As Sandy says, in the psycho-killer singsong of Jack Nicholson in The Shining, “He’s ba-a-a-ack!” It’s her response to Gus’s recovery from the ouchy white-line disease in his feet. She and I both notice he’s more obstreperous and obnoxious lately, a sure sign of his feeling in fine fettle. Rather than stump along lamely as we lead him between paddock and stall, he now throws in the occasional neck-craning or foot-planting in an effort to control the direction of travel or simply to resist forward progress altogether.
Flashing feet . . . |
We’ve seen his soreness improve and then worsen before, and this time we’re taking no chances. We agree on at least another two foot-soakings, just to make sure the fungal/bacterial invaders inside his hooves are well and truly destroyed. I mix up another cocktail of bleachy White Lightning and distilled vinegar, and Gus is so inured to the treatment by now that when I approach with a Ziploc bag, he starts lifting his feet without being asked. I pour in a few tablespoons of the noxious solution, tie the bags around his ankles with baling twine, and play a Scrabble game on my smartphone while he soaks.
Compared to keeping his feet in tubs of warm water, this is a (mildly smelly) walk in the park. Still, I’ll be glad to finished with it. And even gladder to cope with the behavioral fallout of happy hoof health.
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