As he is in my memory, Handsome Red Two of our horses were in the dream, the Arabians, both of whom perished last year. So, too, the miscreant aptly named Pyewacket— a fierce disagreeable little cat whose provenance is known only inasmuch as she is the progeny of one of the feral cats that took up residence in the barn a few years ago.
I was trying to connect with the horses at turns. But my Night shade was finding them, not the real me— a defensive version, relating to Pye; always the trickster version,
It spooked and scared the horses, the gentle kind— So they told me, in their way, I must find them as myself.
I whispered in my sleep “I don’t know how.”
And Red somehow telegraphed the message to me through what technology he found in that place, it told me
When the stars are going out—
And you’re looking for a face before you leave—
Make it mine.”
And I tried like hell to escape the deep molasses of sleep, to find him; to remember— To shake it all off and just recall that one moment, of him.
Him, merged with my childhood; Magic; the Elysian Fields, the Farm— the Infinite; revisiting me. And I did, sort of— but he was talking about when the Stars Go Out. So I’ll meet him when I die.
I have to wait. (I’ll always look for his face.)
Animals are the closest I get to religion.
. . .
Later on, I painted that little sketch of him. Here’s the one I did when he passed:
And here’s one of Red and Comet, our red and black Arabian gentlemen:
Cold and picturesque, the Farm this week; a winter idyll. The drive upstate was unfettered by traffic or difficulties; highway dark on the eclipsed solstice, save the odd bling-lit freight truck. Not a wink, not a star—no Orion out the passenger window.
I went out in the afternoon to say hi to the Dudes. The new horse is still being kept separate until they’ve become reliably friendly, so he was down in a separate pasture. Seneca and Prince were feeling feisty and joined me in running.
New guy Badger met me, allowed me to say hello, but upon realizing I bore no gifts, sauntered off down the hill to search for what blanketed grasses he might find beneath the snow.
+ + +
After dinner I unearthed the super 8 film projector and its tin of reels. Something about the metal box slotted for specific storage reminds me of a world war ammunitions case, but it’s square and gold-colored, so it’s all in my head. Anyway, it arms us with lost moments of the past, the sound of the projector a kind of covering fire in the sentimentally charged dark.
We made it through ten reels. During set up, I had a stray thought, marveling at how the bulb has lasted us through so many of these viewings. A doomed thought, for after I threaded reel eleven, the bulb didn’t come on. We opened the machine and took the bulb out; filament had finally given out. So the session ended with us researching where to find. They are expensive things, and rightfully so. What a beautiful and intricate thing; and now in low demand. My father is off now to find a replacement.
His mane is exceedingly long, quite proper for an Arabian (though his face looks mostly Thoroughbred, despite his having only 25% of that breed in his Anglo-Arab genealogy.)
Some photos of Red from my trip Upstate to the Farm. He’s getting up there– 28 years of age; still the master of the herd. He’s lost many of his back (chewing) teeth, which has resulted in his subsisting largely on mash, though he still spends a lot of time grinding away at green grass– but his jaw has lost some of its muscle. Still a handsome devil, though, and still feisty. More images after the jump–
Brad, Romona and myself (age 11 or 12) after a trail ride. Also pictured: Ramona’s horse Cody in the rear, and mine, Chief (too busy grazing on the lawn to lift his head for a photo).
I was in the Monroe County 4H Equine program when I was growing up, until I was around 15 or so (when Punk, New Wave, and boys ate my brain). My oldest brother and a number of friends and I were all in a local 4H group (the Rush Riders, named for our township) that was a part of the Cornell University Cooperative Extension. In addition to trail rides, horse shows and Wyomoco Horse Camp, we participated in a program of testing known as the Star Tests, of which there were five levels. I made it to level four before quitting the program, and we used to practice by staging horse bowls– kind of trivial pursuit games, but only regarding horses. We had study guides and books. Someone out there (probably Cornell) even published papers which we received piecemeal, to put in a binder, gradually making up a textbook of horse knowledge, from tack terminology to basics of veterinary care. Somewhere at the farm I have my four little star pins still, I think. It’s pretty amazing to think about now; I took it all for granted at the time, since I started when I was around eight.
Some of us also took part in the Public Presentations program, for which my presentation on Anglo-Arabian horses (that’s a Thoroughbred crossed with an Arabian) made it to State level. I titled it “The Best of Both Breeds.” (Such a geek! I was mainly interested in that program because the talks required visuals, so I had the chance to design and draw loads of posters for them. Probably cemented my future career as a designer.)
So, here are some random bits of horse geekery that were floating through my head this morning for some reason:
Lipids are the building blocks of protein. (!)
In a horse, the caecum is a vestigial organ similar to the appendix in a human. (In looking up the proper spelling, I’ve since learned it exists in carnivores as well but evolution has decreased its size)
A horse has 206 bones, save for pureblood Arabian horses, which have one fewer vertebra.
When a horse’s hooves are properly trimmed, the resulting angles (in relation to the ground) should be 45º for the front feet, and 50º for the back.
In the US, any horse standing fewer than 14 1/2 hands tall at the withers is considered a pony. (One hand = 4″, so that’s 58″. The withers are the bones at the base of the neck –essentially the topmost points of the shoulder blades– just behind which rests the foremost portion of a saddle.)
A horse cannot breathe through its mouth.
A horse’s age can be determined by looking at it’s teeth. (The phrase “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” refers to this. It would be tantamount to receiving a car as a gift and immediately checking the odometer to see how new it was– considered rude, ungrateful.)
A horse’s small intestine is about 75 feet in length.
Eohippus, or “dawn horse”, was around the size of a small fox, and had paws not hooves; horses retain a vestigial toe of sorts in the form of a callosity at the rear of the fetlock known as an ergot, similar to those found on cats and dogs.