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“What’s that stuff in the bucket on the counter?” My husband asks me, while
biting into an apple I’ve left sitting next to aforementioned bucket. “Don’t
eat that apple! It’s the last one. And it’s for Belle.” I grab what’s left of
the apple out of his hand and throw it in the bucket. I give him the “you should
know by now” look. All apples and carrots in this house belong to the
princess.
And that grey, stringy stuff in the bucket? Beet pulp in mid-soak, of course.
Last Sunday, the grocery shopping list included the following: --One giant
container of corn oil --25 lb bag of carrots --Largest available size of
molasses --Largest available bag of apples
Belle went off her feed a few weeks ago. She wasn’t really sick—no fever, no
colic—and she was perfectly happy to eat hay with her pals and graze. She showed
no lack of energy, but she did have sharp teeth. We had the vet out, and he took
care of her teeth, but for another couple of weeks she still would leave more
than half her grain. Several people commented that she could stand to gain a
hundred pounds or so.
And so began my quest to please the princess. It started with simply
adding a different grain to her usual pelleted food, but she rejected that. She
ate the apples I put in the bucket but left the feed. First attempt at beet pulp
was also rejected. Only after I’d stood in her stall for an hour, hand feeding
her the stuff covered in molasses and with chunks of apples and carrots hidden
within, did she deign to eat it.
And now, of course, there are two buckets in her stall. One for grain, the
other for her “special mix.” Between the soaking and the cutting up of treats,
the molasses and the stirring, I spend more time on my mare’s dinner than I do
on my own. And heaven knows what will happen if I have to delegate the feeding
chore to someone else—like if my poor, apple-deprived husband should want to go
on vacation ever. The house-sitting instructions, which are already five pages
long, will quadruple in length.
The good news is, she’s eating heartily again, both the beet pulp and the
grain. In fact, last night she gave me that deep, low, nicker that signifies
that “I’m hungry, so hurry up, darnit.” I serve at the will of her majesty. Have
I mentioned her paisley bell boots?
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