Of Mice and Farm Owners

I love furry and feathered creatures. Thus, when we had to move our flooded out haystack and found 12 tiny baby cottontails, I was more than willing to drive halfway across Phoenix (quite literally) to meet a lady who rehabilitates cottontails, jackrabbits and squirrels. As I kneeled in the still damp earth, smelling the misfortune of those babies that had not survived the flood, I thought of all the times I'd cursed their parents for eating whatever I plant. With my shirt hem folded up like a kangaroo pouch I transported the squealing bunnies to a bird cage, loaded them in the car and spent what was going to be a pleasant Sunday evening on the farm, driving through city traffic.

I love people who love creatures, which is one of the many reasons I hold my neighbors in such high esteem. Most of the people on our street have horses. My nearest neighbors raise adorable dogs and everyone here owns an assortment of dogs, cats and horses.

One of our neighbors today informed me that he'd been having to buy hay, because he couldn't use what he had left just yet. Seems a quail had decided to build a nest on the top bail and until her babies were old enough to leave, he didn't want to disturb that section of the stack.

I love creatures. They rule my roost. I draw the line at creatures with more than four legs and creatures that can harm my family or the animals in our care. I draw that line with a heavy heart, but it's drawn in stone. Rattlers present a terrible threat so we dispatched 12 or more in the barn last year and around the haystack and dog kennels. I felt badly. This year we put up a snake fence to attempt to deter the reptiles. It must be working fairly well. We have not found any in the barn yet and I have other evidence.

I've lived with a mouse in my tack and feed shed for about seven months. One mouse was cute. He'd peer out at me from behind buckets, blinking his bright little eyes, waiting for me to leave his home. One mouse was cute. It was when he began to invite his friends that I started to have a problem.

At first it was still a small problem. I had two or three mice in the tack shed who ate the spilled feed. Then they decided they should stock up for the winter. They gnawed a hole in one of the bags and began carrying cheekfuls of Omolene to their larder in the corner. I didn't notice this until their stockpile had grown large enough (about a foot high and about a foot and a half long) to be seen behind all the stacked bags. After cleaning that mess up and buying large cans for the feed, I actually spent some time wondering if I should take action against them at this point. It wasn't until I raised a scoop full of feed at o'dark thirty one morning and felt tiny bare feet scrambling, panic stricken, over my arm that I decided to actually do something about the issue. I bought several large cans to put the feed bags in. Yes, friends. THAT was the sum total of my answer to the problem. I hoped that by depriving them of food, they'd just leave. I hoped in vain.

Depriving the mice of food in the shed only sent them foraging in the barn. The barn is a big place. They thrived. I'd go out at night and see one scurry under a tarp. As the nights passed, I'd see one scurry under the tarp, one hopping like mad across a stall looking for cover and even sat and watched as a couple of mice children (yes, part of my problem is that I think like that), making their first timid forays into the larger world from the safety of their hole under a stall mat. Still, at this point, I merely wondered if there were some larger action I should take. There was, but I didn't want to think about it.

It wasn't until I was researching Salmonella and it's dangers to horses that I found out that mice and birds are the culprits in most outbreaks. It was while I was weighing the options (live traps vs miserable death vs quick death) that I developed an inkling of the depth of my mouse problem.

I went to the barn and there was a mouse in the middle of the floor, scavenging through some fallen hay. He didn't seem bothered by my presence and I worked around him. Then I noticed several hopping through the stalls, sifting the dirt for fallen bits of grain. Then I noticed a LOT of rustling coming from the tarp. As I was feeding I was shocked to see several mice racing along the fence panels in the stalls. This could not continue. There must have been fifteen to twenty mice out there. I could almost see the trails of Salmonella bacteria being left behind them. For the health of the horses in my care, I had to act.

When John called from work that night I told him the problem, he stopped on the way home and picked up the old fashioned, kill them quickly, mouse traps. He bought twenty of them. He began laying them out when he got home. Before he'd gotten ten laid out he'd already murdered several mice. We were both amazed and depressed at the success of the traps. He literally could not bait them and set them out fast enough. Within two hours there were 15 corpses and we began to realize that the problem was worse than I'd suspected.

Within 48 hours the corpse count has risen to 53 and there are still faint rustlings coming from the tarp. It's been sad. They all thought they'd found paradise and here we are sending them there. The traps are here to stay. I have to get busy and disinfect the entire barn. All because of one cute mouse.

Last year we didn't have a mouse problem. We had a lethal snake problem. I suppose the upside to this depressing tale is that the hardware cloth we wrapped around the entire perimeter fence must be working. It's an age old story. Remove the predators and the prey over populates. If anyone ever had any doubts about the truth of that, they're invited to see the phenomenon in action right here.

And then there is Suede...

We have eight minis. Of these eight, four are mares, three are stallions, and then there is Suede, a gelding. All my life I've been told how great geldings are. They're gentle, calm, don't have the hormone issues of mares nor the testosterone issues of stallions. All my life I have found this to be true. Until now.

Our mares are dolls. All four of them. They're different from one another in personality, but the one thing they all have in common is their gentle willing nature. Lucy is the boss. Honey is a little joker. Blaze is a little stand offish, but very gentle, and has a mischievous streak not quite as wide as Honey's. Blondie is a pocket pet and loves to play and be loved on.

Our stallions do have testosterone issues. The two yearlings are boisterous boys and play too roughly with one another to be able to turn them out together. They like each other a LOT though and are big pals. Handsome, aka Evil, was given his nickname when he went through a people biting stage. We've almost worked past that now and he's becoming a really good boy. Desi, well, the sun rises and sets on Desi's head and he knows it. He was born here and we had our hands on him before he was fully out of his mother. He loves people. All people. If he isn't sure if they're friend or foe he turns around and backs up to see if they'll scratch his butt. If he's unsure about any situation, he turns around, backs up and expects a butt scratch. It's his security blankie.

Our mature stallion, Martini, is a hunkahunka burnin' love. He's the King. He's the smallest of all the minis at 29 inches, but he's more than willing to take on an 18 hand percheron. We've recently moved all the boys into one barn and all the girls to the other. Martini has dropped fat and added muscle just from trotting back and forth in his 36' run looking tough and official. Martini only likes girls. Handsome ignores Martini mostly, except at dinner time. Desi thinks Martini is great fun to play with when there is a fence between them. He runs merrily along the fence line side by side with Mr. Hot Stuff, while Martini charges after him with ears pinned and teeth bared. Put any of these boys in a halter and lead rope and they are changed animals. Martini trots elegantly at my side, making studly noises, but never daring to tug at the lead rope.

And then, there is Suede. The gelding. At least he doesn't bite me anymore. He reserves that treat for everyone else. He's stubborn, disrespectful, and much bigger than any of the others. At the same time, he's more laid back than any of the others. Not a thing in this world upsets him. When he's laying down in his stall you can go in with him, clean around him, sit in the dirt with him, lift his legs, push on him, lay on top of him, brush him. He doesn't care. He doesn't move. He's scared us all with this behavior, making us think he'd met a sudden tragic end. He lays sprawled on his side with his neck stretched, and lips parted in a death grimace. But he's just being Suede. His registered name is Monastery Almost Persuaded. We wondered how he got that name. Now we know. Almost persuaded to do something you ask, but not quite.

Suede can turn me into the live equivalent of Yosemite Sam in 5 minutes time, just by being a big stubborn ox. He's a very smart horse, smart enough to know when it is beneficial or entertaining to pretend to be stupid. I was out in the paddock trying to get him into his stall at feeding time, huffing and puffing in the Aridzona heat, hobbling on my crutches for 30 minutes trying to get him to go into his open stall. I was also cussing like a sailor and ended up flinging my crutches to the ground behind him. The only other time I had to fling a crutch was when Martini opened the gate to a paddock that adjoined Suede's stall and they were fighting through the fence. This act so impressed Martini that he positively flew back to the paddock he belonged in and stood there bug eyed, trembling and horrified that I could remove a leg and throw it. Suede was unimpressed.

Suede is unimpressed because Suede has respect issues. If Suede does not wish to move, Suede does not move. Something needed to teach Suede a lesson. I have been unable to do this, so I decided to let Boss Mare Lucy have at him. I turned them out together this morning. Lucy instantly made a swaggering, pinned ear, beeline toward him and said "MOVE". Suede blinked dumbly at her. The Boss spun around and kicked him square in the chest and said "I SAID MOVE." Suede was incredulous for a moment and then said "MAKE ME", spinning around and kicking at her. At this, Lucy backed into him landing about 3, full force, blows to his butt in an eye blink. Suede landed one blow which was instantly answered by a pummeling you would not see in even the nastiest street fighting contest. Suede moved. I cheered. Lucy gets treats tonight.

Suede moves now if The Boss even wanders in his direction. I'll leave her with him to continue the lessons and see if he is a bit easier to impress in a week or two.

The Sibyls Incarnate

It is about this time during a mare's pregnancy that I begin to suspect their psychic abilities. They can feel me watching so they put on a real show as if this is genuinely THE moment I've prepared for. They wait until they sense I am fully awake and my adrenalin is flowing freely, then they lie down. Not to give birth mind you, but rather to relax and have a long lovely nap complete with snoring.

They also know where the barn camera is aimed. We adjusted the cam so that it would view the area where both of them had habitually lain for the past three weeks. The instant the camera was bolted in place they stopped laying in that spot. One has chosen her new bed in the one small area of her stall that the camera cannot see. The other now snoozes in the shadows as close to the edge of camera range as possible. She, thankfully, has a very light mane and tail so I can see each end when watching the camera at night, I just can't tell which is which.

If I am wide awake and staring at them, they will relax and nap. If I decide that they're resting comfortably and that I myself could rest comfortably for a few minutes, they will get up and begin raking their sides along the stall walls. If they wish an earlier than normal breakfast, all they have to do is lie down and have a good roll, look at their sides, then stretch out on the ground with their legs stiff. I race out the door, quietly approach their stalls and when they are certain that all the other horses know I'm there, they get up and waddle to their feeders looking very smug.

My books on raising horses all say that mares at this stage of pregnancy should have their whims catered to. I do. They know I will. They enjoy that knowledge.

I'm Jean. I raise, train, dote upon, worry over, stay up all night with, and provide support for eight miniature horses. This where I blog about it all.