s e v e n i s a j o u r n e y

Had a *lovely* bit of stress as I came home yesterday. We’ve had the horses grazing the driveway for the last few days (because, you know, we’d have to mow it otherwise & why waste good grass), which means the gate at the bottom of the driveway has been closed. It’s annoying — when you want to leave, you have to stop the car, get out, totter across the cattle grid, lift the loop of baling twine that keeps it from swinging open, and haul the thing open. The post in some years past developed a lean which means the gate will swing open by itself and then ground half-way open, and you have to lift it up and drag it the rest of the way. Then drive across the bridge, stop the car again and get out and close the gate, fishing the baling twine out of the long grass and re-fastening it shut. It’s a pain in the ass, but not as big a pain in the ass as mowing a driveway as long as ours, so what the heck.

When you get back, of course, you have to go through the whole process in reverse — stop, get out, open gate, drive across, stop, get out, totter across grid, close gate, finish drive to house.

Our bridge, for the record, is oh, maybe three meters across, two or three feet above the stream (on average — the stream varies, of course). Half of the bridge is a big sheet of steel, and the other half is a cattle grid composed of steel pipes more-or-less fixed to some steel I beams. The point of a cattle grid, of course, is that animals look at it and think “No way am I going to put my feet on *that*”, and they don’t try to cross it. (Plenty of people feel the same way about them, frankly). A couple of our more smarty-pants alpacas (and Jim), have on occasion looked at the grid, looked at the grass on the side of the road outside, and just jumped over the thing onto the sheet steel side of the bridge and then prodeeded to make their way merrily off down the road. Which is why we keep the gate shut — no point jumping over the grid just to get onto a piece of sheet steel (clearly, I am going to have to get a photo of all this, so you can see what I’m talking about).

Photos:

Anyway, I get home yesterday, do the gate dance, and as I’m going back over the bridge to shut the gate behind me, one of the ponies, Tom, tries to follow me back across the bridge. I watch in horror as his left front foot slips *thunk* right down into the slot between the concrete and the first bar in the cattle grid. And is stuck there. And here is this pony trying to tug his foot loose, and here is me, balancing on the pipes of the cattle grid in my work shoes trying to pry the bars apart with a stray waratah while half of my brain is desperately trying to telepathically summon Stephen from the house, 60 meters up the hill and out of sight and sound, and the other half is trying very hard not to think about explaining to Yvonne how Tom broke his leg and had to be put down while she was out of town, and instead work out whether I can safely leave Tom stuck in the grid while I finish the drive up to get Stephen and tools. The lucky thing is that the gap he slipped through at least has the concrete lip of the bridge a few inches underneath, so while he’s effectively got his foot stuck in a box, he didn’t slip his whole leg through right down to stream bed.

As I’m casting about for anything else to use on the bars, Tom shifts around and manages somehow to cross his front legs, so his right front hoof is now on the grid as well — for a mercy actually *on* one of the pipes. His back legs have swung around and are on the bank tucked in front of the concrete block that keeps the stream from undermining the bridge. If he swings around any further, he’s in danger of his back legs slipping down the bank into the stream, nevermind his other front leg dropping between the bars. I reflect that at least he can’t kick me as I’m using a broken waratah to dig out the dirt around the pipe, although he does nip at my back once or twice in annoyance. I can’t budge the pipe, and I can’t get him to shift back around, so I get into the car and go get Stephen. Another pony, Gem, is in front of the car and gets chased up the driveway at a canter.

While Stephen runs to the shed to get a halter and tools, I run into the foyer, change my work shoes for a more practical pair, drop my long skirt on the floor and scamper back out in just my slip. We drive back down the driveway, to find that Tom has gotten his hindquarters back around and his right hoof back on solid ground. He must have tangled with the concrete block while he was at it, because he’s got new cuts on his back legs. The stuck foot also has some raw scrapes.

Stephen halters Tom so I can hold him still (not that he’s inclined to try going anywhere at this point) while he has a go at the bar. The *other* end is not so well attached, and Stephen pries that up anough to give hoof clearance on this end. Tom lets Stephen pick up his trapped foot and set it back on terra firma, and I lead him back up the driveway. At the shed, Stephen hoses off Tom’s feet and legs while I go in and ring Yvonne. Everybody’s lucky — it looks like he’s gotten away with just some superficial cuts and scrapes. *I*, on the other hand, need a valium. Oi. We settle for dinner out at the Mexican Cafe.