Horse sense and moving moments

I am a writer who writes best when I am inspired to write, not at a set time or place. The stories I want to tell, in the way I want to tell them, come to me at totally impractical times for scribing or filming. They come to me when the hands are full, the clothes are soaked, the boots are muddy, the body aches, and the laptop is far, far away.

And that’s how it was these past four days, as I helped move an animal sanctuary and looked after the porcine and equine migrants. Never have so many stories been written in my mind, so many images captured by my eyes, with so few moments or materials available to record them so they could be shared. The words flowed through my mind like the floodwaters at high tide; they came to me as I wandered the pasture or mucked out the stall or slogged through the mud or strained under the weight of a bale of hay. And by the time I returned to my home on the Island, the images remained but the precise wording was lost.

And so, I apologize in advance if my words get jumbled and the description is lengthy. The few pictures I took are mostly dark and grainy. I only wish I could convey to you just one iota of the excitement, delight, anxiety, anticipation, worry, fun, humour, frustration, and amazement that the ever-resilient animals gifted me with this past week. So grab another coffee, and curl up for a long read, and as you do, imagine piggy snouties and soft horse noses looking over your shoulder, for this story is not my story but theirs.

I arrived in the rain and I left in the rain. And in between – it rained. Not the ideal conditions for moving an animal sanctuary, but much better than a foot of snow and arguably better than the scorching heat of summer.

I arrived Saturday afternoon. The horses had been moved that morning and were patiently waiting in their new pasture. Though I have not spent a lot of time with them, Dior knows I am a “bringer of apples” and trotted over for her treat. Lacey was a bit more edgy, keeping a watchful eye on the ducks and geese in the neighbouring yard. My job that night was to stay at the new house with the horses, ensuring they were safe and providing their feed in the morning.

We had chosen not to close the horses into their new shelter at night – it was not yet divided into separate stalls, but the horses would still have access if they chose to enter. We fed them some hay from the hay storage shed next to their stalls, locked the shed with the clips provided, and said goodnight.

I was up at dawn on Sunday, peering through the darkness to see how they were doing. At first, I couldn’t spot them – evidence later showed they had entered their stalls, if only to use them for bathrooms. I turned on the porch lights and stepped outside, and suddenly all hell broke loose. The geese started honking, the ducks started squawking (they had just been let out of their nighttime enclosure), and the horses started stampeding. Around and around, back and forth, from one fence to the other they raced.

I am not a horsewoman. I have ridden exactly twice in my life – both times when I was fifteen years old and visited a riding stable where I was placed on an old mare who plodded along with her eyes shut and with no need for me to direct her in any way whatsoever. More recently, I did, for about 18 months, help care for some horses at another sanctuary, but that was mostly directing traffic as they trotted happily into their stalls for dinner, giving them feed and water, and mucking out the stalls from time to time. I had not had the experience of a few thousand pounds of nervous horses flying around a pasture close to a fairly busy road, and not knowing how to stop them or if they would jump the fence.

Fortunately, they eventually stopped of their own accord, and trotted nicely towards me when they saw me head to the hay shed. It wasn’t due to hunger, though, for they had already helped themselves to breakfast – or a midnight snack – for they had busted open the door by pulling the three inch eyebolt right out of the wood and scattering bales of hay into the mud. Nice job, Dior – I know you were the instigator!

Who me?

I cleaned up the mess, improvised a way to hold the door shut, told them what I thought of their behaviour, assured them their mom would be coming over soon, and headed out to the old sanctuary to help with the loading of the pigs.

We moved fifteen pigs on Sunday: Scotch and Soda and their herd, whom I had fostered; Rose and Roscoe, the two farm pigs; and Comet, that most mischievous and very strong potbellied-farm pig cross whose body has grown large but whose actions remain that of a spoiled and very smart child.

Comet

Rose, I think

With the aid of a small group of hardy volunteers who came bearing coffee and cookies, pizzas and power bars and pastries, and with the help of truckers and horsefolk who came with their big rigs and relevant know-how, we loaded the piggies into horsetrailers and the piggy houses onto flat decks, and caravanned twenty minutes east to the new site. There, the fencers were madly finishing off the stalls for the first fifteen pigs while the truckers lifted the houses high over the trees along the side road and into the pens.

Finishing the pen

Memorable moments abound – but carrying my camera around in the pouring rain was neither smart nor practical. And so the camera stayed in the house while my hands were busy and my mind snapped “moving moment” images.

Moving moment #1: Standing amid the trees and mud and pens, glancing back to see a large piggy house - a good sized shed – swinging forty, fifty, sixty feet up in the air, over the treetops that surround the property and separate it from the road, and down into the pen. That such a feat was even possible amazed me; that it was being done for the animals gave me great joy.

Moving moment #2: Watching Janice in green rubber raingear and boots striding through the mud with Roscoe trotting briskly along right behind her, his snoutie up, his eyes fastened intently on his human in adoration and with great confidence that she was leading him to something good. I was instantly reminded of my favourite illustration from one of my favourite childhood books –Christopher Robin in mac and wellies (Macintosh raincoat and Wellington boots, for those without a British background!) striding through the rain, head high and arms swinging, with one of his friends (was it Pooh Bear? Eeyore? Piglet?) running along behind. It was clear that Roscoe loved and trusted Janice just as A. A. Milne’s characters loved and trusted Christopher Robin.

Moving moment #3: Watching as the next partition of the horsetrailer was opened, and my twelve precious piggies ran to the open end of the trailer and stood three deep, heads peering over the shoulders of the ones in front, trotters on the edge, snouties up, sniffing the air, looking around with bright eyes and quizzical expressions – “What is this place? Are we there? Is this HOME?” It was a re-enactment of their move from my old farm to the sanctuary, albeit this time with a much bigger trailer. This picture was from that first move, and is one of my favourites:



When all the animals were penned and fed and settled into their straw-filled houses and everyone had left for the day, I did one more check before falling into bed. I was cold, wet and dirty, but the mechanism that runs the well had died so there was no hot shower for me.

MUD!!!

The next morning I awoke stiff and sore and still tired. The rain was pouring down, there was mud everywhere, it was dark and cold, and as I dragged myself out the door after chopping up pumpkins to feed the little pigs and boiling water to wash my hands and face, and I thought “Oh gawd, how does Janice do this???”

And then the piggies heard me. And they came running from their houses. And their upturned snouties and joyous squeals gave me my answer. She does it because every morning, every morning of every single day, she gets to smile as I was smiling, to laugh as I was laughing, to know, as I knew for that moment, that these funny, squealing, messy critters are worth every hardship, every muddy floor and aching muscle and empty bank account. Their squeals tell it all: they are very glad to be alive, to be in this place, to be loved. And while they might be mostly interested in the food the human brings, methinks they also love their human.

Good morning!

Hi Foster Mama!

And there were more moving moments. Even nature cooperated, with a sudden though short lived sunrise show of beautiful orange clouds and sparkling, brilliant sunlight. It lasted just long enough for me to feed the pigs before the torrential rains returned.

Orange clouds

Sunrise over piggy homes

After feeding the pigs, I went over to check on the horses one more time and for a moment could not find them. And then I saw them – Dior and Lacey standing behind the tool and feed sheds in the only corner of the pasture from which they could watch the piggies. Dior, her thoughtful eyes taking it all in, stood completely still and watched intently as Scotch and Soda and all the youngsters rooted in the fresh green grass, drifted in and out of their house, came to the gate to see if more treats were coming…… Dior, watching, listening, figuring it out. “If the pigs are here too, then we haven’t been abandoned. So that’s it – we’re all going to live HERE now.”

That’s not all Dior figured out that morning. The pasture fence closest to the house contains a section with removable rails that lift and slide so a vehicle can enter the field. Dior had seen me slide the rails over to move the wheelbarrow of manure out, and then replace them. As I returned to the house after morning chores I glanced back just in time to see Dior, mouth firmly wrapped around the top 2x6, teeth buried in the wood, attempting to lift the rail. Heck, if her pigs were over the other side of the house, and this fence was all that separated her from them, then she was just gonna hafta figure out how to let herself out for a walkabout. Now that’s horse sense!

As I watched the horses and the piggies over the next couple of days, I was pleased to see how well they had settled in, and I knew that to them it matters not so much where they live as much as who they live with – someone who feeds them and protects them and loves them.


Take your cue from the animals, Janice – they are happy to be there, curious, eager, enthusiastic. They took to it like ducks to water and pigs to mud. They are telling you – this is HOME. We’re not sure what this place is, or what life will be like here, but we know it is GOOD.

And so, Janice, as you begin your life in your new home, may you have many such mornings when you are glad to be alive, when the pigs squeal and raise their snouties to wish you a good, good day. May you have dry days but with enough rain to keep the well filled, sunshine but with enough clouds to bring cooling relief, not too much snow but a dusting from time to time to cover the poops and mud and mess and make the world pristine again. May donations be plentiful, and critics be scarce. May the neighbours be helpful and the volunteers frequent. And may you and the critters find comfort and happiness and beauty in your new surroundings.

Welcome home, Hearts on Noses, welcome home.

For more stories and pictures of this moving adventure, check out Janice's blog here, and Black Jack Carol's blog here.