The Blizzard, continued ...
Just after midnight, I woke to the sound of rain pounding
the roof. Holy cow, rain in December? I didn't worry about the
horses. Their barns were always open -- I hadn't even put any
doors in them. The big one had one side entirely open. They could
take shelter any time they wished. I soon fell back to sleep.
At the first gray of dawn, I woke to the thunder of hooves.
I peered out the bedroom window. A pair of shadows that I recognized
as Lightfoot and Dudley skidded past, then reared to play fight.
I pulled on rain gear and slogged outside. A light drizzle
was falling. 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. Normally I would have let them out to exercise.
This morning, a premonition made me decide to leave them in their
shelter.
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, an east wind kicked up. Soon it whined, then howled.
Just before we finished eating, a wall of snow hit. We couldn't
see a thing outside: a whiteout. We pulled on our ski clothing.
Virginia got the milk pail and we went out side. I checked the
thermometer by the door. It now read 20 degrees.
The whiteout forced us to feel our way along the six-foot-high
windbreak fence that led to the goat barn and milking room.
All the goats were dry, basking indoors under their heat lamp.
A beach towel hung over the door so that they could go in and
out at will, something they obviously hadn't sone since the storm
hit. Unlike horses, in nature, goats ride out storms in caves.
Virginia called her dow and they went into the milking room.
Valerie, who was second in line to milk, went with me 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 followed the fences to the
lee of the hay shed and found them all sheltering there. We dumped
the hay on the snow in front of them and they began chowing down.
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