Voluntarily Homeless

It's officially Spring, which for many of us signals the start of good riding weather and competition season. For others, though, it marks an annual period of voluntary homelessness, punctuated by events like sleeping in one's automobile, skipping showers, and eating whatever can be scavenged in a barn. I'm of course referring to the most selfless group in the horse industry: breeders.

During two months every spring, this segment of the population quite simply stops leading normal lives. Every moment-- literally every one-- is spent waiting for a new baby horse-- slimy, delicate, and hopefully healthy. Any number of misfortunes can strike in those first few hours of life, a fact about which breeders hold their breath starting in February every year. Sleeping in their cars or the barn aisle begins soon afterwards. Skipping meals and all social interaction with fellow humans follows. Friendships are put on hold, household obligations suspended, national news ignored.

Last week, I noted that an ordinarily reliable client of mine had failed to pay her bill for three weeks. Since this was unusual behavior for her, I called to see if maybe she'd fallen ill or had a family emergency. She answered the phone gravelly voiced and sounding confused, as if her ringing telephone perplexed her. After gaining some bearings, she cleared her throat several times (most likely from hay chaff and sawdust) and apologized profusely. What day was it, anyway, she asked? Had the first of this month already passed?

Yes, about 20 days ago, I pointed out.

Oh. Well, then was it still the month of April? Or did we somehow skip right over into May?

No, still April, I said. But well past time for a paycheck not only to me but probably other folks, too, like landlord, tax guy, etc.

Oh. Oh dear, she replied. She must have lost track of time, she explained, sounding slightly less confused now. Without hesitation, she told me she'd been sleeping on a hay bale outside her pregnant mare's stall, wearing more or less the same pair of clothes for weeks now. In fact, she couldn't remember her last meal or the last time she'd spoken with a real human being besides her veterinarian.

The good news, though? Her mare gave birth to an adorable brown filly yesterday morning. And the little girl looked healthy so far. This meant that in another 24 hours, my client could probably comfortably move back into her house, start picking hay from her hair, and maybe eat something other than carrot chunks and oat cookies. Normal life could start back up and my check would be in the mail pronto.

I chuckled to myself, knowing what "life as normal" consists of for horse breeders immediately following a new baby. It usually starts with the proud breeder referencing herself in the company of friends as a "grandma" and asking every one's opinion about potential names. I could picture my client at the supermarket querying the checkout clerk "What do you think of the name Maestoso? Or should I save that one until I get a boy next year?"

The clerk, oblivious to what on earth she's talking about will stare back at her blankly, waiting for an explanation beyond the bits of hay stuck in her hair. Taking this as an opportunity to show off baby pictures, my client will quick-draw her digital camera from her hip and show the clerk a slideshow of a knobbly kneed creature teetering next to its four-legged mother. She will follow the picture show with descriptions of umbilical, colostrum, and nursing. Other patrons at the supermarket who assumed this beaming woman was talking about her own newborn will suddenly wonder how come she has a camera with her but no baby? Where's the baby? Now uncomfortable, they will start to shift away from her or sprint out to her car to see where she's left the newborn.

Poor souls, they've just never met a horse breeder. They've probably also never met anyone who would willingly exchange a warm bed for a scratchy hay bale.