Where have all the good things gone?
There seems to be a general frustration about the persistence of mud fever at the moment, which is oddly prolific given the largely dry autumn. I'm rueing�the day I squeezed the last bit of Dermobion from the tube and my lack of foresight in not buying up all available stocks before it disappeared from the shelves. It was fantastic stuff - a small dab on a nasty spot of mud fever usually saw the end of it - or you could at least keep it under control. Now, just when you think you've got it, another section breaks out and you can never really seem to kill the infection. A couple of my poor arabs are enduring swathes of Protocon cream - unbelievably sticky stuff that is, so far, the only thing we can find that actually stays on their legs out in the field.
Of course, the answer is to probably keep them in and periodically, this happens. But they're a hardy bunch and stare� beseechingly at supper time, willing me not to close the yard gate. You can see a vibration of relief ripple across the herd when they realise they're not being shut in - even in the most inclement weather. Their barn beds are all prepared, piles of sweet-smelling haylage and fresh water inviting them to cosy up for the night - yet they're happier rugged up (to their eyeballs in the case of the thoroughbred) and tucked under a hedge somewhere dark and wet in the fields. �
As I watch the divots and�skid marks�appear in the fields and get that seasonal sinking feeling as they turn from smooth green to lumpy brown, the temptation is to restrict the grazing area and limit the damage. But experience has taught me that giving them a larger area actually causes less deep damage and somehow, each spring, we manage to put things right. I'm not sure the more wilful ponies would tolerate being restricted anyhow - one is spookily adept at dislodging firmly tied slip rails and letting himself into areas he considers inappropriate to be kept out of. This seems to be a universal issue -�I heard about an owner�who, during�the summer,�was�checking to see�her pony�was still in his paddock when she saw her next door neighbour, who is terrified of horses,�leaning out of an upstairs window in a tearful rage because (and I say this in her own words) 'a fat brown thing had munched his way through her garden and then let himself into the greenhouse to eat her beautifully cultivated tomatoes'! They managed to extract him and feathers were smoothed, but no one could work out how he'd done it.�
My own fat brown thing has been babysitting the moor bred�filly foal recently and is remarkably tolerant. He is highly motivated by food and plans his intake with military precision. Each morning, he comes in with the others and, once certain there are no spare nuts or morsels, he patiently stands by the gate to the foal's yard. On entering, he moves gracefully through the yard like a heat-seeking missile and inevitably manages to get to the remains of her stud cubes before I can whisk the bowl into the tack room. He will usually deign to babysit for a good few hours, enabling the foal to enjoy some time in the paddock and some much�needed company. Towards the end of his shift, he brings her down through the yard and into the school where he hangs his head low, dropping huge hints that he's fed up and needs to re-join the grown-ups. I didn't get there quick enough the other day, and found him standing by the post and rail fence, calmly aiming a front foot and taking it down, piece by piece. There was no drama, just a simple, 'Look, I have to get out of here now.' And as we all get that feeling from time to time, how could you blame him? A couple of nails sorted it out - eventually.
Perhaps someone could enlighten me about post and rail fencing but it seems to be the stuff of nightmares and I spend my life out there, with a hammer, trying to keep it up together. Mysteriously, it acquires a loose, spongy, wobbly, half-eaten look and previously tight nails extract themselves overnight. There is nothing like trying to secure a long rail on your own - there never seems to be anyone around when disaster strikes - and the resulting repairs�refuse to�replicate the original look. Never mind Dermobion - where has good, old Creosote gone?! OK, the smell stayed with you for days and wasn't particularly lady-like, but in days of old, when knights were bold, at least the wood had staying power.
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