Mud and Blood

With the extra chromosome given to the mule as if a gift, by its father, they are at times firm in their convictions. A parallel to, "The Boy named Sue" song, they have been part of western and in fact world history through the ages. You see their father "The Jackass" gave them this extra baggage so that the civilized people of our planet could expand, upon the backs of these beasts. Sturdy, strong, dependable, surefooted and notably defiant when harm to itself is in the way.


Like General Crook the famous fighter of The Indian Wars, my father preferred the mule as mount of choice. He had a few that really stood out among the many he owned. This story is about Four Eyes. She had two pink eyes that were almost difficult to look at. They seemed to have a never ending flow of matter dripping from them. Her gait was unrivaled. She could cover country as if the miles were mere feet. Her ears bobbed in time with a drummer somewhere above the ridges she so easily climbed. She is solid white in color, giving her a contrast to any setting other than a complete blizzard. Her mood always gave one the feeling she was a step ahead of even your own thoughts. My father had brought my brother and a close friend up the mountain that day to angle out a few trout, from a crystal clear, deep, crag embedded lake. One obstacle lay between a bent rod, jubilation, and a good time had by all. Four was refusing her long time master and friend, due to a mud bog no farther across than one could toss a feed sack. Yeltsin and Reagan met that day,there at that little seep spring. The Cold War Ended, I am sure shortly after this event took place. Something that had been brewing some 15 + years came to a head. Silver spurs began to let fly. Rommel poppers began to smack, like Kentucky squirrel rifles at Valley Forge. Four, however was unimpressed, she stood her ground completely knowing that there were China men just below the surface of this nasty bog. The battle raged for at least 20 long and grueling minutes. Hoace Grasie and Dan Severne locked in a cage match in Madison Square Garden. As if a whistle blown at the end of Super Bowl XXII, the battle ended. Blood now began to drip to the trail beneath this glorious steed of such a nobleman. Who as if on cue from a set director, my father said," I can't spur anymore, my legs are cramped".

Shorty Ties one on

Have you ever heard the term used by the older and wiser cowhands,"slow down so we can get done faster?" This, on many a frosty fall morning is used as a kind of prophesy when a neighbor comes to gather strays on outfits all across The Great Basin. Inevitably, with most fences around the basin built by the CCR sometime after the Big War, there are gaps. So what ends up happening around weaning time is a rodear to sort strays. On this particular morning there was a fair assembly representing just about every neighboring ranch. Occasions like this seem to cause anomalies in cosmic energy to shift. For example for some un researched by science reason all K9's forget their names on mornings like this. It is kinda thought of as the norm for a few cows to be missing ears and tails after such a rodear. That simple fact seems to stir the cattle a bit. Now stirred cattle, to a dyed in the wool buckaroo, for some strange reason causes him to automatically think that something needs to be roped. Perhaps like when Cro-Magnon Man discovered fire and just had that impulse to roast a slab of mastodon prime rib. Somehow satisfying the use of his canine teeth. Well Shorty was no different, nor was his partner Slim. They picked out about a 700 lb weanling that had a whole bunch to much fur covering its early spring iron. Just to be on the safe side of verifying ownership, all were in agreement to shave his brand. For sure, Slim threw a positive down right true head catch complete with a heap long dally. Before he could shorten a little Shorty reached and caught both hind feet. Now I am not saying he was hung over or anything like that, but all the clues kinda pointed that direction. Slow and dramatic reflexes being one of those clues. All things from here on slowed for reasons none of the buckaroos present shall ever fully comprehend. As the cow boss unmounted and proceeded to shave this foreign and unknown brand, that big fellow just kind of let out a bellar. Now Blacky did not take a whole lot of compassion on this calf. Quite the contrary he got a little cross. One tiny crow hop into this now front row type of event. Shorty whispers, " um I have a small problem." For somehow, when he went to stack his dallies, he had successfuly included about four complete dallies of his heavy shirt tails. Lucky for Shorty, as the rest of the hands went for popcorn for proper wreck viewing. Slim slid a coil or two of his 65 footer across the mule hide, to the cow boss, who wasted little time in undoing Shorty's predicament. About 30 whoa- easy sons later, Shorty's breathing came back to him in short powerful surges. Blacky let out about two gallons of conserved up perspiration. You know we never did figure out who owned that maverick!

Grandmas Mule

A rancher once told me," I wouldn't be caught dead on a mule". Oh you poor unwilling soul. Other than, them being half donkey, they are in reality quite suitable for most occasions. For example, like when grandma or Moomah came to visit the grandchildren. She said that she wanted to ride with them, it made perfect sense. In unison, all the kids shouted out with enthusiasm and joy "SALLY." There are many misguided and simply untrue behavioral traits surrounding the mule. Sure, when ill treated, one accurate swift kick with a hind appendage will send you to "The Big Roundup In The Sky." Or because of a mules' extremely elevated sense of survival, them being thought of as stubborn. It is a case of misunderstanding this beast of burden as a whole. I don't mean to keep striking the who is dumber cord, but listen to any old time mule skinner they will tell you, "You won't ever be as smart as the mule, you just need to be slow enough to listen to him." If we as humans have ever lived in a time, that is so fast that even our thoughts speed by, that time is at hand. So the day that I watched Sally and gramma walk down the arena at about one third of the normal Sally pace, I was brought from preschool to kindergarten in the equitation vocation. You see, Sally happens to be the product of a well bred gaited mare and a small Jack, giving her a very swift walk, perfect for the high strung and energetic child. When she moved off in tune with the pace congruent to that of my mother, I slowed myself enough to respect even more, our family pet.

Cowboyin With a Blackberry

It has always been said that there is only one species less capable in thought process than Mammalian Bovidae. That of course being, Mammalian Homosapien cowboyus. Through genetic and micro-chip-ology there seems to be some advancement occurring. Just the other day, I was privy to witness a true leap forward in this crucial race towards total dominance between the two. As I was horseback during the entire incident, I stand as a witness to the entire spectacle. For the sake of infringement policies we shall replace names of both parties, insuring further embarrassment and court costs to be minimal. We shall call our hero (Shorty) and the Bovine (Bronkle). Shorty for soon to be obvious reasons and Bronkle due to her not quite bald white face. More of a got hit with a muddy snowball type look, than all white.
It all started when Shorty was checking his so called stock on his brand new communication tool. First of all, he is a little lost in the whole Stock Market thing. He thinks cattle futures are based on the Farmers Almanac and Bonds are a set of hobbles that hang from his Visalia saddle. He has never been long in the educational side of things, thus Shorty. By the way he thinks Columbus had three horses. Nina a little bay mare, Pinta the paint and Santa Maria, that was born around Christmas time. So in one hand was this device, over the big horn of his saddle loosely hung his two rein setup. On that particular day he happened to be setting in the middle of Earl Grey. A fine looking type horse, although a tad goosey. Unbeknown to us Shorty had programmed his wife's number to ring his new found time waster, with a series of high pitched growls. The first growl set all parties involved, Earl, Bronkle, Shorty on higher alert. All time and forward motion was at a complete standstill for what seemed to be an eternity. Bronkle was the first to break point, with perhaps neck breaking speed. She did a 180* turn, to locate the predator that was threatening her now half grown calf. The second notification from Shorty's, now worst enemy, proved to be the starting pistol for the oncoming storm. Bronkle jumped right over Earl's lowered stiff ears. All buckaroos know without a shadow of a doubt, that Visalia only created their saddles for one passenger. Earl must have read this somewhere in Western Horseman. He proceeded into a horse swan dive. Complete with hind hooves and tail perpendicular at all times with Mother Earth. On that very first jump is when I witnessed the most intelligence ever displayed, before or since, by Mammalian Homosapien cowboyus. Shorty answered his wife's call and said," Honey I am busy".

Afraid of the Future

It seems that all horse owners are obsessed with staying away from the future of Equine America as we know it. The words filly, brood mare and dam have become synopsis with a few words that sailors and convicts use repeatedly. With the exclusion of barrel racers all would be horse owners avoid them as if Black Death were gripping their manes, in a bareback ride into their lives. Even the leading producers are dumping them in huge numbers across the country. Look anywhere horses are advertised and you will read discounted, dispersal, fire sale, price reduced and the biggest word used in pedaling mares today, FREE. Let us ask ourselves are they really that bad? As much as I like going in the dark of a cool summer morning to halter a good quiet gelding to be used on the days circle. A mare can and does the exact same job with one advantage. If she were to run into a badger hole at mach one, resulting in a fractured cannon bone or worse, because your one year old Kelpie kept pushing calves, so that they felt that breaking back was better than disappearing into the thickness of the herd. She still could be turned out with the brood band and produce many capable remounts for your outfit. If that same horse happened to be your fine gelding. Well look on the bright side, he most certainly would feed your ill mannered not yet broke pup.
One more thought before we as horse enthusiasts completely get out of the filly business. How would you feel if atomic war reduced the world only to leave untouched one lone bar in San Francisco to be responsible for procreation?

Winter Horse Trading

There is snow covering the sage, shoes are pulled for the winter, cows are out on the desert trying to make a living on scrub brush. How's a fellar s'post to make his? Well, in this modern age of C list and DreamHorse.com, it is getting a little scarce to find a market for that wonderful little pony that now has clinkers stuck to its fuzzy coat. Sure, during the summer, it was looking real nice, all slicked up and sassy, braided mane and tail like a school girl. Now it kinda looks a lot like the back end of a cow dog that just ran through a cockle burr patch. Is there a place to sell such a thing as a project horse? Or a steed that needs a little work, so to speak. The answer is No, No, No. Ok, so we all realize that and are getting over the fact that a bunch of vegetarians in leadership ruined "The Horse Nation" as we once knew it. The question should be asked,"What can I do to rebuild it?". Blog turned advice column says, do what I did. Go down to the auction, lift up your weather browned, gnarled, rope burned hand and buy something. I am not saying you have to do exactly as I did, in naming her Minka and putting your daughter on her to move cows in the middle of a very cold snap. But, I found that it worked for me. Next day we sold a solid cow pony for a real nice, times-being-what-they-are price.

Better than Bass Fishing!

There is nothing like the purity of a newborn calf. At this time of year, they are like flowers springing up from the desert. Give them three or four weeks of good, high-protein, green grass, drive them into a small corral, build a big fire, scoop up two hind legs from atop your best mount, drag over by the fire, scorch their hide with a hot iron, notch one ear, cut a couple waddles from under their neck, if it's a bull whittle him to a steer, vaccinate him with a two inch needle and smile 'cause it's better than bass fishing!

The Brand

The origin of branding livestock dates from 2700 B.C. Paintings in Egyptian tombs document branding oxen with hieroglyphics. Ancient Greeks and Romans marked livestock with a hot iron. Hernando Cortez introduced branding from Spain to the New World in 1541. He brought cattle stamped with his mark of three crosses. There has never been anything to take the place of a visible brand as a permanent definitive mark of ownership and deterrent to theft. Livestock people say "a brand's something that won't come off in the wash.
The original Spanish brands were, as a rule, complicated, and beautifully rich in design, but not always practical. The early American ranchers wanted more simple designs that were easy to remember, easily made, that did not blotch, and that were hard to alter. Some say that the old west died out years ago. News that upsets yet gives hope of an era still open, was given in a dull two hour speech at our local cattleman's meeting this week. "Hey boys brand your calves early due to a band of no account, cattle stealin', low down, brand alterin', night punchers, that are working our county over for sure". We can't start tying noose knots yet, but here is your warning to put your running irons away and you better not get caught with soot marks on your cinch ring.

KidsWill be Kids!

Although, it may not seem obvious to anyone that has watched horses shoving, biting, kicking and squealing at one another, the establishment of a dominance pecking order among horses is actually a way to avoid violence. A study of free range domestic ponies on the isle of Rhum in Scotland found that more than 80% of aggressive encounters between animals consisted of threats with the head alone (pinning back the ears and extending the neck) and that kicks or threats to kick were rare. A horse put into a new group of horses will usually find its place in the pecking order within a day and a half. Fifty years ago, the toughest kid on the playground could have maintained his status as coolest kid also, if he wasn't a bully. If he was a bully the mob would jump him, thus keeping a balance of limited violence. Kids of today are stuffed full of blood violence, crime violence, drug violence and domestic violence, then told to be NICE at school. Video games and Hollywood are teaching our children that when they get to be an adult, anything goes! All the while, the left wing educators have been gravitating towards some kind of phantom utopia with not so much as a verbal warning allowed in a true to life pecking order. Due to hurt feelings in tee ball, the scoreboard has been done away with. Horses learn from early on, the balance between kindness, aggression, leadership, subservience, winning, losing and when it's none of their business! Maybe a good lesson for young humans as well? A good, old fashioned, second grade knuckle bumpin' may have adverted disasters, such as Columbine.

Heroes and Uncles

In my eyes the man who sat the straightest in the saddle, was Uncle Bobbie. He literally let hundreds of nieces, nephews, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and friends of the family, ride his ranch horses. Many of them were invited to stay for the summer, even as early as eight years old. He taught us important life lessons, how to get up with the sun, how to fix fence, and how to drive a pick-up truck. With the nations decrease in family farms, these basic farm-kid mentalities are being lost by simply pressing the delete and escape keys. They are not being taught, if you leave the gate open, the bull will get out and eat Aunt Louise's beans. Instead, our children are learning they can erase their mistakes by a key stroke. He never instilled fear by discussing what not to do. He never told us, if you fall off that horse, the ground will hurt, he let us feel it. Strengthening my thoughts and opinions on learning by doing, not learning by hearing.This morning, before there was a sliver of light on the eastern horizon, my little nieces, Emily and Lily, who have come to stay with us for a week, were asking to ride horses. Impressing upon me our responsibilities (not yet a hero) but as an uncle!

Inner Man

If you want to know a man, take a look at his horse. If you want to know what he is like on the inside, ride his horse! If he won't let you ride his horse, look into the mirror.

Diet

A remarkable fossil specimen of the equoid Propalaeotherium, from the late Eocene epoch was found complete with fossilized stomach contents, which included grape pits. Climatic changes of the Miocene epic, gave rise and increase to size and shape of the equoid species. That started when the ancestral horse began to eat grasses. Modern times has brought many varieties of horse feeds. Modern equine dentistry has brought longevity to these functionary feeds. Basically, what I'm saying is, that millions of years of adaptation, from forest browser to grass eating prey animal allowed their brain size to increase. So, that while feeding low to the ground, they kept an eye out for the hungry carnivorous predator. The extra cup of morning coffee, that we as humans have adapted to, makes you five minutes late to feed your modern fed, time scheduled, six hundred pound mule, she can now pick the lock on the gate, freeing her and her cronies to unlimited hay access.

Sensitivity

In the era of equine advancement, there is still an unanswered question. Ranchers, cutters, jockeys, polo players, light cart drivers, mule skinners, Olympic hopefuls and Amish, not to exclude EVERYONE that owns a horse, wants to know.....How much can my horse feel? By feel, I mean, long distance eye pressure, anxiety, mood, temperament, barometer, and excitement. I have seen riders get on their horse, ride out for the days work, the entire day making statements such as, "He won't work, He just doesn't wanna go", and then apply spur to get through the day. At lunch, I would stick a finger under his lip, confirm my thoughts for earlier in the morning, he was feverish. All the while the rider being clueless. I've arrived at a clients stable, upon removing the old set of shoes, to find a rock embedded in the apex of the frog, having been there days, maybe weeks. Again, clueless! We as humans, have proven to each other and our horses, we are aware of very little. Our energy field is small, when compared to the pastures of the common horse. They know what they can get away with, with a green rider, they know that later on in the day, it's gonna snow. As an exercise, the next time you lunge your horse, at the trot intently focus on his inside eye, the following two laps, focus intently on the tip of his tail. See if you are aware of any change.

To Produce a Smile

Little boys loping their ponies in the river bottoms, playing cowboys and Indians for hours on end. These are some of the memories, which were the building blocks for a life that is lived out today. Reflecting on these memories, during a recent visit to a home, where a video game was in play. The steady sound of automatic weapons and the sound of phrases, such as, "cap that rock slingin' ho", and music pounding at the decibel of 9, was provided by, The Suicidal Tendencies. The title of the song was, I Saw your Mommy, and your Mommy's Dead. My great-grandmother wouldn't let her sons listen to Marty Robbins, because of two lines, I was hangin' around town, not earning a dime. She told the boys that, that song referred to a loafer, and they shouldn't aspire to such a vocation. The cowboy in that song was standing there looking for work, not standing on 9th and Main, pushing heroin. Hat on backwards, pistol tucked into his low riding pants, looking more like a plumber than should be allowed. The activities our children engage in as youngin's, will shape and mould them into the adults that govern and rule our society. At the time in life, when we will want to relax from thirty years of concentrated labour, providing for the next generation, we will be watching our bar covered windows. Looking for thieves, instead of grandchildren through tear soaked eyes of happiness. Of course, because of my new found act of legislation, those grandchildren will now be on a pinto pony, wearing a smile and whistling, The Strawberry Roan.

To Produce a Smile

Of late, I have been tempted to lobby congress for new legislation. It would simply state, all parents should try to get their children horseback once a month. A chain reaction would occur. The first link in the chain would be a smile, next link, a happy family. Then, various links scattered through out the chain would be, better grades nationwide, shrinking numbers on drug addiction, empty jail cells, attentive listeners in the classrooms, pharmaceutical company and Wal-greens going bankrupt, for lack of sales on Ritalin. Okay, so I am dreamer, but am I so far off base and out of touch with reality, that the wii has taken the place of the family horse or backyard pony.

Przewalski's Horse

I can see Genghis Khan leading a large band of warriors, in a light horse charge across the vast Steppe of Asia. His doctrine of war included his men to wear a foul stench. To cause this odor to be carried as if by the winds of death to proceed the swift sword. Fear, reaching the nostrils of the enemy, even before the war whoops and the pounding of Przewalski's Horse beating cadence, reached their ears, and counting time before destruction. Actually, they rode decedents of the Przewalski's Horse, maybe they rode breeds like the Konik or Heck? We know the true blood of this horse (Equus ferus) dried up in 1966. Careful breeding and help from many agencies has brought them from near extinction to releasing them back to the wilds of Mongolia, thus removing them as a true natural selection species. Placing them on a level plain with the Brumby and the Mustang, (Equus ferus caballus). Many have stated that the wild horse lives longer than the domestic horse and we need to get back to NATURAL horsemanship and natural balance hoof care. Scientifically impossible! I will attempt to show that natural horsemanship is just as it reads, horse and man in the same ship!

The Cowboy

If you are a boy, how many cows do you have to own, to be considered a cowboy? Much thought has been given to this subject, what if the outfit you work for, only run steers? Somehow, the romance of the sunlit plains or of a cowboy drinking coffee by the fire, has been replaced with images of brutality towards horses, and ill treatment towards livestock. The very reason that a buckaroo, drover, cracker, cowboy, or even a rodeo champion, has chosen this occupation, is certainly not so that they can be close and cuddly to the bovine species. Neither, is it for the money! It's usually for the love of the horse. Sure, I admit, some of their ways are harsh, but I believe we are judged as in any race, culture, or profession, by a mere 5% of the whole. It's as if the weekend, or backyard horseman or horsewoman, were a teenager, having more knowledge than their parents, the old cowboy of the west. Like the little kid that comes home from school and says to mom and dad," Oh, there is a new planet, we know more, 'cause my teacher (the clinician) said!" But the parent (the old cowboy) simply states,"No, it's been there the entire time, but technology has just allowed everyone to see it, via Utube." Contrary to the derogatory term that is being used," Don't be cowboyin' around on my horse!" The buckaroo prides himself, on his soft easy-going mannerism, when with his companion, The Horse.

Auction

Who will start at 500? Somebody give me 400, down a quarter, now half? Okay, who will start me at $10, for this fine, yearling, stud colt? I remember, maybe two years ago, sitting beside a sale ring, and wittnessing this for the first time. Having grown up around the sale rings all my life, my father brought me to my first sale, when I could look up to see the belly of a short lizard, on a cool rock, on a hot day. If anyone would have told him that he could buy a full load of horses with a hundred dollar bill, it would have knocked him over. Even as a kid, a horse that walked on three, milked on one, and could see out of none, was still worth more than a hundred dollars. I marked the feeling that day in the sale ring, scores of horse owners with reality of the value, of the horse flesh at their own homes, evaporating in one failed swoop. They were all very quiet, perhaps remembering that they had just written checks for good alfalfa hay, for a high as $200 per ton. The mood was somber. I feel, without public auction, the horse market will never bounce back. We have read article after article that the high-end horse has not been affected. What a lie! Graphs show in 2009, more than 50% of the registered mares in our country, were left uncovered by the nations top stallions. With statistics like that, how can top breeders not be affected? Auction goers will pay more for a billy goat, than they will a horse. Why is it that champagne drinkers will pay more for art, at an auction than it is worth, but look down upon the sale of a horse, sold with the same method? The horse community as a whole, needs to work together, to find a solution for this problem. So many equestrian enthusiast have yet to admit.... there is a problem.

To Enter the Fight - Day 6

With our country fighting a war on two fronts, how could we not give ink to support our troops? During WWII, the small valley in which I call home, exported thousands of horses to be used in the war effort. So many years prior to the war at hand, quarter masters, propaganda writers, and the over-all war machine were aware and careful with our country's admiration of it's horses. For they labeled these train loads of broom tailed horses, leaving Idaho, as remount horses. With careful research, it's not hard to find, that these horses could not be remount horses, for they were never mounted in the first place, or for that matter, they were not even halter broke. Instead, they provided our courageous men in uniform with, what was know as, S.O.S. or in lay terms...chipped beef on toast. Once again propaganda was labeling to fit the cause, perhaps, this was one of the building blocks, to an eventual non-horse eating society. Let's look at a man, with a brown suit and tie, in an office in Washington, raised on cleaned, bleached, pre-packaged meats, never having put an axe to the head of a chicken. Making decisions for our boys in the trenches. I can hear him now," We don't want those Nebraskan plow boys, busy with the fight, worried, that we are slaughtering Bess and Dan, their trusty plow horses back on the home front." When in fact there are many stories, of old French cart horses, catching lead from an M1Grand in the forehead, to provide a platoon meal, while the battle raged. It makes me wonder, if some of our boys returning from the present theater of action, will be able to testify of the taste and texture of camel. OUR BOYS, bled and died for FREEDOM, one of those freedoms, which is being taken back by, so-called, animal loving, animal activists, is the right to use our God given canine teeth. Start with the horses, next is the cow, salmon, chicken, ect. ect.

To Enter the Fight - Day 5

Whether we choose to believe it or not, the horse is and always will be, a stock animal. I have traveled exstenively abroad, and found that our country is one of the only places in the world, that humanize our pets. Simple illustration: I purchased a horse in the Philippine Islands. I went to name her, Kate, all the men standing near, looked at me as though I were a nut! Realizing that this horse would bring, added income, transportation, status, and family enjoyment to the very men , who thought it odd to name her. A NAME was too humanistic, for after all, it was just a horse. One failed step on a slippery mountain trail, resulting in a fractured canon bone, would reduce the value of this horse, to added protein for the next village barbecue. They could never afford the luxury of the euthanization, that in our country costs $325, or fathom the thought of the lost food source. There are those in our precious country who have twisted the ideas so far, that we pay considerable amounts per anum , to discard a protein source that is so readily available. Can we afford to turn our snooty, snotty noses up forever? The cost being the loss of the American horse. Can this mentality ever be reversed? I do not see in the future a bumper sticker on a Volkswagon Jetta, that reads, HORSE, IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER! Thankfully, nor do I see, on a one ton Chevy flat-bed pickup, dogs hanging everywhere, a sticker that reads, TOFU, IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER! But, there is a fight raging between the two ideas.

To Enter the Fight - Day 4

If my love of horses is questioned, one must hear the story of Bud. He is a 14 yr. old calm, steady, trustworthy, groomed, buckskin gelding. Bud gets the daily adoration of my daughter, Jessica. As soon a the bus drops her off, she runs to his paddock, with hoof-pick in hand, to take care of his feet. Although his ancestry is questioned, one can see perhaps, Andalusian blood in one of his great-great-great grandfathers. If we let our minds wander a tad, we might even see his majestic great-great-great grandfather crossing the seas, with Cortez, getting the first glimpse of a new world. One thing for sure, war is in his blood. His current paperwork does not read AQHA, APHA, Jockey Club, Warmblood, or POA, but the 10 inch long white freeze brand on the left side of his neck, tells his plight. The reason he is being cared for, by our family, is because I could not fathom a horse with many wonderful years of service left in his bones, to warrant a trip involving French cuisine. Number me, with the ones that have championed the Mustangs, such as, but not limited to, Mr.and Mrs. Parelli, Mr. and Mrs. Monty Roberts, Mr. Baxter Black, Mr.Ray Hunt, Mr.Tom Dorrance, Queen Elizabeth II, The NFR, and Mr. Walter Zettl. Let me be, not to the left, not to the right, but down the center line on this fight. For the journey of the American horse, is a one-way city street or country lane. I've heard it said, If you are not part of the solution, you are part of the cause!

To Enter the Fight - Day 3

With hope on the horizon, the gentle breeze of stigma is changing direction. This reader has noticed a change in even the country's elite equestrianados. With 35,000 so called,"free-spirited", "symbol of the American West" horses, living in conditions no less, than that of feed-lot cattle. These animals are relying on the generosity of private citizens, for their care. Let's be honest, and talk about their value. Previous to the closure of plants sending meat, yes, I said it, to the European markets. When in fact, the European consumers, absolutely love the stuff, with a little mushroom gravy on it, MMmmmm. That same pen of 35,000 horses @ $.35 lb, on the average of 800 lbs. per horse, would be worth $10,000,000. Post closure of the same plants, these horses are now worth $.08 lb. No one will adopt a losing business venture. Even the constituents who swung the vote to eliminate the slaughterhouses of the US, have to ask themselves, how have we helped these horses? I, as a conservationist, would ask these same people, would you have voted to remove the crocodile (that love zebras with a little gravy) out of the waterways of the great migrations of Africa. In hopes that all zebras, young, old, strong, weak, feeble, ill-breed, diseased, three-legged, one-eyed, and even flip-over-backward surly, could make it to belly deep, green pastures?

To Enter the Fight

Geronimo, was no stranger to entering the fight. He faced powerful adversaries his entire life. Starvation being one of the greatest enemies, plagued this great leader and his people. The equitational skills of the Apache have never been doubted. Their horseback military campaigns remain to be some of the greatest accomplishments in history. It is also said, that an Apache warrior, could not only live on, but fight as well on but a handful of roots for weeks. Geronimo said," That a warroirs greatest weapon is his horse,for he cannot EAT his spear."

To Enter the Fight

If one could only imagine, an aluminum can, lazily discarded on the side of a suburban roadway. Half buried in the dust of passing traffic, perhaps a school bus, flatbed pick up, Geo metro, even a Subaru with a bicycle on top, or a Volkswagen half breed. Now let your mind wander to the inner city America, to a dirty man, with a plastic bag for a cloak and a bungee cord as a belt,with a scraggly beard, rummaging through a blue dumpster, with the word refuse stenciled on the side of it. Intently searching for an aluminum can.
To enter the fight of the American Horse, eloquent dressage horse, or cockle burr filled main and tail of a BLM horse, you must consider the word....UPCYCLE..I did not say recycle. I know that there are equine enthusiasts, who will say,"My horse, that I meticulous groom, dream about,spend $27000 on it's air conditioned trailer, $2.75 on the average, daily for it's dietary needs,$35-$100 monthly on pedicures alone,Up to $350 monthly for 16x16 stall,....is not an aluminum can".. I adamantly disagree!