Fence 'Em Out

Saturday March 29 2014

Idaho is a state with "Open Range Laws", meaning livestock has the right of way. Cows wander in and scare your horses off and eat your hay? Too bad, you have to fence them out. Bull charges you out in the open? Too bad, he has the right of way. You hit a cow out on the highway? Too bad, you are liable and you get to pay for your car damage and reimburse the rancher. (We know to drive very carefully on the highways in the winters and springs here.)

The property owner has to fence unwanted livestock out. (Idaho Code apparently allows counties to create "herd districts" where the animal's owner is liable for any damage it causes, but I expect there aren't many herd districts in the state; and anyway, land previously used as open range can't become a herd district.)

There are plenty of twists and turns within this law (such as, what defines a "lawful fence"), but the basic law is, if you don't want the cows on your property, you have to maintain the fencing to keep them out.

We get the occasional cow or two or three every year up our canyon that we drive on out (although if it's a bull, we call the ranchers to come get their bulls! We don't mess with bulls), but this year, many, many cows can't resist our green grass and the delightful bubbling crick up the canyon. 

This winter, we're doing a lot of moving cows out, and we're doing a lot of fencing 'em out. Hammering the little U-nail-jobbers is good hand-eye coordination practice for some people (ahem), and besides, driving cows is excellent cross-training for the endurance horses, some of whom are afraid of cows. 

It's just part of life in the West!

Holy Moly

Wednesday July 27 2011

As I worked at cutting the layers of bandages to expose the wound, I kept thinking back to the movie Into the Wild, when Chris finally killed a moose in Alaska - he'd have food for months - and he was rushing to cut up the meat before the flies got onto it.

There were flies hovering around Sunny's leg even before I could get the bandage all the way off, and we desperately wanted no flies on that wound.

That wound. Holy Moly.


Today we changed the bandage on it for the first time since Sunny got back from the vet clinic. We're supposed to change the bandage every 4-5 days. This is day #9 since the barbed wire accident.

The hardest part for Sunny was my getting the bandage off. The more layers I got off, the closer I got to the wound, and the more it hurt. I had to peel and yank a bit.

The other hardest part for Sunny was hosing the wound. It hurt, hurt, hurt, boy did it hurt. And no wonder.

A gaping hole to the center of her hock. 4 inches of bone still exposed. I thought I'd be ill when I first saw it, but as I peeled most of the bandage away, I thought, wow, the vets did a great job cleaning it up. It's clean and healthy looking - if you can call that healthy.


Sunny tried to be still - Steph held her head still and talked to her - but oh my, it hurt. She kept her leg up in the air and after a while was just shaking - but she stood bravely. I hosed it for 5 minutes, then reached for the bandages, while Steph guarded it from flies.

I referred to the handy sheet the vets sent Steph home with,

and had the bandages laid out just like in the picture,

and got busy wrapping.

Once the water stopped touching the wound, it hurt much less and Sunny was able to put her leg down. And she never moved it again, not even when I put the telfa pad with the ointment directly onto the wound. Next was cotton cast padding, then a cotton sheet, then gauze, then vet wrap, then the Elasticon (as CG said - great stuff!). It sticks to the bandage and to Sunny's skin, at the top and bottom of the bandage, to help hold the whole shebang in place. Definitely don't want that slipping down.


Once I finished and Sunny took a step forward - ouch - it hurt again. She held it up in the air and thought she only had 3 legs. Steph coaxed her forward and she limped big time until she realized that the leg was all bandaged up and it felt a whole lot better. She followed Steph back to her pen with hardly a bobble.


Nine days down... months to go...

Cottonmouth

Monday July 18 2011

As we're driving up Bates Creek, getting home from the Big Horn endurance ride, we're discussing the possibility of a new endurance ride at the City of Rocks that we've just toured, talking about who we'll ride around here tomorrow.

John has called and said he was going up the canyon to fetch the horses since he hadn't seen them yet today.

I'm thinking of feeding Rhett (who's been calling for his dinner every night I've been gone), hugging Jose, and smooching on Stormy.

I jump out of the car with my cameras and wait for the horses to come thundering down to the house in the golden evening light for some fabulous back-home photos... but the only dust I see is John on the ATV.

His face is sober when he arrives.

"The horses are way up the canyon. Sunny's cut her leg bad and Jose's on the other side of the fence." He looks sick.

I feel sick.

John heads for the truck and trailer. Steph heads for the ATV. I grab 3 halters and climb on the ATV with her.

Up the canyon we go, hot wind drying my mouth, bumpy road setting my stomach to churning.

A quarter mile from the end of the canyon, there is the herd. Jose is standing by himself on the other side of the barbed wire fence. Sunny is standing off by herself well away from the fence, but well away from the herd. Steph and I climb off the ATV. She heads to Sunny. I head for Jose.

I can see two old thick fence posts half laying down, 4 strands of barbed wire detached in places and hanging at 4 different dimensions. Somebody had a battle with that barbed wire fence and lost. I feel nauseous. My legs are shaking. I might cry. Please God, not Jose too. I have cottonmouth, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, throat painfully dry and cracked.


I first come across my horse Stormy. Stormy knows barbed wire - he once got into it badly enough to spend 8 days at the vet. Thank God he is fine this time.

I get to the fence and Jose next, dreading what I will see, but miraculously, a quick glance tells me he is fine, with not a mark on him. My hands are shaking as I put his halter on and I give him a quick hug. I can't speak to him because my mouth and throat are so parched, but I know he knows how relieved, how grateful I am.

As I start leading him up the canyon to the nearest gate back into the acres with the rest of the herd, we pass closer to Sunny. I can only see her upper legs for the tall sagebrush but there is dried blood and cuts up there. She must have been standing there a long time, maybe all day. I can't see the worst of it, but Steph just says, "It's bad." I almost cry.

I lead Jose back in with the herd. i walk up to Steph and Sunny, wishing time backward, wishing this hadn't happened.

It's bad. Huge gaping gash on the inside front of the left hock. It looks a lot like Finneas' leg when he tried to tear his hind leg off on a fence 4 years ago - only much worse.

John has followed us in the truck and trailer. With Steph leading, and me insisting from behind, we get Sunny loaded in the trailer. Steph and John drive her to the clinic 90 minutes away.


Many hours later, after midnight, they return with an empty trailer. They've left her at the vet. We'll know in the morning if the gash avoided the joint capsule and if it avoided infection. We'll know if she'll make it.

The herd follows the horse trailer back to the house. As Sunny leaves for the vet, I take Jose out to feed him. I give him a fierce hug. I look him in the eye, and I tell him thank you for not getting hurt. He listens, and I know he understands me. I hug Jose, I bury my head in his mane, I hug him, I hug him, and I don't let go for a long while.