Today, let's continue on with another chapter in our farm story....
It was a hot, humid morning in August. The cicadas were chirping loudly in the woods surrounding the farm. They had recently replaced the lovely birdsongs that I had enjoyed in the earlier months of this particular summer. As I drove the gator down the lane back to the barn, sweat dripped from my brow. I had just finished weed-whacking around our beehives and could hardly wait to get back to the barn to remove my suffocating bee suit… necessary when working around bees who were as irritable as I was from the sweltering heat. It was that time of summer when weeds flourish… their long taproots reaching deep enough to find the moisture that escapes the less fortunate, brown, crunchy grass. The drought had given us a reprieve from mowing, but not from trimming weeds.
As I drove, I unzipped the mesh head covering from my bee suit and leaned my head to the side of the gator, hoping to catch a breeze. I shook my hair, trying to un-stick my sweaty bangs from my forehead, and cast a glance through the horses’ dry lot to the front pasture on the other side of the fence. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of my two tiny horses - Ollie (Oliver Twist), and his half-brother, Red. I had put them out in the front pasture to graze earlier that morning.
Every day since their arrival I had felt an enormous sense of responsibility for these two tiny newcomers. They were the first things I thought of in the early light of dawn each morning as I headed out to the barn and the last ones I checked on each evening as the sun sunk low on the horizon. Because they were so very tiny, we had sectioned off a portion of our existing dry lot and added a second run-in shed to keep them safely out from under the larger horses’ hooves.
Now, as I headed back to the barn, I searched the grassy pasture that lay beyond the larger horses’ dry lot. My tiny horses were not within my line of sight, however, so I parked the gator in front of the barn and walked over to the fence. I scanned the front pasture. There was Red, happily munching grass. Ollie, however, was not with him.
I scanned the pasture again… from the north where the 250-year-old log cabin sat next to the far end of the pasture, through the locust grove that sat low in the middle section, to the southern-most fence. No Ollie. There was only one area that I could not see… the blind spot that lay beyond the “Littles’” run-in shed.
As my eyes traced the line of the fence, they were suddenly riveted to a spot in the “Bigs’” dry lot.
My heart sank. What… it couldn’t be… oh, Dear God….NO!!!
Something white and crumpled lay in the far corner of the horses’ dry lot. In front of it stood Donnie Brasco, our pony, with Moonbeam, our thousand (plus) pound Haflinger, a few yards in front of him.
“Oh, God, no!...” I sobbed, “no…. not my baby….Oh please, nooooooo…..!
Sobs racked my body as an endless pit of grief filled my soul. Somehow my tiny white horse had rolled under the fence between the horses’ dry lot and the front pasture and was lying, trampled, in the corner.
I felt the sting of bile creeping up my throat as I clung to the fence, wailing. I was home alone. There was no one to help me with this situation. I had to check my tiny horse. Maybe he wasn’t dead… maybe he needed help. I had to get on my feet and take care of my baby. I had to get off the ground.
I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my bee suit and pulled myself up on the fence. I dug deep and mustered the super-human strength of motherhood, forcing myself to once again look in the corner of the dry lot. I wiped my eyes again.
What? What was that? My mind whirled in confusion. I walked over to the gate, just seven feet away, opened the latch and walked into the dry lot.
Oh. My. God. It had finally happened. I had lost my mind. Seriously. My eyes had tricked me, and my emotions had gone along for the ride.
There, lying in the corner of the dry lot, what I had thought was my tiny baby horse, trampled by a 1000+ pound draft horse, was a crumpled piece of white, accordion-plastic, downspout extender. I had installed this downspout-extender just a couple of weeks before, to divert rainwater away from the barn. Apparently Moonbeam had spent the morning playing with it until it was barely recognizable.
I searched the pasture for Ollie and found him happily munching grass in the shade of the run-in shed… the only blind spot in the entire pasture. Needless to say, tears had turned to hysterical laughter at my own idiocy and ensuing theatrics.
I looked beyond the front pasture to our neighbor’s house, hoping that no one had been home to witness my histrionics, and made a mental note to call the optometrist. Perhaps it was time for new glasses.
Life with Ollie was unpredictable for sure… beginning with his arrival, two months earlier, which was completely unplanned.
Becky, Jack’s sister, had telephoned one morning early in June of that summer to ask if I might be interested in adopting a 3-week-old, orphaned, miniature horse from a client’s miniature horse farm. Becky, an equine vet, was going to have to euthanize his mother, who had developed a neurologic condition. The client was so overcome with grief at the thought of losing the mother that she didn’t think she could properly care for the orphan. She felt that a constant reminder of her precious mare was more than she could bear.
I had never considered the world of miniature horses. We had our Moonbeam and a companion pony, as well as Becky’s three large horses… a trio of bay colored bookends. Fagner was her Eventing horse, a large, blackish-brown Hanoverian horse with a white stripe down his nose. Duffy, a retired lesson horse of unknown breeding, was his companion and perfect match in color. Ava was the newest of Becky’s herd… an off-the-track, young thoroughbred and perfect match to the other two.
“Why not!” I said nervously. I was used to big horses. How hard could a little one be?
Very soon Becky would be moving her horses into her newly built barn and we would have plenty of room… especially for a pint-sized version of a horse. I needed to run this by Jack, first, and called him at work.
“Of course!” he said. “He needs a home and we have plenty of room.” Jack was the ultimate softy for any animal who needed a home.
I called Becky back.
“Ok, let’s do this!” I said.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
An unexpected adventure had just begun! My stomach filled with butterflies, and my brain with all kinds of questions. Remembering that Becky had written the only book in print about the veterinary care of miniature horses, Miniature Horses: A Veterinary Guide for Owners and Breeders, I knew that everything would be just fine. I had the expert living right here on the farm.
I had wondered how we would transport this tiny horseling.
Then I saw the dog crate on the back seat of her truck. Wow! My new horse would fit inside of that? I was amazed.
We drove the half hour to a miniature horse farm in the next county. It seems most horse farms in our area lie at the end of long driveways, and this was no exception. We had driven up a long hill as we approached the farm, which was situated on a high plateau overlooking most of the county. There were two large horse barns surrounded by several sprawling pastures with miniature horses of all colors happily grazing.
Becky knew which barn housed the sick mama, so we made our way inside and down the stall aisle. The owner, who was keeping watch over her sick mare and foal, met us in the barn. Sadness hung like fog in the barn. Difficult goodbyes were imminent. We slowly and quietly entered the stall to meet the soon-to-be-orphaned youngster. I was shocked at how small he was. The size of a whippet, with legs as spindly and similar body shape… this 3-week-old stood just 22 inches tall.
He was covered in white and beige hair with a fluffy white mane that clung to the back of his neck like cotton candy. A white, dust-mop of a tail, hung between his back legs… just six inches long. The gravity of the moment kept me from truly enjoying his adorableness. That could wait until we took him home to our farm.
Becky had drawn up the Euthanasia solution ahead of time and was ready for had to happen next. We put a halter on mother and son and led them both out of the barn. I led Ollie (there was never any doubt that his name would have to be Oliver Twist) towards Becky’s truck, while Becky and the owner led the mother down the driveway.
It would be easier to give the mother the injection in the grass away from the barn, as removing the body from the barn afterwards is nearly impossible.
Putting a horse “down” is an accurate descriptor. A sedative is injected intravenously, followed by a large dose of barbiturates. Most horses just go to sleep and slowly collapse to the ground. The hardest part is the heart wrenching decision and the emotions that accompany the procedure.
Goodbyes were said… and it was all over in a matter of moments. Becky and the owner walked back to the truck. We quietly loaded Ollie into the dog crate, hugged the owner, and headed home.
The whole morning had been a surreal mixture of grief and excitement and I was eager to start this new chapter in our farm life.
It wasn’t until we reached our farm and unloaded our tiny horse that I realized that he had one blue eye and one brown eye. He was definitely unique!
We had made a home for him in our largest stall. A locked, Dutch door had separated the stall from the larger horses in the dry lot. We left the top half of the door open so that they could all meet this new tiny addition.
They were as curious about him as he was about them. Many hours were spent with “Bigs” and “Little” nose to nose, separated only by the bottom half of that door. Ollie would stretch his his little neck until his nose touched that of one of the big horses and chomp his teeth together in an act of submission. He was smart enough to realize that they had size on their side.
From that first day on, Ollie had an “I’ll do it my way!” kind of attitude. He put his foot down and refused the milk-replacers. He was too young to be fully weaned, but he didn’t see it that way. If he couldn’t have his Mama, he wasn’t going to take a substitute. He was so tiny… and we were so afraid he would not develop properly… that he would fail to thrive.
But, with time, he showed us all. He ate his hay and his vitamin supplement. We took him out in the grass around the barn and let him graze several times each day… and slowly over the next few weeks he began to put on weight.
Two weeks passed and it was obvious that our little Ollie was out of the woods. Our little orphan was a fighter, but he was not about to do it in a conventional way. No, it was his way or no way. And so I learned patience with this little fellow. He was a sweet baby that had to find his way in a big world without the help of his mother. I felt much like I had when my own children were babies… carrying the enormous weight of of motherhood responsibility.
Time changes when a baby enters your life. For a period of time, none of life’s activities are as important as the needs of the baby. This is as true for farm babies as it is for human babies. Animals do not live by the clock. They live by their bodily impulses. Meshing a human schedule with animal needs can be a bit challenging at times.
One day, shortly after Ollie had arrived, I was ready to go into town for a trip to the grocery and hardware store. I stopped by the barn to throw the horses a flake of hay and decided to let Ollie out for a few moments of grazing. He spent a few minutes munching on the grass growing around our outdoor horse shower. Then, the most peculiar thing happened. He nosed around the stones on the rubber mats, and lay down as if he were going to roll a bit. Instead of rolling, he stretched out his legs and fell fast asleep - so deeply so, that I could not arouse him.
I was ready to head to town, but he was in the midst of a nap. It was a nap that lasted for 15 minutes - right there in the middle of that warm rubber mat. I suppose the warmth lulled him right to sleep. So I sat there beside him and stroked his soft baby fur. Ollie had found a permanent soft spot in my heart. I loved this little horse. My trip to town could wait. This sweet time was for savoring.
Becky warned me that I would need to be firm with Ollie and to not ignore any bad behavior. Without a mother to teach them manners, orphaned horses tend to develop bad habits that can be hard to break. I found, however, that it was very difficult to wield horse-like punishments to a tiny horse that looks like a stuffed animal. And so, as predicted, Ollie grew to be headstrong, independent and slightly obnoxious.
As summer’s end neared, it became obvious that Ollie needed a friend his own size. I called the farm where Ollie had been born.
“Ollie is getting along great! He had a little bit of a rocky start, but he’s thriving now,” I assured his previous owner. “The thing is… I think he needs a friend his own size. Do you have any youngsters available for sale?”
“I have three colts that are ready to go and one of them is Ollie’s half brother. He’s three months older… a handsome red and white chap, just as nice as can be. Why don’t you come out and take a look at him.”
So that was that… without hesitation, we agreed to purchase Ollie’s half-brother. I knew, by reputation, that any horse she had on her farm would be in tip-top shape.
Without the task of putting a horse down, this trip to the mini-horse farm was a much happier one than the previous one had been. This time Becky and I drove the twisting country roads in my Honda Element. A four-month-old mini horse with adequate nutrition would never have fit in a dog crate – and Becky’s horse trailer would be way too spacious. The cargo space of my Element would work perfectly.
Knowing we could hose out the back of the car after our adventure, we filled the cargo space with wood chips - just in case.
Arriving at the farm, I was in miniature horse heaven. Before adopting Ollie, I had no idea how much fun these tiny equine versions could be. Having two would double the fun! We headed into the barn to meet Ollie’s brother.
There he was… brushed clean and shiny… ready for his adventure.
He was a slightly larger red and white version of the tiny horse back in my own barn. He had the same white cotton candy mane and tail with red fur in every place that Ollie had tan fur. “Red” (there was no other name more perfect) had two sky-blue eyes that made him look like a carousel horse. He was precious.
We chatted with the owner… mostly about Ollie and how he had gotten along in the past two months. Goodbyes were said, hugs were given, the check passed hands, and we were ready to head for home.
We lifted Red into the back of the Element, and I hopped in to hold his lead rope. We drove home at a snail’s pace (which is fine when you are on back country roads) so that Red could maintain his balance. It was obvious that Red was just a little more than nervous as he shot a stream of liquid manure over the back floor of the Element. The wood chips did their job.
Once home, we unloaded little Red from the vehicle and brought Ollie out from the barn stall in which he was currently living. Red seemed a little disoriented as the two sniffed noses. Ollie immediately started gnashing his teeth in submission and Red relaxed. Smart Ollie. He knew how to make a good first impression. These two would be good buddies.
We moved Red into Ollie’s stall as the curious “Bigs” once again hung their heads over the Dutch door. Curiosity was satisfied and the horses of all sizes settled into their daily routines. A new normal had been established.
It soon became apparent that we had to re-think living arrangements in the barn. I had preferred to have horses that remained outside with unlimited access to stalls and run-in sheds.
We ordered a small run-in shed and fenced off a separate area of our large dry lot in front of the barn for Ollie and Red. We had long ago found that a dry lot is essential for keeping horses from grazing themselves into an early grave. Our small horse family was comprised of what were known as “easy keepers”… i.e., horses and ponies that need limited grazing time in order to prevent obesity. Becky had told us that miniature horses “get fat just breathing air!” They were allowed just a few hours of grazing each day. This regimen would maintain their handsome waistlines, and hopefully prolong their lives.
Within a couple of weeks, Ollie and Red moved into their own dry lot, separated from the big horses and ponies by a fence. The two had become inseparable… running and chasing each other for hours each day. They would chase and mount each other in playful shows of domination. It soon became obvious that Ollie was the dominant one of the two... his primary focus: mounting Red and the large white exercise ball placed in their yard as a toy.
Becky’s words rang in my head… “Make sure you don’t let him get away with any shit!” She never minced words.
Apparently I had not been a very good horsey Mom, because Ollie had indeed become a little shit. He loved biting unsuspecting behinds and never missed an opportunity to back his own butt up to whomever was picking manure out of the dry lot… in an attempt to deliver a swift kick in the shins. Ollie was a little stinker. Red, on the other hand had had the benefit of a strict mother. He knew his manners. The two were as different as night and day, but they loved each other and whiled away their days playing, eating, and napping - always within feet of each other.
“Why, exactly, do you have that little white horse?”
A young fellow, who occasionally did odd jobs around the farm, had asked me this one afternoon after he had done some work on the chicken yard next to the Mini’s dry lot. He had placed his ladder in the Littles’s dry lot in order to reach the far side of the chicken pen. While climbing the ladder, Ollie had walked over to him and delivered a sharp nip in the butt. For no reason… of course… Ollie never had a reason. That was just Ollie - cute, but naughty.
“If you were any bigger, it would be the glue factory for you!”
I’d say this to Ollie at least weekly. Seriously, his only saving grace was his size. What could not be tolerated in a full size horse was almost adorable in this pint-sized replica. It was hard to get angry with this little moppet with his cotton candy mane and silly, mismatched eyes. 👀
Turn-out time was always a treat with the Littles. The gate to the front pasture would open and they would take off racing like the wind, their little feet hitting the dry earth like a fierce hailstorm. Tails and manes flying, they’d tear from one end to the other, racing, passing each other, and doubling back in the opposite direction… in a display of pure joy. The winner of these races was always determined with a playful round of boxing. Front hooves would reach high in the air until eventually one horse would be on top of the other in a wild stallion display of dominance. They had come of age and testosterone was fueling their behavior.
Castration Day (a holiday worth celebrating on the farm) came the following April. We had long ago learned that testosterone was the root of most evil… on the farm and in the world! With the exception of our goat breeding stock, an occasional surprise rooster and my hubby, Jack ,(of course) - we had declared the farm a Testes-Free-Zone.
Dr. Becky arrived early that morning as we led both Ollie and Red to the grassy yard in front of the barn. Sedatives were given and both boys were gently swaying to the music that played in their dreams. They swayed until their heads got so heavy that they had to lie down. And with that, they drifted headlong into dreamland. Anesthesia was administered and they were out like a light.
Jack and I were in charge of the “prep”. Becky would shave each little horse’s scrotal area and Jack and I would wash the area until it was stained russet with Betadine solution. A small incision was made in order to visualize and grab each testicle. Now, here is where it gets interesting (and also where Jack gets a little queasy). Becky pulled out a battery-operated drill and attached something that looked like a large clamp into the area for the drill bit.
She called it The Emasculator. Jack cringed as beads of sweat started dripping down his face. This clamp was attached at the base of a testicle. Becky turned on the drill and the clamp spun wildy, twisting each vas deferens (the cord that holds the testes in place). Twisting, twisting, twisting, until… finally…. POP! The testicle pops off, leaving the vas deferens twisted in a gnarly knot… without bleeding.
Wow! How about that! I was amazed.
Jack had passed out on the ground (ok, not really… but almost!)
This procedure was repeated for the other testicle, and repeated twice more on the other horse. Interestingly, I was not aware that it is customary to throw the castrated testicles over the barn for good luck. We figured our luck had been pretty good to this point, so we decided to skip this tradition.
A half hour later we had two sleeping geldings and the promise of peace and tranquility in the Mini yard. I had hoped that his testicles had been the source of Ollie’s shitty-ness. Time would tell.
Eleven years have passed since the summer of their adoption. Their presence has added a whole different dimension of fun for us, for the dogs who love to run in the pasture with them, and for the other horses. Red has been a dream horse… sweet and agreeable. At times I wished that Red was a full-sized horse. But more times than that, over the years, I had thanked God that Ollie was not!
Red and Ollie remain inseparable and important members of our equine family. Once full grown, at just 36 inches tall, they joined the Bigs… spending all of every day as one big happy family. Never once did I worry for their safety. Though tiny, and cute as a button, Oliver Twist is always in charge. He is a big, brave horse in a little tiny body.
Over time, Ollie has become more agreeable, except on rare days, growing into a gentle and sweet adult. It took years, but he eventually lost the chip on his shoulder and became the perfect other half of our miniature team of two.
We'd seen the worst of times and the best of times with this horn-less little unicorn!
Comments
Great story.
What a wonderful story ... and so glad Ollie finally settled down and Red was no trouble at all!
Just another glorious visit to BHA ... thank you!