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Several years ago my mom was thinking about alpacas. Big, wooly alpacas. She’d done about all she could do with three dogs and was considering a move to larger animals. She ruled out llamas when she learned they could spit, she feared my dad would eat a cow and so she was actually looking for alpacas (and maybe miniature goats) when she came across an ad in the newspaper for a horse named Sugar.

When she went to see her, the horse looked bad. Rundown. I remember a description of a dilapidated barn and malnourishment. Mom has a weak spot for the underdog, the left behind, the needy (two of the dogs were strays) and she felt sorry for the horse. So, she fixed up an old barn on their property up near the lake house (The “first” farm for those keeping count), bought Sugar and started down the slippery slope to becoming a “horse person.”

Soon after starting Sugar’s rehabilitation routine–new diet, new vet, shots, something to do with hooves–she discovered, much to everyone’s surprise, that Sugar was pregnant. Anxious nurturing months passed and mom helped to deliver a foal. She named it Lulu.

During the pregnancy (the gestation period of a horse is almost twelve months) mom began investigating Sugar’s previous life. (She’s always been a fan of the mystery novel.) Inquiries to vets and former owners revealed that Sugar had given birth to another foal a number of years before. Arkansas being a small place and the horse people being a pretty tight bunch, she eventually tracked down the offspring and proceeded, through an alliance with an old family friend, to gain possession of Sugar’s firstborn. This is how she got Millie.

Millie was also living far from lap of equine luxury when she was finally found so there was yet another rehabilitation period and (bizarrely) Millie was also pregnant. Additional months of anxious nurturing passed and Millie went into labor. Unfortunately, there were complications during delivery. Mom stayed in the barn with the baby through the night but the foal was too weak. To quote my dad, “Your mother cried her eyes out.”

A year or so later Mom got wind of a horse farm that was folding. All the animals were being sold or liquidated. These were actually “high-dollar horses” (to use the horse person vernacular). These were animals with officially certified documentation and bright futures full of horse shows where they’d do that weird high-stepping horse walking thing. All except one. The mutt. The one with a questionable lineage. The one that wouldn’t sell. The one named Coco. The one my mom took home. And, once again there was another surprise package inside (those studs…) but this time the delivery went smoothly. Mom named the foal Cody.

The latest addition to the heard came just last year when a family friend, apparently out of sheer curiosity, decided to look through a hole in a fence. She put eye to hole and spied a three-foot tall horse tied to a tree outside of a mini-storage unit. It turned out that this was a full-grown, miniature. Not a pony, but a perfectly proportioned horse… just smaller. (I’ve seen bigger dogs. Seriously.) Further investigation by said friend (a lot of investigation going on down south) uncovered the fact that the current owner of the wee horse, an apparently foolish and shortsighted woman, impulsively bought the animal for her daughter’s birthday a year or so before. The horse was small so it could just live, she reckoned, in the mini-storage unit. Needless to say this arrangement wasn’t good for anyone (least of all the tiny horsy) so after some consultation with my mom, and some subterfuge involving notes left on doorsteps, the friend was able to relieve the shortsighted woman of her animal. Blaze has lived side-by-side (or rather side-by-knee) with the other four ever since.

What started as a tangent in a line from dog to alpaca has resulted in the total transformation of my mom’s life from that of wife, business manager, avid reader, and dog owner into a full-fledged, barn owning, saddle hefting, feed store patronizing horse person. Over the years she’s adjusted her life in order to create a more comfortable situation for her (formerly rejected) “babies.” The transformation extends from the physical–weight loss due to the constant barn activity, ropey arms from lifting hay–to the geographic—relocation and a new home based not least of all on access to, and availably of, eighty acres of pasture that backed up to the lot on which the home was built. (Well… there’s also the grass airstrip in the middle of the neighborhood and the airplane hanger in the backyard… but that’s another entry.) In short, the woman is horse obsessed. She talks about farriers and hackamores. She buys feed by the truckload. She has horse magazines, horse books, horse clothes, horse jewelry, and horse pillows. She loves those animals. She treats them like her children. Very large, spoiled children… that eat grass.

So, why am I telling you all this? Because I want to share a little bit about my family? Sure. To subtly imply that they’re also a little nutty and obsessive? Of course. But also to provide some context for (and perhaps highlight the irony of) the thing I originally set out to write about: The fact that my mom was thrown from a horse (Cody) about two weeks ago and suffered a compression fracture of the T-12 vertebrae. My mom broke her back.

The good news is that this sounds worse than it is. Or more precisely, it could have been worse. There was no spinal damage and they’ve also ruled out the need for surgery. I suppose as far as broken backs go this is one of the more positive outcomes. Of course she doesn’t blame Cody for the accident. (His tail (Cody’s) got snagged in some barbed wire during a ride, it spooked him and he bolted.) If anything she blames herself for riding the least experienced horse in the first place.

She spent a week in bed, immobile and in extreme pain (no one bothered to call me until the next week! “we didn’t want you to worry”… parents….), but now she’s able to get around inside the house. She claims that first week was the worst but now it’s “not so bad.” (But I’m not sure I believe that.) She says the pain is manageable during the day but she’s having trouble sleeping through the night. Of course her primary complaint is that she can’t spend time with her horses. The fence line of the pasture is at least fifty yards from the rear of the house so she can only see them from a distance. A horse trainer who’s been working with the animals during the day rides the horses up into the yard so mom can see them (seems kind of cruel to me, but mom really likes it). That’s as close as she can get to them right now.

The doctors (and Google) say there’s a 6-8 week recovery period for this type of injury. She’ll also have a series of steroid injections (starting today, actually), wear an incredibly uncomfortable back brace (it extends from waist to neck on both sides—my dad calls her the Bionic Woman) and eventually start physical therapy. A full recovery is expected.

I’m worried about her, but it sounds like she’d making good progress. When I talk to her on the phone she sounds upbeat but tired. I’ve been trying to get her to join Netflix since she can’t get to the video store. I’m also STRONGLY encouraging her (she’ll probably end up reading this) to TAKE IT EASY, and to relax, and to take her time, and to not try to do too much just yet. If she does all these things, and listens to her doctor she’ll be back in the barn in no time.

Of course none of this would have happened if she had stuck with the alpacas. But I suspect that even if she could, she wouldn’t change a thing.

(Right, Mom? Take care. I love you.)

* * *

I know at least a sliver of the vast peebo readership knows my mom personally. If you’d like to contact her I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear from you.

Email: momparker (at) yahoo.com

posted by peebo on Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005 at 5:41 pm
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