LittleField Notes

by Ryan Foxley of Arlington, WA

Spring is in the Air

This morning dawned clear. Finally. It’s been nothing but misery for days, with frost, clouds, wind, rain, hail, more rain, rain blowing sideways, and a bone chilling chill that I just can’t shake. Just when I was sure that winter would never give up its grip, the tempests finally blew out overnight. This morning all of creation was making a joyful noise. The rising sun played at the edges of the fog that hugged the river bottom, creating a heavenly tableau of slowly shifting jeweled luminescence. I walked light-heartedly down to the barn while a symphony of birdsong, that soundtrack of the ages, played to the lovely scene. “Who needs the movies?” I thought.

It is time to start easing the horses off of winter hay and on to spring grass, and what better time to start than on a glorious morning like this. So I set the gates for the waterfall pasture, flung open the loafing yard gate, and let go the horses. They immediately recognized the significance of the closed barn door and the open barnyard gate, and tripling their pace, took off for the field. I moseyed after them a couple of hundred yards over to close the pasture gate. When I arrived, the whole herd was off to the near side of the field by the ditch that conveys water from the barn spring to the river. Their heads were down as they savored the first few morsels of the fresh green grass of spring, the luscious herb du printemps. I had just closed the gate when Ole raised his head and for no apparent reason took off like it was the Kentucky Derby (which is an amusing image really: picture a gleaming, sleek, refined thoroughbred fairly flying around a rose-gilded race-track, while thousands look on and cheer; now picture a short, stalky, thick coated draft pony running his heart out across a bottomland field, while one bemused farmer leans on the gate and looks on). The other horses immediately followed suit, tearing around, bucking and kicking up in the air, running with wild abandon all the way — and it’s a long way — to the other end of the field where they all stopped abruptly, dropped their heads, and resumed grazing intently. It was a scene of pure, irrepressible exuberance. I stood there for a good long moment and just smiled. What joy to see such joy!

Survival of the Fittest

Humans have often taken a dim view of predators, for they make their living by violence, attacking and mercilessly killing poor defenseless animals, and for this we find fault, especially when what constitutes prey crosses over into our own world, where rivers and woods intersect with fields and farmsteads, blurring the line between wild and cultivated.

Yesterday, a bald eagle attacked my small flock of laying hens, killing one. This happens from time to time with the farm situated as it is next to the Stillaguamish, one of the great rivers of western Washington, where eagles build their nests high in the cottonwoods that line its banks. To make a living they hunt for fish from the river, rabbits and snakes from the fields, and the occasional chicken from the farm. Years ago, I covered the chicken coop yard with netting to protect against aerial assault, but when the birds are let free into the barnyard they are afforded no protection, save running into the barn or under the nearby hay wagon. The attack, when it comes, is silent and from the sky. It’s a deadly prospect for an earthbound chicken, with her attention intensely focused on the few inches of ground immediately before her. She’ll scratch a patch of earth, a pile of horse manure, or some old dead leaves, then step back, cock her head and look for tasty morsels revealed, peck around some, and start the process all over again, never for a moment giving thought to what danger the heavens might hold.

I want to keep the chickens safe by confining them to the coop, I really do, but my hens are a persuasive bunch, and they really, really like to spend time outside, en plein air. When I come anywhere near the coop they crowd up against the fence, their plump bodies bulging the chicken wire, their beady little hens’ eyes staring at me pleadingly, “Please let us out, oh please, please pleeeease!” I give in sometimes, especially when the weather is fair. After all, it does them well to take dirt baths in the sand of the barn floor and to pluck and eat green grass, and nibble on bugs and grubs and such. I never let them out before noon to discourage egg laying in secret dark corners of the barn. Never trust an egg you randomly find in the bottom of a feed bunk.

On this particular day, I had released the chickens at noon, just before I headed up to the house for lunch. When I returned an hour or so later, I knew immediately something was amiss. Because the barn is situated on a terrace well below the level of the house, I have a fine, almost aerial view of the barnyard from the lane as I walk down. I noticed first the stillness, that is to say, the absence of movement. When the chickens are out they are in constant motion, twittering about every which way, and now the one chicken I could see was not moving at all, but was merely a dark shape, motionless in the barnyard a few feet out from the barn wall. I quickened my pace, jogging down to investigate. I could see right away it was indeed a dead hen. Suddenly a movement drew my eyes skyward, and there he was, a spectacular bald eagle, bigger than seemed possible, soaring off over the barn in the direction of the river.

I walked over to the dead hen, a beautiful black and tan, and saw that her breast had been ripped open and devoured. My suspicions were confirmed: it was the one over whom I had been fretting for several days. She had come up lame on a recent morning, practically one legged. My guess is she got mixed up with a horse standing in a tie stall and in the mêlée her right leg was trampled. The leg was pretty much useless. I had been keeping an eye on her and considered putting her out of her misery. I saw that she was managing to get around alright for a mostly one-legged gal, and reasoning that I myself would rather limp around with one bum leg than die, I decided to just let her be for the time being.

It was no surprise then, that this was the hen that fell victim to the eagle. The others had taken “flight” for the protection of the barn or the hay wagon, but all this one could do was wait for the sting of the piercing talons and formidable beak of a bird four times her size. I hunkered down over the dead hen, felt the cool spring breeze, and looked at her poor lifeless body. My gaze went to the river where I could see perched high up in a maple, the brilliant white head of the eagle, very much alive, and very much the image of the strength and fortitude of the wild. How fitting, I reflected, that it should end this way, with the simple, natural order of things playing out in my barnyard, where sometimes the wild meets the domestic, where the weak, the sick, and the injured are targeted, and where sometimes the farmer gets spared the decision of what to do with a suffering animal.

Philosophical musing aside, and despite my understanding and acceptance of the natural relationship between predator and prey, I have to make a living too, and I’ve decided to confine the flock for the time being, lest the eagle be tempted by another chicken dinner. The other ladies (and rooster) are in fine form and I’d hate to lose one of them. What’s more, I would have a hard time finding a philosophical or poetical way to excuse the actions of an irresponsible farmer intentionally putting his birds’ lives at risk.

Headshot

The day after Christmas dawned like any other winter day on the farm, except maybe I tarried in the warmth of the covers a bit longer than usual, basking in the still warm residual glow of Christmas. The weather was fair and I appreciated the dawning of a clear, crisp day, a rarity in winter. From the loafing yard the horses nickered and shuffled about in anticipation as I walked down to prepare the barn for their morning ration. I went about the ritual winter routine: place a scoop of grain in each horse’s grain box followed by a cup of trace mineral supplement; then pass from stall to stall with a wheelbarrow, bedding each with a fresh layer of sawdust and shavings; then make the trip upstairs to the hay loft where I gather big fluffy forkfuls of loose hay to drop down through the various openings in the barn floor to the stalls below. On this particular morning before releasing Jimmy’s portion, I paused and appreciated that I recognized exactly what part of what hayfield this particular forkful came from. The layers of red top mixed with red clover only grow together down by the mailbox in the upper field, and this bunch looked like it was layed down yesterday, each clover leaf intact and perfect, the blossoms a fine pale red. I dropped it on down into the feed bunk below and continued to do the same until all the bunks were full. I rehung the pitchfork in its place on the hand hewn post at the top of the stairs and went back down. The horses had been following my every movement from the loafing yard, and they knew it was nearly time. They jockeyed for position as I walked over to let them in. I stood for a moment in front of the gate and growled a low growl to “Get back!” I don’t want my fingers pinched in the clasp or to be run down while I’m opening it; I expect them to respect my space, and I don’t open the gate until they’ve settled sufficiently. Nonetheless, when I finally do open the gate, I step quickly aside, well clear of their path. Nine hungry horses making for the barn is no trifling thing. As they trot across the barnyard at a brisk pace, I take a careful look at the herd for anything unusual: lameness, injury, or a horse that might be “off” in some way. Once inside, chaos turns to order in moments. Horses, like most humans, whether we admit it or not, like routine, require it even, and these horses know to make directly for their stalls and their breakfast will be waiting. For each horse a stall, his and his alone, and every day the same; each goes there immediately and settles right down to eating their grain. The anticipation, the excitement, and the rush out of the gate is replaced instantly by contentment and single-minded focus. At this point normally I walk unhurriedly into the barn and make my rounds, always in the same order, clockwise starting with Ole, quietly greeting each animal in turn, slipping on each halter and shutting the gate of any horse that for whatever reason is staying in the box stall or in one of the bigger pens. I say “normally,” because this particular morning turned out to be far from normal.

The previous day I had started the weaning process of eight month old Flora, the last of our Suffolk/Fjord crosses sired by dearly departed Donald and Fjord matriarch Josie. Flora is a sweet little thing, friendly and gentle like all of our horses, a testament to the two breeds of her parentage. For every mammal there eventually comes a time of weaning, and Flora’s time had arrived. It is always difficult for the youngster, but I try to ease the burden by allowing the dam and foal to stay in adjoining pens. When I separated Flora from Josie, the filly’s moorings were cut loose, and she found herself suddenly removed from the safe and comfortable place at her dam’s side. Now her position in the iron clad order of horse hierarchy was very much in question. She would have to find, accept, and maintain a new place in the herd, this time on her own.

That fateful morning when I walked into the barn after opening the gate, the older horses were in their proper place as usual, but there remained a congregation clustered around the box stall where Suffolk filly Ruby spent her days. Flora was trying to sneak in there instead of going to her place in one of the big pens on the north side of the barn. I read the situation right away and made my presence known, “Alright, let’s sort this out!” Ruby turned and correctly made for the box stall and left Flora facing the right direction. It was obvious she was lost and unsure where to go, so I walked up behind and put my hand on her rump to encourage her to move on in the right direction. I had no sooner touched her with my outstretched palm when she kicked. I don’t recall seeing it coming, but in that brief moment of impact a lifetime’s worth of thoughts tore through my mind. First — I’ve just been kicked in the head! Associated with this sensation was something like the realization of an ever present fear of a lifetime of working with horses, a nightmare-worst-case-scenario made real. I fell to the ground, put my hand to my forehead and felt the warm gush of blood. My future passed before my eyes: I was going to be in a coma; I was going to have to relearn how to talk, how to walk, how to read, relearn how to learn; my memories would be wiped clean. I crashed to the ground and as I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it to my mangled forehead, I realized I was still alert, I hadn’t passed out, still knew who I was, and where I was. I also knew that I needed to get up and get to the house, and soon. The obvious thing was to call my wife Liz and have her come and help me with whatever came next. I reached for the phone in my vest pocket; it was not there. I looked desperately around for it. I knew I had left the house with it, but now it was nowhere to be found. I’d have to do this on my own. I managed to stand and make my way to our Ranger utility vehicle parked in the nearby machine shed and raced up to the house. I staggered in the back door and hollered for Brendan to go look after the horses, still loose in the barn. Liz came running into the back room where I lay crumpled up against a cabinet. She asked what happened and when I said I got kicked, she didn’t wait for further details, but immediately called for the ambulance.

I spent the day in the hospital in Everett. It was determined that by some miracle I did not have a concussion. Because of the nature of a wound created by a muddy, manure laden hoof, my forehead required surgical debridement to clean and stitch.

Fortunately, the dark future that flashed before my eyes as I fell did not come to pass. I did not have to relearn how to speak or read, nor did I forget my own name, or childhood memories. I will however, have a scar in the shape of a filly’s hoof imprinted on my forehead for the rest of my life, a constant reminder of the dangers that everyday lurk, that follow us on our daily rounds — especially for we who work with livestock — but certainly not limited to us. Indeed everyone must fear the patch of unseen ice at the bottom of the stairs that will lay you flat quicker than the thought of it. And it’s amazing that anyone is brave enough to get behind the wheel of a car and go careening down the road at 65 miles an hour into the face of a stranger going the same speed in the opposite direction. A moment of inattention from either driver will result in certain catastrophe. Add to these an infinity of other perils and you realize that living on this earth is a dangerous proposition indeed.

Considering how poorly things could have gone, the outcome of this incident was extremely favorable, yet I am forever changed by it. When I recall the events of that morning I acutely feel again the impact, the fall, the fear; I shudder and try to think of a more pleasant memory.

Then there are all the questions that naturally arise…Was this my fault? Have I only myself to blame? Would a better horseman have avoided this all-together? Should I even be writing of this incident, lest my readers take me for a fraud and a huckster? “He’s been selling us all these years on his ‘Notes’ like some kind of horse-farmer expert, and then he goes and gets himself kicked in the head by one of his own horses!”

When one experiences an incident of this nature, it is impossible and perhaps even irresponsible not to reflect on the why and the how of the thing. I have relived the scene a thousand times in my mind. In one scenario I walk into the barn, the older horses are in their stalls quietly getting down to the business of breakfast; the youngsters are goofing off. I notice that Flora is worked up a bit; is feeling insecure because she has lost her place in the world. I’ve got the gate in the big pen open for her where grain and hay await. The box stall door also stands open. The fateful moment comes — Flora, after a few moments of sparring with Ruby, starts to make for her pen, but hesitates, unsure. I just let her be and attend to Ruby, who is making her way correctly into the box stall. Maybe Flora settles some, goes and nuzzles Josie over the gate, pining for one last taste of mama’s milk. I quietly halter the others, keeping an attentive eye on Flora. If she happens to wander into the pen, great; I’ll walk swiftly over and shut the gate. But if, when I finish with the others, she’s still not settled properly, I’ll fetch her halter, slip it on and lead her into her pen. She may be worked up enough that this takes a bit to accomplish, but that’s okay. I’m patient.

Of course that is not at all how the morning unfolded. Was I actually impatient? Did I rush in blindly, too soon, unthinking? I think the answer is No, and Yes. I don’t recall feeling impatient in the least, I just did what I have so often done — try to capitalize on a developing situation and use the horse’s own thinking and/or motion or action to get the desired outcome. That is to say, reinforce the horse’s own idea when it aligns with my idea. Flora, after goofing around with her cousins, did finally start off in the right direction. She is yet small enough that a nudge from behind could encouraged her to carry on with the desired action — keep her moving away from pressure and toward the goal. I was trying to capitalize on her own correct idea in that very moment, something I have done a thousand times before.

Of course she didn’t see it that way. She saw a threat at every turn. Her stable, ordered, predictable world — the only one she knew — had just collapsed and she was trying, in a perfectly natural horse way, to reestablish her position in the herd. The only other time I had seen her kick was an afternoon a couple of days before, after I turned everybody out to the loafing sheds for the night. Horses kicking up in the air and crow hopping around is not unusual when they are released from a day of confinement into the freedom of open space. I hadn’t really given her kick much thought. It wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular; it just seemed like a kid literally kicking up her heels. Clearly I should have paid more attention.

The instant her hoof came in contact with my head perhaps it ceased to matter, but the question remains: did she deliberately kick at me, or did she assume I was another horse trying to boss her around; or was her action yet a natural response to a moment of insecurity and not at all targeted, but simply a desperate lashing out. I tend to think she took me for a horse, or a general threat, and had no intention of deliberately kicking at me personally. Up until that moment she had been a sweet, adorable filly — gentle and easy. I was present at her birth; I taught her to be haltered, to lead, to tie — and never did she show the slightest hint of malice, no biting, no kicking. And since that fateful day? She still frolics around in the afternoon when she gets turned out, but after three or four days she settled into her new place in the herd and I have not seen her take a real kick at anyone, horse or human since. And now when I walk into her pen she comes right up to me, her soft, gentle eyes eager for some scratches, and some whispered sweet-nothings. I imagine her saying, “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone; I didn’t realize it was you behind. It all just happened so fast. I hope you’re doing okay.” And I lean in and put my nose into her soft warm neck and whisper back, “I’m sorry too. I never meant to put you in an awkward place where you felt like you were cornered and had to defend yourself. You’re just little in this big world and I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I think we’re going to get on just fine, and — I hope you’re doing okay too.”