-25 F January 3, 2009 January, 3 2009

It’s -25 as I write this. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, in the chair closest to the woodstove. Pete, upstairs, is watching a Clint Eastwood western. An oatmeal, apple, flax mash mixture is cooking on the stove. I’ve just finished tending to the horses, fed, cleaned up poop, and checked the water.

Raudi and Siggi’s noses were buried in hay. Tinni was standing by the gate, ignoring his hay. We spent the better part of the day keeping tabs on him, making sure his poop was firm and monitoring his water and hay consumption.

Tinni is a stoic horse, so we kept a close eye on the external signs, which would clue us in if there was any duress. Before heading back to the house, I checked his pulse and respiration, and then rubbed his frosty face with my suit sleeve, so as to brush away some of the frost buildup. I mainly focused on his eyelids, and removed the frost dingleberries. He sighed, meaning that he appreciated the attention.

Today, the cold had a strange effect on me; it felt like my body and mind had been moving in slow motion. Because of this, I had to dig down deep in order to make the extra effort to assure that everything was okay here on the horse front. This wasn’t the first time.

Horses are walking contradictions. They are simultaneously strong and fragile. Icelandics are a northern cold-blooded horse, so they’re well suited to Alaska’s harsh climate. But they share a commonality with other horses who live here, which is that they too can become ill, and sometimes for what seems to be no explicable reason.

All three horses have, at one time or another, had mild cases of colic, a form of indigestion that varies in degree of severity. This required immediate attention, which took the form of taking long walks, monitoring their vital signs, watching to see that they kept from rolling. Twice, under our veterinarian’s directive, we gave Banamine. Two of the three incidents were late at night, the daytime one took place right before I was to leave for work.

I can deal with most horse-related problems when it’s cold. I have a Refrigerware suit, and it, along with multiple layers, gloves, overmitts, hats, and boots, keep me warm. I have a harder time dealing with such when I’m tired. I don’t know how veterinarians doing night-related multiple calls do this. It’s one thing to tend to your own animals, ones that you know and love, but quite another to tend to another’s animals. And too, such individuals have to deal with tired and distraught people.

Wait. I do know, because while I’ve been there, limitedly. I’ve been there. For most, an inner voice acts as a much-needed moral guide. It says “Momentarily put aside your self concerns and take care of this problem. Now.” It’s there, on the alert, and prepared to speak up if the situation merits it. At such times, those in charge are pushed to care by the gentle winds of persistence. This voice also continues to guide one’s actions, and makes sure that the job gets done.

Inner voices differ. Some are bossy, some are cajoling. Some are audible, and some are inaudible. Mine is strident, and has no qualms about telling me in a very direct fashion what needs to be done in most horse and non-horse related situations. For instance, this is why my pen is so clean, and why the horses are fed in the winter six times a day.

No, it’s not me that’s obsessive compulsive, it’s my dang voice.

Here’s a better example. This evening, as I returned to the house, I deliberated some about giving Tinni an evening mash, figuring that he’d probably do just fine without it. However, my inner voice said “You said probably. The word probably signifies doubt. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

I went on the defensive, and told Voice that clichés didn’t work with this former English major. Voice immediately shut up. However, by the time I’d entered the cabin, I’d acknowledged that Voice had left me considering a what if. What if Tinni colicked and died? I would then always wonder if my having given him the mash would have prevented this from happening. It was far better, I thought, to make one more trip down to the pen.

Having this voice is a good thing, one that really has better enabled me to care for Tinni, a fellow who is getting on in age. And undoubtedly, it will enable me to better care for him as time goes on. I often wish that I could send time backwards, and have him grow older rather than younger. However, this isn’t possible. And so, as he ages, he’s going to require even more on-the ground attention. Too, he’ll be ridden less, which to some, is the sole reason for having horses.

I was recently told by someone, a ranch owner, that when their horses get old, they simply let them loose on the range, and there they die. For a time, I wondered if perhaps their inner voice dictated this, and then thought no. Inner voices err on the side of what’s right and just.

So, I reasoned, if there is an inner voice speaking here, it’s just not being heard. Too bad, because this seems to me the actions of someone who is acting in a morally reprehensible fashion. One can say that this is letting nature take its course; however, we as humans can make animals comfortable in their old age, and if need be, put them out of their misery when the time comes.

Too often, many, when it comes to horses, supposed beasts of burden, lack a sense of indebtness. I owe T-man, Tinny, Tinsy, Tinman, whatever you want to call him, a good life in his old age because he has given me his all. I’m now a far better rider than I used to be, and it’s because Tinni has been such a patient and willing teacher. When I first got him, three years ago, I was a timid, returning rider. The first time I took him out, we walked around our loop, and this was quite enough for me. A few weeks ago we cantered most of the way around the same route. His unerring ability to sense what I can and cannot do has taken us far.

This is not to say that Tinni is a perfect horse. He’s dumped me a few times, and has had no qualms about heading for home when the opportunity presents itself. But I’ve even learned from this, to relax when any horse bolts, and not to let go of any horses’ reins when out on the road or trail.

My attention is diverted by the sound of the mash, which is now bubbling. Pete is heading out to water, and says that he’ll take it out to Tinni. I gratefully accept his offer, and thank both his and his inner voice. Return to Alys's Photos.

Frosty Tinni at 25 below