I’m not sure if my propensity for asking permission is genetic or conditioning, or just a lesson as an eight year old that a guilty conscience is hard to sleep with; but for most of my life I’ve lived asking for permission.
It makes it easier for me. I never have to remember what I said, or need to confess. That being said, it’s time to get something off my chest.
When I turned fifty and thought that Monforte was finally in a somewhat stable state I decided that for my birthday I wanted to start riding again. Now, being older and self-employed means that the type of horse I used to own is no longer appropriate. I started looking at draft horses and specifically Clydesdales.
I found a rescue organization and went to meet them just after they had brought in a mare that had been shipped for dog food. She was still pretty lean (malnourished actually) and looking pretty weary. She had been shipped because she hadn’t conceived when the farmers wanted her to, and she still had a colt suckling. It was a sad, sad story. She wasn’t very pretty, but she had a gentleness and a look of being misunderstood that made me realize I had met my kindred spirit. I thought she and I should take the journey of self discovery together, so I paid the fee and moved her down near me and we started hanging out.
My time with Ruby Sue was the cheapest therapy I could ever have. When you walk in a barn and this beautiful creature whinnies just because you’ve shown up to brush her; when you are loved unconditionally in spite of a history of abuse by others of the same species; when you walk at the same pace and worry about the same things; when she lets me get up on her back and ride, even when she has never been ridden before, and you’re out of shape and scared stiff; you realize that you have been given a huge privilege and responsibility. Goodness, I love this girl. But life was difficult for her. Every month she would turn herself inside out trying to figure out what to do with her body and it’s cycles. All she had ever known was to be in foal, and every three weeks her body was in a state of crisis.
Now just down the road from where she boards is a farming family named MacIntosh. Ken’s the dad and he used to milk dairy cows until it became too commercial in his opinion, and not good for the land. So he sold his quota and cash crop, and started breeding Clydesdales in a bigger way. Darryl lives on the home farm with his wife and four little one. They have seven or eight beautiful mares and a stallion they imported from Scotland. (They win most of the shows they enter, including the Royal.)
So, one day after watching Ruby Sue going crazy with her cycle, I drove down the road and asked if they had an opinion on her issues. Ken’s answer was pretty straight forward in that farming kind of way, and so here comes the confession. Three weeks later, Ruby went for a working holiday. Now the result of that is that any day now she is to drop a foal. She has had the happiest 11 months ever. She is well fed, well loved, and is in a state of gestation that makes her very, very happy. The problem is you aren’t supposed to breed rescued horses and I get that; but boy I’ve had such a happy girl. So there’s the confession.
My hope is that we’ll drive these horses; pulling carts to make grilled cheese sandwiches at fairs and festivals, and just as a symbol of Monforte’s connection to farming, and things local. And even if we don’t do that, they will be just outside of Stratford for you to meet on your way to the dairy, or a show. She would love you to come say hi. And chances are, I’ll be there having one of my therapy sessions.
By next week we’ll post pictures of the foal, and let you know how everyone is doing.