You can’t beat good breeding. What do you get when you cross an amazing barrel racing stallion with a foundation-bred Quarter Horse mare? An athletic foal with a great brain. Already a pro at being halter broke at the tender age of six weeks, watch how Gracie (as we call her) keeps her cool even when some of the other horses rush the fence. And p.s., I didn’t know Matt was taping when I made the “left brain” comment.
She was worth the wait.
Isabella’s due date came and went, and each night, we brought her into the foaling stall, checking the foaling cam on a regular basis, and each night she would cock a hip and sleep in the corner.
This went on for three weeks.
The vet came out–twice–and checked her; everything was fine. Isabella was a “maiden mare”–this was her first foal–and they can be known to take longer.
I stalked her for any signs of impending labor, and would take photos and videos and send them to interested parties, saying, Look, this could be it!–such as the day she squirreled her tail up and down all day, a sign of impending labor:
Finally, one chilly night in early March, Isabella restlessly paced the foaling stall. Fortified by ice cream bars, I kept one eye on the foaling cam and one eye on old reruns of Sex & The City all night long as she paced and paced and paced.
All. Night. Long.
And then in the morning she seemed to quit labor; once again cocking a hip and going to sleep. Matt and Emma, no doubt thinking she was “crying wolf” yet again, both went to work, and I continued my vigil solo. Isabella seemed to desperately want out of her foaling stall, so around 9:30 a.m. I opened the stall and she gratefully lumbered into what we have dubbed “the playpen”–the foal-safe paddock just off the foaling stall.
And suddenly Isabella went crazy. No doubt rocked by contractions, she began racing around the paddock, as fast as her big belly would allow. Then she stood stock still and turned to look at her posterior in wonder as her water broke.
And then she dropped to the grass and began to deliver.
Three weeks overdue, Isabella finally gets down the business of delivering her foal.
Warning! Graphic birth shot coming up!
As the foal emerged, I pulled the amniotic sac away from its muzzle so it could breathe.
Aaaand then Isabella gave me a heart attack by standing up with this much foal emerging from her. She began walking around, me following as casually as possible, hoping I could catch the 100-pound baby before it the ground.
Thankfully, Isabella dropped back down. She seemed exhausted, so with the next contraction, I gently helped pull out the foal.
It was a girl!
We named her Grace. Here’s a video her first steps:
And we are happy to report that mom and baby are doing just fine.
Nothing helps celebrate spring better than the arrival of a healthy foal.
Isabella and Grace, a fine-boned girl with a beautiful blaze and a snip on her face, two white socks, and lovely legs.
I blame the cats.
I know that transitioning a new cat or kitten to the current residents can be tough, but Vincent and Piper not only ignored the orphan kitten Fiona, they hissed and batted at her whenever she toddled near.
Vincent ignores Fiona, who has emerged from her crate yet keeps her distance.
We kept the kitten in a large crate for her own protection, and would allow her out only under close supervision. In search of a pack of her own, and at the risk of using a cliche, Fiona went to the dogs. To this day, I think the little cat firmly believes she is one.
“Well, the other dogs seem to like this thing, so I guess I’ll chew on it, too.”
It started with Chiko, our old Aussie terrier. The elder statesman was the first to be tolerant, even affectionate, of Fiona, and she would nap with him whenever she could.
Young and old: Chiko and Fiona cuddle for a nap.
Then the kitten discovered Levi, Matt’s black Lab. In Levi, Fiona found her soul mate.
A nap in the sun is a great way to spend the day.
I got the first inkling of the strength of the relationship one day in the kitchen, when Fiona ran under my foot and I accidentally stepped on part of her tail. She squealed in protest and ran! –straight to Levi, where she hid against his chest and he looked at me with what I can only describe as reproach.
What can I say? When love strikes, you just gotta go with it.
Levi’s tail provides entertainment for Fiona.
Levi and Fiona, a blur of black fur. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends.
It’s my mission in life to scare our horses.
I don’t do this to be cruel; on the contrary, I try to induce their heart attacks from the safety of their home on our farm, so that when we take them out into the big, unpredictable world, they are more likely to remain calm no matter what they encounter.
I had high hopes for Waving Man. They got over him way too quickly.
I never expected the practice to help save their lives.
In October, Matt and I took Yukon and Isabella to a Jonathan Field clinic in British Columbia, where we had a wonderful time riding and learning for three days.
Isabella was 6 1/2 months pregnant at the clinic, which was our last riding hurrah until she foals. Look at that belly!
After the clinic, we were driving to the border with Yukon and Isabella in our 3-horse trailer when we were suddenly struck by an SUV. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but our truck was inoperable, and as the hours ticked away and we waited for help, it became apparent we were going to have to unload the horses in the dark, in the middle of the intersection, with traffic rushing past in an adjacent lane and the lights from the fire trucks and flares blazing away.
Some Good Samaritans gathered to help, including Jonathan Field, who drove his own truck and trailer to the scene in order to transport our horses back to his farm. While fire rescue officials helped block traffic, and Matt and another man stood at the ready to grab a panicking horse, Jonathan unloaded first Isabella, who he handed to me, and then Yukon. Both horses calmly walked off our trailer, sauntered across the intersection and loaded right up into Jonathan’s trailer without any hesitation, not so much as glancing at any of the flashing lights or intimidating fire trucks.
Jonathan shook his head and said, “I’ve never seen anything like it–I can’t believe how calm they were! What a foundation!”
To all the humans there, it was indeed amazing, and we all breathed a huge sigh of relief. But I think that if we could have read our horse’s minds, they would have been thinking something like this:
“Interesting. All this must be another one of our Human’s stupid stunts that always turn out to be nothing to get excited over. Ha. Good try, Human.”
Yikes. Our truck and trailer, shortly after The Wreck. Thankfully, no one was hurt, and we learned that it really is next to impossible to spook the horses.
Life moves fast on a farm.
And if there’s one thing that horses and farming both teach you, it’s how to be flexible. That sometimes, despite your best laid plans, things don’t always turn out the way you wanted…and sometimes there’s a big fat lining of silver in that rain cloud.
For me, that was realizing that Quill was not meant to be a farm horse, and not a good fit for me. He was miserable doing arena work and bored meandering around the island, and the big colt let me know it in no uncertain terms. So we sold Quill to an amazing horseman and trainer in British Columbia, Danny Virtue, who trains horses for Hollywood. They took to each other immediately. I expect to see Quill in all his magnificence on the big screen in the next few years, a lifestyle better suited to his larger-than-life personality.
Quill’s absence begged the question, What would I do for a riding horse?
Enter Isabella.
Look at that face! This was one of the photos from the ad the seller posted. It totally worked.
My bestie, Bernadette (known as B), was helping me search, and I had already come across and then stupidly dismissed the ad for the mare because she was in foal, and I wanted a horse I could ride right away. B convinced me to take a second look. The mare was only three months along, which meant I would be able to ride her for at least the next few months. She is in foal to an amazing stud (more on him in a minute). Best of all, she was the sweetest, most agreeable horse I had ever met, and she soothed the aching part of my heart that missed Quill.
I love her a ridiculous amount.
Asta checks out her new auntie grazing nonchalantly in the pasture as Neela watches carefully.
The two mares meet safely over the fence. Neela ultimately established her dominance, but it took a while for Isabella to give in.
The Baby Daddy: He’s also a Quarter Horse, a famous barrel racer called Slick By Design.
We are thinking that the foal may be solid black like its sire. Emma has named the baby Batman (or, if it’s a filly, Batgirl).
My best friend B is on Mocha and I’m on Isabella, at a scenic view we rode to that’s just down the road from our farm.
Ah, summer! This mare is so gentle, I have yet to ride her in a bridle.
Neela ninja-birthed on us–a gorgeous filly, foaled in the pasture. We are thrilled and relieved to say both momma and baby are doing fine.
The filly is solid black for now, but it’s easy to see the gray hairs in her coat, so she will be changing color soon. I’m hoping she keeps her black stockings, like her dam.
And in other baby news…we are fostering an orphan kitten, named Fiona. She arrived at age two weeks. She reminds us of a tiny grizzly bear.
More details later on all of it, but here are some pics for all to enjoy!
Yippee!!!!
The kitten was first to arrive. The pictures say it all.
Good thing she’s cute, as she has to have a bottle every three hours!
Even the dogs like her. Here, Chiko, our resident grandpa, allows her to cuddle up for a nap.
A week after the kitten, our next black and gray baby girl arrived!
Welcome to the world! The filly has just arrived, so Neela nudges her to get up.
The foal was on her feet within ten minutes of being born.
Emma, who is the filly’s buyer/mom, rubs her dry.
Ten minutes after standing, the filly, who Emma has named Asta (it means “love”) , was nursing. We brought the mother and baby duo to the barn as it was getting to pour a cold rain, where Asta showed off her nursing skills again. See the cute tiny snip of white at the top of her tail?
The next day, momma and baby started enjoying their paddock, known as “the playpen.” They are wonderful to watch.
Oh, how one of our Barred Rock chickens, “Chick-Chick,” loves her man.
Her human man. So in this video, you’ll see Chick-Chick hustling across the farm for some TLC.
I can’t say that I blame her; I think Matt’s pretty irresistible, too.
Talk about a fish story! The posting of this video is long overdue–Matt took it last fall on the southwest side of Vancouver Island while headed to Port Renfrew, British Columbia, with friends for some salmon fishing. Wow!
In her final months before foaling, as her belly expands and her gaits get slower, our broodmare Neela’s sweet disposition vanishes and she becomes a Kraken.
Neela partakes of her favorite pastime. The up side to being the lead mare: You don’t have to share.
In her defense, I can’t imagine how uncomfortable it must be to have the equivalent of a German Shepherd inside you, turning this way and that, trying to get comfortable despite increasingly cramped quarters.
It starts with Neela playing the Mine! game. Convinced that the hay at the other end of the paddock is tastier–despite coming from the same bale–she will lumber aaaaaaall the way across to Yukon and Mocha’s hay shed, and with one glare, take over a hay net.
Neela weighed in at 1300 pounds before pregnancy…so whatever Neela wants, Neela gets.
Should I stay or should I go? Neela ponders her options while beind her in their shed, Mocha and Yukon try to be unobtrusive.
Mocha pauses for a picture while Yukon hides next to her. See the white stuff on her right hind leg? That’s antibiotic cream for the scrape. Thanks, Neela.
Until it displeases her. Then she turns and lumbers aaaaaaall the way back, and woe unto the horse that gets in her way along this journey, for they shall feel her wrath.
Apparently this happened to Mocha, because she’s now sporting a large Neela-size hoof scrape down one hind leg. Even so, the closer Neela gets to foaling, the more she seems to crave Mocha’s company, in a We-Mares-Gotta-Stick-Together way. She knows what’s ahead, and two years ago, Mocha was a terrific auntie to Neela’s filly.
“You’re cute, but don’t get fresh with me, kid.”
One look says it all: As Neela pins her ears and gives him the stinkeye, Yukon hustles to vacate the premises.
Yukon finds relief in neutral territory: the water trough.
Poor Yukon is the odd horse out. I try to give him extra neck rubs and tell him, “Hang in there, big guy, Quill will be back before you know it.”
Come to think of it, the big colt returns from Horse College right about the same time Neela is due, which is May 22. But there will be no reunion–Quill and Yukon play too rough, so we’ll put the girls on one side of the farm and the boys on the other. Like an equine Catholic school.
“Well, this is tasty after all! If it weren’t for the stupid net, I could hoover it better.”
“Wait, what’s that sound?” The downside of eating alone is that there’s nobody else to let you know if danger is lurking.
Turns out the ruckus is just the dogs at play. Bear is on a tear while Chiko, who is a sedate 12 this year, watches.
Even in paradise, winter can be cruel.
Oh, no, snow!
The weather was mild during our first two winters here, but this winter, it has snowed and at times been bitterly cold. Our resident equine geriatric, Silver, made it to his 35th year, but despite a protected stall, heated water tanks, feed soaked in warm water and blanketing, the old gray gelding apparently tired of it all and died this winter. His loyal companion, Lola the goat, passed away shortly afterward. They are buried side by side in the woods behind the shed barn, and we all shed more than one tear over it.
Mocha, our Quarter Horse filly, enjoys some mutual grooming with Silver this past summer, his final one. Lola rests nearby.
I had been hoping Silver would last one more spring, because we were hoping to have a new gray foal out of Neela, our broodmare, who we dropped off in Eastern Washington to spend some quality time with a Quarter Horse stallion in early summer. The stallion only did “live cover” breeding, i.e., the old-fashioned, no-tech way. That is, until the breeder called us and said, “Come get your mare before these two kill each other.”
It seems that when said stallion approached Neela for some romance, she pinned her ears, bared her teeth and did her best to kick his lights out. I had to call the buyer of the potential foal, who had chosen the stallion, and since the breeding season was nearing its end, tell her to hurry and find a Plan B, and to be sure to pick a stallion whose breeder would collect the semen and ship it.
“Apparently Neela likes her encounters to be online only and anonymous,” I told the buyer after Matt and I swooped in and rescued the offended mare from the hooves of the QH stallion. We drove Neela straight to Mount Vernon Veterinary Hospital and dropped her off to be prepped for artificial insemination.
The buyer came through with an excellent next choice, a lovely Morgan stallion in…New York state. A few days later, Neela obligingly began to develop an egg in her fallopian tube, and the vet called the breeder to say, Send the stuff! And she did.
But it didn’t ship well. The glum report from the vet was that upon arrival, the sperm looked to be only 20 percent viable–much too low for a successful breeding. The second day, it had dropped to 5 percent, and on the third day, Neela ovulated.
“Well, all it takes is one,” the vet said cheerfully before asking me if I still wanted to try it. Sure, I told him, go ahead.
The following day I got another call, this time with more grim news: Shortly after being inseminated, Neela had an adverse reaction to the “extender”-a solution used to extend the life of the shipped semen–and her uterus would need to be flushed. We figured that breeding was literally a wash, and made plans to give it one more try.
Except…while scanning Neela two weeks later to check her cycle for the next AI attempt, the vet found, much to his surprise, she was two week’s pregnant! Somehow, despite it all, one of those little determined sperm had made it through. Amazing! We decided its nickname should be Michael Phelps.
There’s a baby in there! Back at home, Neela relaxes. Her foal is due May 22.
While all this drama was going on, we were getting ready for the San Juan County Fair. For the first time, we decided to enter a few farming contest categories: Eggs, rhubarb and compost. Yes, compost. Believe it or not, there is a lot of science and sweat that goes into cooking compost, not just horse poop.
How did we do? We took home three blue ribbons, that’s how we did! And one red. Not that I’m competitive or anything.
Red Roof Acres eggs took home blue ribbons!
A few weeks after that, we loaded up our colt Quill, who turned 3 in June, and drove him to Colorado to go to “horse college” with noted horseman Larry Fleming, who has trained all our horses over the years. Like any doting mother, I have missed Quill terribly, but I know he’s in the best of hands, and I can’t wait to get him back this spring, ready to ride.
Quill peers through his fly mask to look out the door of the indoor arena of the ranch that will be home for the next few months while Matt prepares to say goodbye.
All grown up and away at school! Quill learns one of his first lessons from Larry: to soften and drop his head when asked.
Meanwhile, Matt and I took advantage of having a smaller herd and left the farm with a sitter in January in order to enjoy our first beach vacation in years. Suffice to say it was fabulous. But after a week away I was glad to be back home, where the farm sitter, Emma, told me about an encounter with a very aggressive fox. This fox, a very large, healthy, black one, was accompanying a red fox one morning across the paddock while Emma did chores, and when she attempted to shoo it away, the fox stood its ground. Emma threw rocks. The fox simply stared. Emma fetched the pellet gun that we keep near the chicken coop for just such purposes, and shot it into the air, and STILL the fox was unfazed. Undaunted, it dawdled a while longer before trotting arrogantly away. After that, afraid for their safety, Emma put the chickens on house arrest.
I had never heard of a fox being so aggressive. And then I met the fox.
Early one morning the dogs and I were returning to the house after chores, when Levi, Matt’s black lab, gave a low growl while staring at the driveway. Thinking a neighbor had dropped by, I told Levi, “Leave it,” so he obediently sat. And then I saw what he’d been growling at: Two foxes, one red, one black, lurking beside the driveway, where my beloved cat, Vincent, likes to lounge! Oh, no!
I immediately said “OK!” to Levi, who bounded off after the foxes, who turned fluffy tails and ran across the front yard and then to the road. I called Levi back and he obediently abandoned the chase. As he trotted back, I couldn’t believe my eyes: The black fox had also done a 180 and was now running after Levi, straight at him, straight at me. Levi, who turned one in August, whirled and stood stock still, clearly confused over this development.
And that’s when I said something to Levi I never have before. And even though it was the first time I ever uttered those words, he understood what I meant completely.
“GET HIM, LEVI!” I yelled, pointing at the fox, and the husky lab paused just long enough to give me what I can only describe as a joyous look before launching himself at the black fox, who abandoned all pompous attitude and began running for its life.
Black Fox fled to the east pasture, slipping swiftly under the fence and spiriting away across the field. Levi, who had put on a few pounds while we were on vacation, lost some momentum while squeezing himself under the fence but soon began gaining ground.
It was like watching an episode of Wild Kingdom.
Halfway across the pasture, Levi kicked into another gear and suddenly, BOOM, he launched his 70-pound frame at that fox, knocking it off its legs and sending it tumbling through the air.
That had to hurt.
Desperate now, the fox scrambled back to its feet and in the next blink had made it to the woods that border the pasture. Of course Levi ran into the woods after him, with Bear and Chiko, the two terries, trailing behind, and me hollering for all three to come back.
They did, and I heaped tons of praise upon them all but especially Levi, who grinned and panted.
That was several days ago, and we haven’t seen the fox since. Still, if it shows back up, Levi’s ready.
Levi, posting sentry duty.
