October, 2012

The Daily Equine: Proud Flesh

October 31st, 2012 12 Comments

Anyone who owns horses knows God really didn’t put Job through much of a test. If God had really wanted to test His servant, He would have given him horses.

 

I mentioned that my horse Snoopy had gotten cast and cut himself in several places on his cannon bones. To say that Darleen and I pamper and fuss over our animals is understating things considerably. We feed the horses three times a day (except in the spring when the grass is very high in protein content), four times if you count High Tea. (Darleen says it’s just a little reward for running up to the barn when called; I say it’s the equine equivalent of scones and Devonshire cream.) We groom and check our horses daily, even on the occasional days when we don’t ride. Fall shots, spring shots, regular worming, equine dentistry, the farrier every six weeks, religious cleaning of stalls and turnouts, pasture patrol for noxious weeds, fly control… The list goes on. So when I tell you that we treated Snoopy’s cuts ourselves, you know they were pretty minor. But one of them didn’t heal as quickly as it should, nor did it look the way it should have, and by the end of the week Darleen realized what was happening.

 

When a wound, in either horses or humans, starts to heal, it creates granulation tissue, which is essentially simply scar tissue. After that there is wealth of contradictory misinformation in veterinary books and on the internet and among horsemen, so it’s hard to separate fact and fiction. One of my vet books describes proud flesh as a perfectly normal part of the healing process; another refers to it as, “exuberant tissue growth occurring during the healing of large skin wounds.” A third book uses the phrase in both those senses. Put aside your understanding of the word “exuberant” as it pertains to unrestrained feelings of joy and enthusiasm, and just think excessive and ugly and bloody. That’s proud flesh.

 

Proud flesh—in horses—occurs primarily on the lower portions of the leg. The cannon bones, for example. Depending on whom you talk to or what you read, proud flesh is considered to be most common on the lower portions of the legs because the skin is stretched so tightly over the bone that it moves constantly, being pulled in all directions as the horse walks, and that the constant movement of the skin keeps the skin from healing rapidly or properly. I admit I have never walked along beside any of my horses with one hand on their cannons as they strolled through the pastures, and they wouldn’t like it if I did, so I cannot positively refute this statement. But… Logic would suggest that the skin at the base of the neck, to pick one obvious example, would move a hell of a lot more, wrinkling up and down, left and right, back and front, as the horse moves, grazes, looks around for mountain lions, tries to take a satisfying bite out of the horse next to him, breaks into a lope to avoid horse-eating tumbleweeds, and grazes some more. Yet I have never seen proud flesh there.

 

Actually, I’ve never seen proud flesh anywhere on any horse before. Between us, Darleen and I have over eighty years of experience caring for horses, and she has only seen it once or twice, which just goes to prove… Something, I’m not sure what. In fact, I’ll take it even further. Darleen made the classic mistake of the very young and very foolish, and instead of waiting for me to come along, she married someone before me. I don’t normally embarrass her by bringing up the unfortunate episode, but in this case it’s pertinent. He was a professional horse trainer, so for the several years it took her to realize she had settled for cheap frozen chopped hamburger patties liberally laced with filler and pink slime and E. coli, when filet mignon was right there in front of her, waiting for her to notice him, she lived with a stable full of horses, and only had one or two experiences with proud flesh. Not common, in other words.

 

What happens is that the granulation tissue starts to grow out of control, not unlike a tumor, and—not unlike a tumor—the growth is packed with blood vessels, so no matter what you do, it bleeds profusely. Fortunately, proud flesh does not have any nerves, so it can be treated without any discomfort to the horse. But do not attempt to treat the condition based on anything you read on the internet, because not only are the various treatments contradictory, some of them are just plain wrong. In our case, since neither Darleen nor I had ever dealt with it before, we had the vet come out and walk us through it.

 

He started by scrubbing off the proud flesh (it was only a one inch cut), applying an anti-bacterial ointment, and then lightly wrapping it. He then left us with a bottle of Betadine and a tube of the ointment, and instructions to clean and disinfect and apply the ointment once a day, and to leave the cut open to the air, until it healed.

 

Simplicity itself. But always double check anything you read on the internet with your vet. Including anything you read on this site.   

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The Annals of Asininity

October 21st, 2012 16 Comments

Just when you think the world can’t get any daffier than it already is, proof comes that you ain’t seen nothing yet.

 

In Great Britain, a kinder, gentler organization that goes by the name of Animal Aid, started a campaign to restrict the sales of two grand old British hunting and shooting magazines, The Field and Shooting Times, making them “age restricted” and available only to children over the age of fourteen. Their argument was that images or stories about the hunting of animals might be, “damaging not just to wildlife, but to the development of young people.” (emphasis mine)

 

From a personal point of view, I would like to state, for the record, that I was raised on the old, unexpurgated version of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, the turn-of-the-century edition gorily illustrated by Arthur Rackham, and I have not yet boiled anyone in a pot, or dragged anyone behind my horse in a barrel stuck with nails, or cooked anyone in a stove, or cut off anyone’s head, or… In all honesty, however, I do have to confess that when I read about organizations like Animal Aid, I long to do all of the above.

 

But in the interest of objectivity, let me relate a story told me by a mother of two young boys and a girl. She was flying somewhere and found herself seated next to a pediatric psychiatrist. They started talking, and eventually the conversation came around to the more sanguinary impulses of little boys compared to little girls. Boys like toy soldiers, girls like dolls. Boys like to wrestle, girls like to have doll tea parties. Boys like toy guns, girls like toy houses. You get the idea. The psychiatrist told her that he had a single boy, and that when the boy was born he—the psychiatrist—decided he was going to do what he could to change the world and make at least one little boy kinder and gentler and less bloodthirsty. His son not only was not allowed to play with toy guns, he didn’t even know such things existed. His son was not allowed to have toy soldiers or knights or anything aggressive. His son was not allowed to watch anything on television other than Sesame Street and Barney and similar gentle fare. His son was never read terrible, violence-inducing books like Grimm’s Fairy Tales or any of Maurice Sendak’s stories; instead, he was read loving and gentle yarns like The Little Fur Family and Good Dog Carl and Now We Are Six.

 

So the psychiatrist was delighted to look into his son’s room one day and see the boy playing with his Care Bears. It wasn’t until he had started to walk away that it occurred to him there was something odd about the arrangement of all the Care Bears. They were set up in a circle, with one Care Bear by himself in the middle. The psychiatrist turned back in time to see his son yell, “Care Bears, kill!” and proceed to use the group of bears to maul the solitary one. He said at that point he gave up and decided not to resist nature.

 

Personally, I think he was wrong to give up, and I’ll go even further: I think we should ban—not just restrict, but ban—the sales of magazines about sports, any kind of sports, because it might encourage young people to have unhealthily competitive desires. Magazines about boxing or wrestling or martial arts, out, out, out. We should ban home decorating magazines because they too inspire competition. We should ban all magazines about pets because it encourages unhealthy thinking about ownership of other species that should be allowed to run wild and free. Besides, think about all those germs! I think we should ban fashion magazines, because it might encourage young boys to look at the bodies of young girls with lust in their hearts. I think we should ban fitness magazines because it might encourage young girls to look at young boys with lust in their hearts. Or it might just encourage invidious comparisons, and since I’m now at the age where my chest is trying to migrate south to the mezzanine level, I want those magazine with offensively handsome guys on the covers off the shelves ASAP. Oh, hell. Let’s just ban everything.

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Get Rich Quick in the Privacy of Your Own Home!

October 16th, 2012 11 Comments

As Tolstoy famously observed, all happy families enjoy good ratings on prime-time television. All dysfunctional families are dysfunctional on reality TV.

 

Well, it was something like that, anyway.

 

I don’t normally watch much television, but I was sick this summer with some mysterious lung infection that left my energy level flat-lining like the nation’s economy. There was a week there when all I could do was doze on the sofa all day long, and when I came to the surface I didn’t even have the energy to read, so I would flip through the channels. It was a revelation.

 

I am not a complete Luddite… Well, yes, I am, but I’m not completely uniformed. I had heard of reality TV, I just had never had the, uh, opportunity to watch it. Wow. There are some seriously sick people out there. And what’s amazing is that there are seriously sick and dysfunctional families doing—very publicly—the kinds of things that used to be hidden behind closed doors. All the skeletons in the closest are break-dancing on the front lawn and videoing themselves. And what’s even more amazing, is that apparently these families are raking in the dollars hand-over-fist by doing the sorts of things on television that used to get them gossiped about by the neighbors and shunned at the church social. Some families have even created mini-business empires for themselves, selling the kinds of clothes that used to get girls arrested if they appeared in public, selling perfume and jewelry and home furnishings and God knows what else.

 

Well, by golly, I thought, I can be just as sick and dysfunctional as the next fellow. I can do that standing on my head. I’ll make a fortune doing absolutely nothing but being obnoxious.

 

Unfortunately, when I ran this brainstorm past a Close Relative By Marriage, she gave me One of Those Wifely Looks. You know. The look that says clearly she should have listened to her mother and married that nice Bernie Madoff. She then went a step further and made an unnecessarily caustic comment about how eight hours of watching me gaze out the window and occasionally type a few words on the keyboard was unlikely to pull in eager throngs of either viewers or sponsors. I told her I could do it in my underwear, but she just sighed and took the dogs for a walk.

 

I’ll keep working on it.

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The Annals of Country Life

October 13th, 2012 12 Comments

We had the first rain of the season the other day. It came about a month earlier than normal and wasn’t much of a rain; other than keeping the dust down and making the air smell intoxicating, there was little appreciable effect. Darleen and I had to drive in opposite directions to take care of the dreary litany of chores that constitutes Life, and when I returned home, I was very surprised to see her car sitting in the carport with the hood up. Not a good sign.

 

It seemed she had gotten caught in a shower, and because her windshield was dusty, she hit the washer button. Nothing. Being resourceful and not entirely devoid of mental faculties, she came to the conclusion that the reservoir was empty, stopped at the local hardware store to buy a gallon jug of cleaning fluid and then, knowing I wouldn’t be home for several hours, stopped by our friendly local car mechanic to have the reservoir filled. The reservoir was indeed empty, but not for the usual reasons.

 

One of the ongoing problems of country life in the Western United States is rodents taking up residence in undesirable places. Like the car engine. Back before we bought the Mighty Dodge Dually Cummings Diesel One-Ton I now drive, we had a much older diesel truck, and Darleen and I were merrily zipping along at sixty-five on the interstate one day when a mouse suddenly appeared from the slit at the back of the hood where it meets the windshield. Brer Mouse crawled up and sat down next to one of the windshield wipers, rather like a small hood ornament in the wrong place. It was a cute little beggar, but I don’t really want mice hitching rides on the hood of my truck at sixty-five mph, wearing goggles, ears flapping the wind, and screaming, “Wahoo!” like Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove. I stopped by the side of the road, thinking he would jump off, but apparently he wanted to return back to the ranch for he immediately dove down into the recesses of the engine block. When I opened the hood to urge him on by word and deed, he ran back and forth from side to side as if we were playing dodge-ball. When I wasn’t actually slapping at him with my hat, I was at leisure to survey the damage he had done. You know all that insulation that helps keep heat and noise in the engine block and out of the cab? Gone. Well, not “gone,” precisely, because he had made his home out of the stuff, but it certainly wasn’t where it had been and it wasn’t where the factory intended it to be and it wasn’t where I wanted it to be. I carry a sidearm and was tempted to shoot him, but it occurred to me that a 230-grain .45 caliber bullet might give me greater engine problems than mere loss of insulation. All the way home the little (insert colorful expletive here) scurried around at the joint of hood and windshield like a kid on a rollercoaster.

 

In Darleen’s case the problem turned out to be somewhat larger. Literally.

 

The Wood Rat ( Neotoma albigula, or bryanti, or goldmani, or lepida, or macrotis, or cinerea, or fuscipes, or anyone of a score of other subspecies) is actually a handsome and debonair and fun-loving fellow that looks a little like a giant deer mouse that’s been taking steroids and pumping iron. And I mean “giant.” They’re not as big as the man-eating rabbits in the simply dreadful (trust me, I saw it) Stuart Whitman, Janet Leigh horror flick, Night of the Lepus, but they’re big. They are also known as packrats or trade rats, for good reason, because they like to build enormous nests and cache huge stores of… Well, pretty much whatever catches their eye: food, coins, silverware, pieces of glass or anything shiny, rat poison they disdain to eat, even, occasionally, the traps meant to catch them, if those traps are shiny and new. The caches are known as middens and if the conditions are right, those middens can last for many centuries. Scientists have discovered and studied middens in the desert southwest that date back to the Pleistocene. I think that’s how long that one had been in Darleen’s car because she is not prone to exaggeration and she assures me it was the size of Arizona. It was constructed, typically, of twigs and leaves and bark and acorns and—you guessed it—insulation. It also included a section of the hose that was supposed to have delivered the windshield cleaning fluid to her windshield.

 

My local mechanic is a once in a lifetime dream. He and all his employees are intelligent, knowledgeable, honest, good-humored, and helpful, but apparently none of them had taken the Mechanic School course, Ridding Car Engines of Immensely Large Rodents 101 (elective). They got rid of the nest and its cache (including the insulation-that-used-to-be) and all the miscellaneous acorns and other saved items, but getting rid of Brer Rat proved more difficult. In fact, it proved impossible. They used water and air compressors and sometimes both at once from opposite sides, but the resourceful Mr. Rat eluded them by scurrying from side to side, and not one of those full grown men was brave enough to stick his hand down in there and grab the sucker. (I believe I mentioned they’re intelligent mechanics.) Finally, after a full hour of this game—one of the mechanics told Darleen he could hear the damned party animal laughing—they gave up. They told Darleen to leave the hood of the car up when she got home, the idea being to make it less inviting for Brer Rat, and to put out traps and poison and anything else we could think of because, they informed her cheerfully, if he should happen to go to his Maker while in the wheel well, there would be no affordable way to get the corpse out, and the smell would make the car both undriveable and unsaleable. Ooh, what fun.

 

So when I got home, I baited two rat traps with peanut butter and put them under the car, one inside each of the front wheels where, I hoped, the dogs wouldn’t get to them. I don’t need another vet bill. Two days went by with no results, and then, just this morning, my former-vegetarian-animal-rescuing-kinship-with-all-life spouse came into my office, grinning from ear to ear. Given the size of him, I was tempted to take him to the local taxidermist and have him mounted (charging, teeth bared), but instead I disposed of the mortal remains up on the hill, well away from all wheel wells.

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The Daily Equine

October 5th, 2012 9 Comments

When I was very young my father had a brief, passionate, and ill-fated love affair with foreign cars. It was passionate for obvious reasons. It was brief because of a lack of financial wherewithal, and it was ill-fated because of an even greater lack of mechanical wherewithal. My father was easily the most wonderful and unique man I have ever known, but his skills were intellectual, not mechanical; books and people and ideas were the things he loved, and his genius lay in those arenas. Hammers and screwdrivers and saws were to him arcane and mystifying objects of foreign cults; they might not be illegal or immoral, but their functions were obscure at best and possibly dangerous. Certainly in his hands they would have been dangerous. Compared to him, I’m a mechanical Einstein.

 

So you can understand why his purchase of a 1959 Jaguar Mark I 3.4 liter sedan was ill-advised. When it ran, it was the sexiest, most exciting vehicle on four road-gripping wheels. When it ran. My father once opined that no one should own a Jaguar unless he could afford a full-time mechanic to ride in the passenger seat. On another occasion, as he and my mother and I all stood in the rain, I remember him looking at the car more in sorrow than in anger and saying wearily that the only way to own a Jaguar was to own three or four them so that one of them would always be capable of actually starting.

 

I thought of that when I went down to let the horses out the other morning. Snoopy had clearly gotten himself cast during the night. For those non-equine types out there, “cast” means that he lay down too close to the fence and got his legs under the bottom rail so that he couldn’t get up again. He had thrashed until he was free and able to stand, and his hind legs were both cut and stocked-up. “Stocked-up” means swollen. It also means only the gentlest of minimal exercise for as long as it takes for him to heal.

 

A horse is an accident looking for a place to happen. In fact, even when there is no place for an accident to happen, a horse—being a creative critter—can find a way to make one. Many years ago, when I lived in northern New England, I boarded my horse at stable run by two of the most professional and knowledgeable horse people I have ever known. One of them was Jane Savoie, U.S. Equestrian Team member, reserve rider for the Olympic Team, United States Dressage Federation gold, silver, and bronze medal winner, winner of nine… You get the idea. These ladies knew how to properly care for horses. The other owner and I happened to be the only people there one day. I was grooming my horse when she came in leading a stallion who had been in his own private pasture. He had a cut on his right hind leg so severe, that when I helped to clean it as we waited for the vet, I could put my entire hand, almost to the wrist, up into the wound between the hide and the muscle. Later, the owner of the property and I scoured that three-acre pasture, checking every single damned fence post and every rail, and we couldn’t find anything that could have cut that horse. Not a hair, not a drop of blood to indicate how he had done it. Short of a padded cell, you couldn’t create a safer environment for a horse, yet it took something like twenty stitches to close the cut.

 

So with all this in mind, I have decided to transfer my father’s advice to horses. Clearly I need more of them just to ensure one of them is always sound on any given day. Probably four or five—four or five more, I mean. That ought to do the trick. And of course that means I should add four or five more to Darleen’s roster. Now all I have to do is figure out how to sell this scheme to my distressingly level-headed and practical wife. And how to earn the money to be able to afford that many horses.

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