This isn’t a current picture of the barn (I’m lazy you see), but imagine that where that garbage can and those bales are is my potting table. And between those and the front of the barn are the baskets of potatoes and pepper we harvested this year, waiting for us to figure out where to store them that’s safe from the mice (George is keeping them safe right now). Parked to the left of all of that is the tractor, George’s bed, a drying rack filled with the dry beans I haven’t shelled yet, and bee keeping gear.
Suffice it to say that the barn is not set-up to have horses in the open space. We use their exterior stall doors to put them in and out. The inside doors are used primarily to go in and out to brush them, feed them and clean stalls. There’s not enough room for them to hang out in the aisle, plus once loose they have free access to the hay and grain storage.
The horses, now that they’re in the barnyard for the winter (to keep the pasture from turning to mud in the rain), are on a 3 to 4 times a day hay schedule. They get their last flake about 11pm as I’m going to bed. I make the rounds, checking on the cats, the hens and then feeding Cody and Whiskey. It’s a nice little late night ritual that lets me sleep soundly.
Monday night I went out and had that surreal moment when you think you’re imagining what you’re seeing. When I slid the barn door open I was confronted with Cody’s rear end and himself standing directly over the baskets of potatoes and peppers. As I slid in behind him, chanting four-letter words under my breath, I realized that Whiskey was out too. And they both looked rather pleased about it.
Between the two of them they’d decimated their last portion of hay, most of the bucket of bruised apples we feed them as treats, dumped the peppers all over the floor and tasted their way through the potatoes. Luckily Whiskey’s stall door, and the tight quarters, had blocked their ability to get to the hay and grain storage areas. They’d made a mess, but weren’t in danger of colic.
After convincing them to go back into their stalls I pondered how they might have gotten out. Now I’d believe that we failed to latch one stall door after brushing them down earlier that night. But both? I really doubt it. I’m pretty sure that one, or both, of them had been studying how to open the simple latches we have on the doors and finally figured out how to take their nimble lips and open them up. Easy peasy once they figured it out.
I tied the latches shut for the night with a bit of baling twine to keep them where they belonged, scolded them appropriately by giving them more hay (yeah, I’m a softy) and headed in to bed shaking my head. Tuesday afternoon Mike set-us up with thumb-latches so that we can securely lock the doors when they’re in the stalls.
These two are always one step ahead of us, and I’m pretty sure they’re laughing behind our backs with each new trick.
*****
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I wake up in the middle of the night and my mind races worrying that I didn’t latch a door and the bovine girls breaking into grain buckets. So far so good….check and double check. With old age I can never be toooo careful. I’m glad everyone was ok.
I’m glad they didn’t hurt themselves! I laughed at you scolding them with more hay; I do the same thing with both our cats and our chickens.
I do love that shot of Whiskey’s muzzle.
Diane :: Me too! I usually double check, which is why I’m pretty at least one of them opened his own door. Luckily, now they’d have to grow thumbs to let themselves out…
Kimberly :: I love that shot too - it’s spent time as my computer wall paper this fall. My mom called me a softie for it, but as I wasn’t sure who’d eaten what I figured sending them to bed with no late night dinner wasn’t really fair…
Great picture of Whiskey, and glad to hear the horses are OK. I’m way behind these days but love the new look for your blog!