*
Lately I’ve been wondering if the ‘truth’ I’ve been
recalling in my weekly blog-posts stands up to my ‘stranger than fiction’
testament? Then Lynda Hallinan, Sunday Magazine columnist (one of my
favourites), confessed a couple of weekends ago that her husband thinks she sounds
like a horse when she pees. And not in a, you
could win a red ribbon on show day way, but in a you should put paper in the bowl beforehand way. I was impressed by
her ability and by her confidence and willingness to share.
Because sometimes when writing this blog I deliberate
for far too long over content that is strange
but may or may not be suitable. Like
this…
The other night when I woke at 2.18am (for a pee) I looked out the window to check on a nearby ancient willow tree.
Only because this still-standing-but-mainly-dead tree had been smoldering on
and off for 36 hours, thanks to the errant flames of a nearby garden fire. Were
my half-awake eyes playing tricks on me? Was that a gaggle of hobbits roasting
a possum over yonder? Or was the tree in question cheerily aglow in the pitch
blackness?
I looked again then nudged my husband. ‘Your tree is
glowing. RED.’
It did cross my mind at that point whether I should
wake the volunteer fire brigade as well, due to the proximity of this burning tree
to our large transformer box. The one with a sign on it which reads, DANGER
20,000 volts DO NOT DIG. But I snuggled back under the duvet as my personal fire
fighter stepped out into the night. The outside temperature was cruising around
minus 5 degrees Celsius so the hose was frozen solid.
What’s a man to do to get the job done and back to
bed? Well this is where being able to pee like an actual horse, not just sound
like one, comes in mighty handy.
Talking of horses, recently one of my geldings had not
been able to pee like a horse. His
sad efforts were more akin to a small boy sitting on the potty. Something was
up with his retractable waterworks. Up being the operative word, because his
penis wouldn’t come down. All the way. And whatever was going on had caused the
surrounding area to swell into almost stallion-like proportions. I felt for
him.
To add insult to injury the horse in question is not
hung like one. He has what my son charmingly calls a choad. Wiggling my little
finger right now. Nuff said. And horse urine is very syrupy so if a horse can’t
manage to hit the ground, cleanly, the result is a lot of dried black sticky
stuff on legs and belly.
My ever helpful blacksmith arrived the next day.
‘Something’s up with his waterworks,’ I announced. ‘The
vet said it’s the change in season. Grass and such. I don’t think so.’
He dropped the hoof he was working on and bent down to
inspect. ‘Nah, you’ll need to get that cleaned out. The vet does it. Sedates
them. They can get so gummed up they don’t even bother dropping them out to
pee.’
‘Eek. What do they wash them with? Some kind of
solution?’
‘They used to use Lux Flakes. You need a good equine
vet.’
He gave me the number of someone out of town. I dialed and explained my geldings
predicament.
‘The vet isn’t due up your way for a couple of weeks.
But you can try washing it yourself.’
Well needs must. So later that afternoon daughter 14
and I headed out armed with a half full bucket of warm soapy water, rubber
gloves and an old tea towel.
‘Hold up his front leg,’ I instructed. ‘And if he
moves around don’t let go.’
I started cleaning. And gagging. My tea towel came
away blackened. My gelding didn’t budge. He must have known his public
humiliation was a means to an end. Clean willy = happy willy. Only my attempts were a bit
halfcocked. It was like cleaning a snail tucked into a shell. I picked off
black sticky bits and tried not to breath.
‘Why is it that I get all the penis jobs?’ I complained
to my husband. ‘Cleaning them ETC ETC. I don’t even have one.’
I found an article on the internet, ‘Horse Sheath Cleaning.
This should be done regularly to avoid smegma beans which can be
cancerous’. Seriously? That’s not in my,
Care of Horse & Pony (1972).
I fed my gelding some windfall apples; he didn’t seem
too perturbed. Then he twisted his head
back towards his tail and scratched his right fetlock (think ankle) with this teeth.
I’m sure he would have scratched his willy if he could. Horses for courses I
guess.
When the equine vet visited the swelling had subdued.
But the poor boy still got the full monty. Glands check, thermometer, then sedation to make him relax himself. His eyes drooped, his front legs
splayed. He swayed like an old drunk on his way home from the pub. I hoped he
wouldn’t nose dive into the water trough. The vet assured me he wouldn’t go
down as she donned her rubber gloves and waited.
‘Does he respond when you whistle?’
‘No,’ I laughed. But don’t because competitive riders train
their horses to pee when they whistle.
Finally he relaxed. ‘It smells normal. Lots of smegma,
but that’s normal too. Don’t believe what you read, it’s not cancerous. I can
feel fat here,’ she said, pinching the folds of his sheath. ‘That’s caused the
swelling.’
Post clean the gelding swooned, eyes shut, lower lip
hanging, in the recovery pen.
We moved over to horse number two. He’d had me worried
after having his tongue out for an inordinately amount of time the day before, like
he’d just grown a cancerous tumour on the back of his throat. Turned out that
was not the case. However he got the dentist gag, sedation and the battery-powered
grinder for a bulbous tooth that had formed in front of a missing molar.
Gelding one looked on almost laughing now. Ha ha, I only
got the willy-clean, you got the drill!
Thankfully everything was back to normal when the bill
arrived. 250 bucks. I guess sometimes you have to pay, to pee like a horse. And
that the truth can be stranger than fiction.
*Saskia Leek: Desk Collection. Go and see it at the Dunedin Art Gallery.
