The Blizzard, continued ...
Just after midnight, I woke to rain pounding the roof. Holy
cow, rain in December? I didn't worry about the horses. Their
barns had no doors. The big one had one side entirely open. They
could take shelter any time they wished.
At the first gray of dawn, I woke to the thunder of hooves.
I peered out the bedroom window. A light drizzle was falling.
Lightfoot and Dudley skidded past, then reared to play fight.
I pulled on rain gear and slogged outside. I looked next to
the door where the thermometer hung. It read 38 degrees. The
air was still, almost too still. I checked the rain gauge, mounted
on a nearby fence post. It held an inch. I looked around and
saw that yesterday's sodden snowdrifts had vanished.
I let myself into the pasture. The geldings galloped over,
skidded to a polite walk as they neared, and nuzzled me. There
was enough light now, filtering through a low cloud ceiling,
to see that they were matted with mud. I parted Dudley's coat,
then Lightfoot's. They were soaked to the skin.
I began slogging to the pen with the hospital barn. The geldings
careened off to continue their games, throwing clots of mud.
The border collies soon ran up to join me. They were dry except
for mud spattering their feet and legs. They hated getting wet.
However, whenever their humans appeared, they would come running,
begging for jobs to do, weather be darned.
As I neared the hospital barn, Lady Gold and Xerxes poked
their heads out of their door and nickered. I went inside, dished
out their sweet feed and supplements and petted them. They both
were dry and clean.
As I walked back toward home, Coquetta and Vashti trotted
up to greet me. They, too, were drenched to the skin. Unlike
the boys, they had resisted the temptation to roll in the mud.
Why were any of them wet? They all had free access to shelter.
Horses who live on the range never shelter in anything that reminds
them of a cave. Critters that eat horses live in caves. Barns
look like caves. Maybe that was why, I thought.
Back indoors, I cooked oatmeal for breakfast. My daughters
were up now. We shared a pitcher of cold goat's milk, dividing
up the layer of cream that had risen to the top. It was as thick
as sour cream, but sweet. Their Nubian goats were in the habit
of making extra cream in the winter, around 20%. Boy, did it
ever taste good.
As we ate, we heard an east wind begin to blow. Soon it whined,
then howled. Before we finished eating, a wall of snow hit: a
whiteout. We put on ski clothing. The girls prepared for the
morning milking. As we went outside, I checked the thermometer.
It now read 20 degrees.
The whiteout was so dense that we had to feel our way along
the windbreak fence that led to the goat barn and milking room.
All the goats were dry, basking under their heat lamp. In
nature, they ride out storms in caves. Of course, they wouldn't
go out and get drenched. Virginia began milking her doe. Valerie
and I went to feed the horses in the main pasture.
There was no sign of them anywhere near their hay feeder,
which was in front of their barn. We found them huddled to the
lee of the hay shed. We dumped the hay on the snow in front of
them and they began chowing down.
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