago. Both horses had come from another lesson barn. They were used as hunters so I thought I might have some new talent to add to my lesson program. The mares were quite cranky when I got them so I gave them a year off to settle and have a break from the often monotonous routine of life as a lesson horse. Since my lessons are all private, I was hopeful these girls would fit in to a less aggressive lesson program.

I started the horses back slowly and had just finished working the larger mare on the line. I turned her loose at the end of her workout for a little play time. The arena was void of any other horses; just her and I filling the vast space. Above the 4' kickboard and about another foot higher, was a large mirror fixed to a thick sheet of plywood. It was a handy tool for riders to check their position while riding. Both the new mares had been the arena for the past year and were aware of their reflection on the wall. But this particular day the big black mare decided to challenge the image. She was cantering around the arena seemingly glad to be free of the lounge line. Suddenly she turned on her haunches and barrel towards the end of the arena. She was charging like a bullet when all of a sudden she sprang into the air clearing the kick board and crashing into the mirror some 5 or 6 feet above the ground. The impact shock the wall and the terrible smashing sound of glass tore the horse apart as she slid down to the ground in a heap. My emergency first aid care took over as I summoned for a veterinarian and worked on keeping pressure on the wound that was bigger than my fist. It was a gruesome injury that lay open the horse's chest. Ice packs and towels held tightly slowed the bleed. Horses have a very long clotting time so you can imagine how it seemed like an eternity before the veterinarian arrived to clean and suture the wound.

The horse spend three months on stall rest and then another couple of months hand walking before everything healed completely. A very faint scar is all that was left as evidence of such a terrible accident. The mare was cleared as sound again and later sold.

That mirror that hung in our arena for some many years, has never been replaced.

BREEDING REQUEST

This had to be one of the strangest inquiries we had regarding a prospective client wanting to breed to our stallion. The problem was, the owner wanted to breed her nice GELDING. I said to her "you mean your mare." The response was dead serious with just a touch off annoyance detected in her voice.  "No. my lovely gelding." was her reply. I tried to explain to her that you can't possibly breed a gelding to a stallion. A mare yes, a gelding no. Trying to be delicate in my education of this horse owner, I had to restrain the urge to giggle loudly. I think the conversation ended in confusion or maybe embarrassment. Needless to say I never heard back from her again.


I HAVE A QUESTION

For decades we hosted many educational workshops here at the farm. One of the most popular workshops was one called The Confident Rider with Dr. H and myself. It was a huge success every time we offered it. Sold out for many years in fact. So many riders were looking for some skills and tools to help overcome their fears and develop new confidence in their riding careers. During one of these workshops when we opened the session up to questions from the floor, we received the oddest question. Dr. H was handling the psychology part of the program, while I dealt with the trainer and coaching side. The woman stood up, dressed in the high heels, a very fashionable dress complete with fancy hat and sumptuous jewelry. It was the sort of attire you don't often see or worn in a barn, but this doctor (yes, doctor) stood up and addressed the panel.

Everyone's eyes were trained on this stylish lady standing in a packed room of fellow equestrians giving careful thought to their upcoming questions they posed for Dr. H and I. She stood perfectly straight and clear of voice asking Dr. H and I the following question: "Why doesn't someone design a saddle with seatbelts and roll bars?" The classroom erupted into a roar of laughter but the doctor wasn't laughing, She was dead serious and never swayed. Her ego didn't seem bruised as she looked perplexed at the hysterical howls of laughter she encountered. Keeping a straight face, Dr. H tried to answer the participant's question with tact and diplomacy while suppressing those little giggles of humor in the back of her throat. Moving on.....

'MAYBE YOU'VE HEARD OF ME?'

Well I'm not that good at recognizing celebrities but I've had a few come through the doors of the stable over the years. Our farm has been used on occasion for movie production. On one of those occasions, the farm was transformed into a giant movie set for the filming of an episode for a popular children's show that is still in production today. The two hosts of the show introduced themselves to me while the film crew was setting up their volumes of equipment and cameras. Since I don't have children, I was sadly unaware of who they were and what celebrities they are on television. It was a long day of shooting and I gained an marvelous insight into the magic of movie making. Do you recognize them?

We had another television show produced at the farm but no surprises with that one. However, I received a rather interesting call one day.

The male voice on the other end of the line inquired about taking some private riding lessons. He explained that he was house sitting for a few days and had seen our farm sign offering lessons. I was open for a lesson the following day and put him on the board. He told me his name and then there was a pause on the other end of the line. "Maybe you have heard of me?" was his delayed response. "Sorry no I don't think so." was my reply. Then another query came my way, "Maybe you have heard of my band? We are quite well known." Again my reply was "Sorry, no." After we hung up, I turned to my farm manager and asked her if she knew of this person. Her mouth dropped open in stunned disbelief. "What?" I asked. Apparently this person was a famous rock star, but since those days are past for me the famous rock band was not on my radar.

The next day my new student arrived for his lesson. So flabbergasted that I didn't know who he was, he decided to prove to me he really was a famous singer. So right then and there he delivered his own rendition of the Elvis Presley classic "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" Wow, he really could sing!

I put him up on Joy and he seemed mesmerized by the horse. He's a big animal lover and just seemed enthralled with his lesson although he moved rather stiffly when he dismounted. So here you go, recognize him?

SNAKES AND LADDERS

We sold one of our most beautiful Morgan fillies to a client whose pockets were deep. Since I was very hesitant on parting with the lovely horse, the price tag was high. Reluctantly I made the sale. When you are in the business of breeding, you also have to sell your good ones.

A year or two after the sale, I got a call from the owner extolling such wonderful praise and jubilance over this smart filly. She couldn't get over how intelligent the mare was after an incident that happened sometime during the blackness of night. The peril that could have beset the horse was but a miracle that she was left unharmed. As the owner began to tell me what happened, I couldn't believe what I was hearing and shuttered to think was she was going to reveal next.

A very long extension ladder had been left in the yard where the horses were milling around during the evening. Knowing horses, they are accidents waiting to happen. Leaving such things as ladders and machinery in easy access of horses is not a wise decision. To make a long story short, the Morgan filly somehow got her head stuck between the rings of the ladder. For hours she walked around the crowded paddock with a huge necklace hanging from her neck. The ladder was fully extended. I can just imagine the panic as horses were being bumped and prodded by the extension ladder that had suddenly grown legs. Through it all the little Morgan kept her cool and stood quite still for hours on end before someone came to relieve her of her burden. That mill stone was finally removed and other than some strained neck muscles she escaped rather unscathed.

A LAKE CROSSING

We have had many an interesting trip with Big Blue and our six horse van over the years. One memorable trip was on a return trip from Vermont. We had dropped of a horse and were turning around for the trip back to Canada that same day. A storm warning was in effect so we wanted to try and get ahead of it. Instead, we ran smack into it. Try crossing a small low bridge in a blinding snow storm with deep water on either side of you as the bridge ices from the spray of the lake churned up by the strong winds of the north. The choppy waves where like the grim reaper beckoning us to the deep. Chills still run down my spine when I think of that terrifying journey across Lake Champlain. The flakes of snow were so thick it was almost impossible to see what lay ahead. I don't think I breathed the entire crossing, or at least very little. I was so relieved when we reached the shore in New York State.

DREAMING OF GALLOPING HOOVES

It happened on a steaming hot and still summer's night. It was a very long time ago and for some reason, I had to put three horses out in the paddock for the night. I never leave horses out at night as a rule so there must have been no room in the inn. I can't recall the reason, but it was a one time situation. I may have had extra horses in for training. It was a very temporary thing. Now back to the story.

The three horses were left happily grazing in the field backed up with hot wire to ensure their safe containment. All seemed well when I slipped away and fell heavily into sleep for the night. I left the window open to catch any passing breeze that might lift the heat of the day and carry it away. It was a peaceful slumber as I dreamt of galloping horses. It was so real that I actually woke. I listened carefully but everything was quiet. I went back to sleep and soon returned to my rest. The galloping horses entered my dream wave once again. So real! It brought me back to a conscious state. I decided I better check on the horses just in the event my vivid dream was more than that. 

I pulled on some day clothes and walked out the back door. To my surprise the three amigos greeted me in the driveway. I believe Captain was the ringleader followed by Gem and Joy. The horses followed me down to the stable as I led one of them by their halter. I secured them in another paddock until morning when I could check the fence line by the light of day. 

Later that morning I had a visitor to the farm. It was one of my neighbours up the road who asked me if I was missing any horses. "Humm... I don't think so." I replied to his question. "Let's go and check the field" I said as we walked to the paddock where the three horses were grazing. "No. They are all accounted for." I said. He gave me a strange look and then went on to tell me that he had an official from the municipality check his lawn for some large greenish brown deposits he found. The very proper official identified them. Horse manure was the conclusion of his investigation. 

I don't know how I ever kept a straight face. Then I shifted the blame to my good friend and neighbour who had a pair of Belgians in the field directly across the road from the lawn in question. I suggested that maybe they got out in the night and dined on his beautiful manicured greens. The old fellow shook his head in disbelief and left more confused than ever. 

I later shared my guilt with the farmer in question who always appreciated a good joke. He laughed so hard I thought he would pass out. Not his horses! The manure piles would be larger! He has since passed but I think he is still laughing as I write this post.

Now the moral of this story is that if your dream seems that life-like, then it probably isn't a dream. Those galloping hooves were in fact the threesome galloping on the pavement outside my window as they tore up the road and then came trotting home.