Owner / Trainer /Clinician
Gilroy, Ca
408 888 8703

I Read it in ...

I wish there were an index to horse magazines like there are to academic journals in college libraries. The only way to remember some of these things is to note where and in what issues you see it

My database has been created by you can search articles by topic. I think this is my favorite magazine, followed by Equus.  The Equus is a little less technical, but still multi disciplinary.

However, spelling is important.  I read an artile on Underrun Heels, but couldn't remember the correct spelling of underrun, was it under run, under-run, no.......underrun!!!  Search on

My goal is to expand and reference some of the things I see. Wouldn't a comprehensive database be great!!


De-Worming De-Mystified

Equus,279, Jan 2001 p 16.  Did you know that it is best to worm your horse after a fasting period? Did you know that wormers, when reporting their efficacy, that it is based on fasting.  However, a short fast of 12 hours, such as just before breakfast is sufficient.  It wouldn't be good to starve our horses for 24 hours or so because their digestive systems aren't used to fasting like that.

Gilroy Dispatch, Tuesday, April 17, 2001
Bob Dillon

Christine Amber writes "Loved your Horse Sense article. Can I post it on my website?"

Bob Dillon writes: " Sure,  Put down also that I think a horse is a 1200-pound weasel with
 long legs. : =)"

Use better horse sense when it comes to horses

I hate horses. They're huge. They're skittish. They're
sneaky looking. And I REALLY hate that glancing thing a horse does out of the
corner of it's eye, like it's trying to figure out a way to bite you.
Were it up to me, the settling of the west could have waited for 4-wheel
drive. I'll bet the Donner party had horses, and look what happened to them.
4-wheel drives have seats (and heaters, too) and they could have run into
town for some groceries. I blame the horses for the whole tragedy.
Why am I telling you this? As our birthdays roughly coincide, last 
weekend found the fair Phyllis and me at the Seacrest Resort Hotel in Pismo 
Beach. We had a gorgeous room, with a hot tub about 15 steps away. It was 
beautiful, and restful, with a nice beach for leisurely strolls.
I slept like a baby Saturday night, and while drinking coffee on our
balcony Sunday morning, watched a bright yellow Stearman biplane do aerobatics
over the ocean. A hotel employee told me that the aircraft rented rides at a
local small airport. I decided to check it out. 
Phyllis decided to ride along for the drive to locate the airport. As we
turned onto the road, a huge sign caught my eye. "Horses rented. Ride on the
beach. Guided tours!" it said. I ignored it.
Phyllis did not. "Look, Bob," she said. "Riding on the beach! That would
be fun!" I gave her my usual deadpan glance and said "Maybe for you."
To her credit, Phyllis never nags, never cajoles, never begs. She does,
however, fire up her huge gorgeous brown eyes and get that "puppy smacked by
a truck" expression. It always works. Sighing, I followed the sign. 
So, our riding skills were assessed and a form filled out for the 
lawyers. There was no box to check for "Don't really want to do this," so I
wrote it in. We were assigned horses. Phyllis got "Dancer," a small, gentle
mare, as befits her petite figure. The stable hand glanced at my (ahem) rather
large frame and said I'd "need Merlin." I was fairly certain I'd just been
insulted, but kept my mouth shut. 
We mounted up and departed through what I'm sure was lovely scenery in
a 4-wheel drive. We rode along the dunes and through some sea pines. In 15 
minutes, I could not feel anything south of my navel. 30 minutes into the 
ride, I could. It was worse. 
We then came to the part of the ride where the guide told us that we
could trot or gallop our horses. She asked if anyone "just wanted to walk
their horse." I raised my hand to the snickers of all. 
I was advised that horses LIKE to trot or gallop, and that I'd have to
hold the horse's reins tightly to rein him in. The rest of the group took off
at a trot, then a gallop. Merlin, no magician at following orders, decided
the idiot astride him was not going to spoil his fun, and broke and ran too.
This led to the worst part of the ride for me. Twin organs which I refer 
to in this family newspaper as "the boys" were repeatedly slammed into the
saddle. Hard. I pulled back on the reins, HARD, and shouted "Whoa!" in a
voice two octaves higher than my normal tenor. It seemed to help. I was 
somewhat distracted though.
Finally, the "fun" was over. We dismounted at the stable. I 
glanced at my car. I have an extensive first aid kit in my trunk, with a 
scalpel. Revenge upon Merlin sprang to mind. I made a few discreet inquiries
and found, regrettably, that Merlin was already what horse people call a
"gelding." Pity.
I managed to stagger to the car to grab my camera and take a few pictures
of Phyllis astride "Dancer." She was grinning profusely. She dismounted and
said "wasn't that fun!?" I glared.
I now know why I spent $23,000 for a disposable income sucking black hole
of a new ride last February. When I sat down in my Bonneville's 
leather-covered, nicely-padded seat, it was like a cloud.
When we arrived back at the hotel, I read the package insert on the
ibuprofen bottle to ascertain what constituted a lethal dose, and took half
that amount. I then repaired to the hot tub (my butt actually sizzled when I
entered) and drowned my misery with several Scotches.
So, OK, Phyllis, you got your horsey ride. But when we go back next year,
it's the biplane ride for you, lady. Revenge is a dish bested tasted cold.
Miserable cayuse. Bah.
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