Breakfast WIth Lucy

Lucy led me on a merry chase this morning.

On a whim, she decided that today she wanted to have her breakfast with the rest of the herd, rather than in her own lush, two-acre dining room. More precisely, she she wanted Fezzik’s breakfast, and anyone else’s she could plunder.

I asked her nicely (nicely!) three times (three times!) to head on over to her dining room, but she coolly declined. Rather than argue, I fetched the little stock whip from our tack room and waved it in Lucy’s general direction. Most days that’s enough to get her moving to where her food awaits—but today was not one of those days. Instead, she looked at me like, “You wouldn’t dare,” and stuck her nose back in Fezzik’s bowl.

“Nope!” I said, and tapped her on the butt with the whip (and yes, it really was just a tap).

Equine hilarity ensued.

Rather than agree that HER food in HER pasture was a fabulous compromise, Lucy tossed her head and took off in the opposite direction. She tried to circle back to Fezzik’s bowl, but I cut her off and told her to keep going—knowing if I let her win this debate, every meal would be an increasingly un-fun adventure. She kept going—but around the back of the barn, instead of through the wide-open gate to her paddock.

I reversed course and met her on the far side of the barn, waving my arms. Lucy went wide, around me, and grabbed a bite of Fezzik’s alfalfa cubes on her way past. “No, you did not!” I said, and kept after her. She continued her circle toward the open gate, then swerved again, behind the barn, this time kicking up her heels. I followed, not allowing her to slow down, and around the barn we went.

By this time, loving wife was out on the lanai, laughing hysterically. “Not funny!” I said in passing, as Lucy and I danced on the near side of the barn. She feinted one way, I feinted the other. Back and forth, round and round—suffice to say, we both were getting our workout.

Eventually, after maybe ten minutes of this, Lucy conceded that her food in her pasture actually sounded pretty good after all. I swung the gate closed behind her, and we had a quiet chat across the fence. “Do you feel better now?” I asked, and in reply she snorted alfalfa shards onto my boots. I chose to take that as a yes, and gave her some skritches on her neck. We both exhaled a couple a deep breaths, and I resumed feeding everyone who hadn’t eaten yet, including our boy Fezzik.

HERE’S THE THING...

Lucy, a 22 year-old Morgan mare, is a recent rescue here at Singing Whale Farm.

She came to us about a month ago—ribs showing, head down, stiff in her joints, sorely in need of vet and farrier care. We immediately put her on a refeeding program, and over the course of several days the light began to return to her eyes. Within a few more days, she felt sassy enough to challenge Gracie, our enormous Belgian draught horse/herd matriarch. Gracie quickly convinced her that was a bad idea, but still, we had to admire the ambition.

And, while I pretended to be vexed by her antics this morning, I was silently thrilled to see Lucy acting like a filly.

In a few short weeks, this girl has gone from withdrawn and dispirited to curious, confident, and trusting. She still needs to put on a good deal of muscle weight—but her ribs are no longer the first thing you notice about her.

And you should’ve seen her move. She may be an older gal, but her gait was pure poetry. Head up, ears up, tail up—all joy and not a sign of the stiffness she arrived with.

If a horse could laugh, the farm would’ve filled with the sound.