The Importance of Paying Attention

Today, I had my first ever horse accident. And it happened because I wasn't paying attention.

I was breaking in a potential new farm hand, first day on the job. He was very interested in working with horses, so I spent a lot of time talking to him about the importance of body language, groundwork, horse care etc. It was a windy day. Trees were swaying, tarps were snapping and flapping. I was picking the hooves of Bree, the horse that can be reliably counted on to spook at anything, anywhere, at any time, while explaining to the new guy that Bree was wearing a rain sheet because he is spooky. You will understand how ironic that was in a moment. I don't routinely blanket my horses, but when it is very windy Bree gets nervous about standing under the tarp shelters. He is also pretty claustrophobic and doesn't like enclosed spaces at all. Which means on the really wet, windy days, he gets soaked. We had been having a succession of those kinds of days, so, he was wearing a rain sheet.

Had I been paying attention, I would have taken into account that Bree was already likely to be a bit jumpy because of the high winds. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed that while I was bent over Bree's hoof, talking to the new guy, Bree had turned his head away from me, staring intently at something in the distance. Had I been paying attention, I would have been aware that this meant that he had bent his shoulder and rib cage into me. Had I been aware, I could have a) corrected his bend or b) better yet, demonstrated good lead mare qualities by supporting him in checking out the scary thing that was worrying him over there or c) at the very least got out of the way. But I wasn't paying attention, so I didn't do any of these things.

When Bree spooked and jumped, the only direction he could go was the one I was standing in. I caught a glancing blow from his shoulder to the side of my head, and went down on my shoulder. Ouch.

Dazed and pretty sore I picked myself back up. It was immediately obvious that Bree was very upset by the incident. I really, really just wanted to go home and put an ice pack on my face. But leaving things as they were would have meant that Bree would now associate the last time he got his hooves picked with "bad things happened". So, face throbbing, I headed off to catch him, reassure him and finally suggest that we now finish the hoof picking job we had started, since, after all, it was really no big deal. He was okay with that.

I was lucky. I got off with a bit of a shiner, and a stiff shoulder. It could have been much worse. Both my great-grandfather and a cousin died as a result of being kicked by horses. And they were farm folk and had worked with horses their entire lives. In the future, I shall pay better attention.

The new farm hand quit at the end of his first day on the job. He did say that I had to be one of the toughest women he knew. Hm.