Carolina, and now back home, where it all began.
15
And Nature Dies
“I ’m sorry, I don’t care what you say, I’m not watching my horse stand around out there freezing when I can put a blanket on him and he’ll be warm.”
“It’s only fifty degrees,” I mumbled.
“I’m cold, so he must be cold.”
“Are you a horse?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes and walked away. I have always believed that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. I was about to learn that this isn’t always the case.
“What possible harm can come from it?” she tossed over her shoulder.
I followed.
“The blanket disturbs his natural thermoregulatory system.” I was spewing research I had learned of only the day before. “He can’t grow his winter coat with a blanket on. And his system works on the whole horse, not parts. When he’s covered with a blanket, he’s half warm and half cold. His system has no idea what to do.”
“Well, go talk to his system, not to me. Cold is cold and warm is warm.”
“For millions of years the horse has done just fine without blankets,” I crowed. “When you disturb his natural systems, you’re messing with nature, with his genetics, and ultimately with his health and safety.”
She turned on me.
“Do what you want with your horses and leave me alone, okay?”
Clearly my bedside manner needed work. I stood there frustrated, with no clue why this newly discovered information was of no interest to someone who I knew truly cared for her horses. I would never make it in politics.
German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer said, “All truth passes through three phases. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as self-evident.” Knowing that didn’t make me feel any better. Or understand the mystery of this woman’s reaction. It was merely preparation for what was to come.
I was standing by a small arena at a local horse club event. The woman next to me was the mother of a teenager trying out a beautiful gaited pinto horse in the pen. The horse was prancing, lifting his legs high, and looking very spiffy. At one point the owner said proudly, “And he’s totally barefoot.”
“Wow,” said the mom. “Just think what he’d look like with shoes on!”
The owner had the grace to ignore the comment. I didn’t.
“Why ever would you put shoes on him? He’s happy and healthy and looks great.”
“Oh, if you compete on him, he
has
to have shoes.”
“Why?”
“He just has to.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s probably in the rules.”
“Barefoot horses compete,” I said.
“Well, trust me, he needs shoes. There are special shoes that make gaited horses prance higher.”
“Oh, so that’s something
you
want, not something the horse wants.”
There I go again,
I thought. Like a reformed smoker. My presentation definitely needed work.
“Doesn’t hurt him,” the woman said.
I took a deep breath, swallowed the words that were threatening to escape, and handed her a card with our website on it, suggesting that she look at some of the new research documented there on how shoes affect the health of a horse’s hoof. Then I mustered a friendly smile and left.
I told Kathleen the story.
“We’re going to lose every friend we have if you don’t shut up,” she said.
“I never saw this woman before,” I whimpered. “She’s not a friend.”
“You know what I mean. People don’t want to hear this stuff.”
“Do you disagree? Is it incorrect information?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But…”
“But what?”
She just looked at me for a long moment.
“Think about Skeeter,” I said. “And how much happier and healthier he is since you brought him here.”
“I know,” she said. “I know. You’re right, but it’s so frustrating to have people’s claws come out like they do. When you slap people in the face with the notion that they’re doing something wrong, the natural reaction is always
15
And Nature Dies
“I ’m sorry, I don’t care what you say, I’m not watching my horse stand around out there freezing when I can put a blanket on him and he’ll be warm.”
“It’s only fifty degrees,” I mumbled.
“I’m cold, so he must be cold.”
“Are you a horse?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes and walked away. I have always believed that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. I was about to learn that this isn’t always the case.
“What possible harm can come from it?” she tossed over her shoulder.
I followed.
“The blanket disturbs his natural thermoregulatory system.” I was spewing research I had learned of only the day before. “He can’t grow his winter coat with a blanket on. And his system works on the whole horse, not parts. When he’s covered with a blanket, he’s half warm and half cold. His system has no idea what to do.”
“Well, go talk to his system, not to me. Cold is cold and warm is warm.”
“For millions of years the horse has done just fine without blankets,” I crowed. “When you disturb his natural systems, you’re messing with nature, with his genetics, and ultimately with his health and safety.”
She turned on me.
“Do what you want with your horses and leave me alone, okay?”
Clearly my bedside manner needed work. I stood there frustrated, with no clue why this newly discovered information was of no interest to someone who I knew truly cared for her horses. I would never make it in politics.
German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer said, “All truth passes through three phases. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as self-evident.” Knowing that didn’t make me feel any better. Or understand the mystery of this woman’s reaction. It was merely preparation for what was to come.
I was standing by a small arena at a local horse club event. The woman next to me was the mother of a teenager trying out a beautiful gaited pinto horse in the pen. The horse was prancing, lifting his legs high, and looking very spiffy. At one point the owner said proudly, “And he’s totally barefoot.”
“Wow,” said the mom. “Just think what he’d look like with shoes on!”
The owner had the grace to ignore the comment. I didn’t.
“Why ever would you put shoes on him? He’s happy and healthy and looks great.”
“Oh, if you compete on him, he
has
to have shoes.”
“Why?”
“He just has to.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s probably in the rules.”
“Barefoot horses compete,” I said.
“Well, trust me, he needs shoes. There are special shoes that make gaited horses prance higher.”
“Oh, so that’s something
you
want, not something the horse wants.”
There I go again,
I thought. Like a reformed smoker. My presentation definitely needed work.
“Doesn’t hurt him,” the woman said.
I took a deep breath, swallowed the words that were threatening to escape, and handed her a card with our website on it, suggesting that she look at some of the new research documented there on how shoes affect the health of a horse’s hoof. Then I mustered a friendly smile and left.
I told Kathleen the story.
“We’re going to lose every friend we have if you don’t shut up,” she said.
“I never saw this woman before,” I whimpered. “She’s not a friend.”
“You know what I mean. People don’t want to hear this stuff.”
“Do you disagree? Is it incorrect information?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But…”
“But what?”
She just looked at me for a long moment.
“Think about Skeeter,” I said. “And how much happier and healthier he is since you brought him here.”
“I know,” she said. “I know. You’re right, but it’s so frustrating to have people’s claws come out like they do. When you slap people in the face with the notion that they’re doing something wrong, the natural reaction is always
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