I am Canadian!

I am a proud Canadian. One thing you may have heard about our fine country is that we like to drink beer and watch hokey. Okey, in truth, we drink a lot of beer and watch a lot of hockey. While one's team of choice may vary from province to province (that would be like from State to State, for all you Yankees (oh, yes, you are a Yankee!!...regardless if you are from the North or South states!)) A beer of choice may also vary from person to person but a very popular brand is, Molson's Canadian. Years ago they put out a commercial that became a sensation across the country. It featured a man standing on a stage with a huge Canadian flag behind him and giving this speech about being...well, Canadian!


Link to watch actual commercial:

http://www.coolcanuckaward.ca/joe_canadian.htm

I am Canadian!

Hey, I'm not a lumberjack, or a fur trader....
I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled....
and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada,
although I'm certain they're really really nice.

I have a Prime Minister, not a president.
I speak English and French, not American.
And I pronounce it 'about', not 'a boot'.

I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack.
I believe in peace keeping, not policing,
diversity, not assimilation,
and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal.
A toque is a hat, a chesterfield is a couch,
and it is pronounced 'zed' not 'zee', 'zed' !!!!

Canada is the second largest landmass!
The first nation of hockey!
and the best part of North America

My name is Joe!!
And I am Canadian!!!

I may not be as avid of a beer drinker or hockey fan as your average Canadian but I am no less proud of our fine heritage. As Canadian as beer and hockey may be, there is another quite essential aspect to Canadian culture that you all may not know about. As Canadian as the beaver and the lumberjack, Tim Horton's is a Canadian institution. In most every town, big and small across this grand country of ours, you will find a glowing red sign, as familiar to us as the golden arches, with Tim Hortons' written large and in cursive!

Tim Hortons is a coffee and doughnut restaurant that is similar to Dunkin Donuts in the States, except that they serve begals, sandwiches, breakfast muffins, tea, cappuccinos, soups and chilli's. Most Tim Horton's are open 24 hours a day, seven days a week and 365 days a year! There are nearly three thousand of these restaurants serving Canada's relatively small population of 33.3 million people! It just so happens that the name Tim Horton is that of a famous Canadian hockey player!...go figure! Double Double (term for two cream, two sugar), Ice Cap (blended cappuccino beverage) and Timbits (doughnut holes) are all Tim Horton products that are household names. We are crazy about our "Timmys"!! While I cant claim to be a hockey watcher or a beer drinker, I will admit that I usually go to "Timmy-Hoes" once a day...Oh, alright, sometimes twice!

As a matter of fact, my old Arab gelding, Rocky was used to scout locations for a Tim Hortons commercial that was to filmed in my home town. "....A true Tim Horton story", is their slogan, usually featuring real people's stories centered around the Tim Hortons product. This commercial was about how our local Tim Horton's had allowed the The Backcountry Horseman of BC to set up a hitching post outside the store so that the riders could go inside and enjoy a coffee on a rainy day (which there are plenty of in BC!). I had used the hitching post myself a time or two, it was handy to have available if you were out for a long ride and wanted to stop for a rest or use the washroom but for the most part, I was too lazy to get off my horse to go in to get a coffee. Rocky and I would simply ride on up to the drive-thru (waiting in line if necessary). My town just happens to be on route to a major tourist attraction and so in the summer massive buses, packed to the gill with Japanese tourists, would be unloaded and ushered inside to get a snack and use the facilities. Each would stop on their way in to take a picture of a girl on a horse standing in the drive-thru. Rocky loved it because the ladies at the window would usually give him an Apple Fritter or something sweet. I am sure that there are hundreds of pictures across Eastern Europe of Rocky and I but I am sad to say that I don't have one. I did find a picture of two mounted police going through! Which I am sure is not uncommon. If you ever have any trouble and need to find a cop in a hurry, just head down to your local Timmys and you are bound to find one or two. I am not kidding! Did you know that there is even a Tim Hortons in Afghanistan for our Canadian Peace Keepers!

I love being Canadian and feel blessed to call this wonderful country home. Beautiful British Columbia's slogan is "the best place on earth!" As true of a statement as any! While we enjoy the natural splendor of this amazing country, we also enjoy watching "Hockey Night In Canada" with good friend and plenty of cold beer. But nothing beats a hot cup of Tim Hortons coffee on a cold Canadian morning. I am sure that it will continue to be an time honored Canadian tradition! Now, I am headed out for some Timbits and a Double Double!

Pitt Bulls

Yesterday morning I came up the driveway to find a black Pitt Bull trotting around my front yard. He looked quite young and still had the gangly look of an older puppy but he was clearly an intact male. The slightly glazed over look to his eye and his purposeful way of sniffing the ground as he trotted along told me that he was a virile young dog on the hunt for a girlfriend. I was concerned that one of my cats (who thinks that all dogs are friendly) might be outside and so quickly tried to assess his temperament before getting out of my truck to catch him. I rolled down the window and cooed to him, "What are yooou doing, sweeet little puppy booo!" His ear laid flat against his head and his tail scooted under as he lobbed his way over to my truck door. I tentatively reached out a fisted hand towards his nose and he immediately scooted his bum closer, licking madly away at my fingers. I had only planned on opening the door a few inches but he wedged his head inside smiled up at me, panting madly away. I patted my lap and he nimbly jumped up and over to the passenger seat. His manner was that of a sweet, goofy pup, thirsty and a little scared at where he had found himself.

I drove up the drive and managed to get him into the kennel without event. I breathed a sigh of relief that my cat was safe and that this sweet pup was off the street. I went in the house to phone animal control and came back out to find him relaxing in the shade. He no longer looked distressed and was eager for attention when I went in to give him some love. Animal control arrived to pick him up and I had the opportunity to talk to the friendly and no-nonsense lady that has run the local shelter here for the past 10 years. I had spoken with her many times in the past, when picking up my licences and had even rescued a dog from her facility. We had a very interesting conversation about the Pitt Bull breed and of her experiences with them and the other various breeds of dogs she has picked up over the years.

My town's Animal Control has only ever had 3 Pitties come in that were vicious towards people but had many other unsuspecting breeds that were dangerous. Almost all the Pitties were extremely friendly and loving dogs that went on to make excellent pets. She did say that this breed was developed over hundreds of years to fight other dogs and that a lot Pitties are dog aggressive. This is inherent in the breed. Other breeds were developed to be aggressive towards people and were selectively bred to be protective of person and property. In her opinion, no one breed is a problem, and most certainly not Pitt Bulls. The problem lies in the lack of responsibility of dog owners, the "cool" factor of owning fighting breeds among the young adult population and the fact that any large and strong breed dog is effectively a loaded weapon with no safety. Most dogs, big and small do bite in their lifetime. Personally I have only been been bitten by a large dog once before but have been bitten countless times by so called "ankle bitters". The problem is that larger dogs can not afford to bite even one time in their entire lifetime. What do you think would happen if ever Chihuahua that ever bit was put down? The breed would be extinct!

This morning I was headed out to the barn and caught a radio program that discussed current events and new issues. They were discussing a Pitt Bull attack that had happened last week and the governments discussion of putting a Pitt Bull breed ban in place as other provinces on the East Coast have already. The call back responses were varied, some heavily for and others against, each able to provide statistics to back their positions. The hosts were also able to give some stats that I found interesting. In our province the number one breed for bites reported in a year was by Golden Retrievers! Pitt Bulls didn't even make the Top 5 list. In Ontario a Pitt Bull ban was put in place in 2005 and there has been a 40% increase in the number of reported dog bites. The argument was that while Pitt Bills might not be as likely to bite as other breeds, the damage that they inflict when they do so is far more severe. I am sure that we have all heard any number of arguments for or against, some rooted in fiction, others in fact. The bottom line remains that Pitt Bull "attacks" continue to make the news.

Here is my two bits. Banning Pitt Bulls will do nothing to solve the problem. Ever heard of a Dogo Argentino? A Tosa? Presa Canaro? These dogs make Pitt Bulls look like poodles. How about a Shar Pei (wrinkle dog)? Or a Boxer? Both were developed as a "fighting breed". Did you know that Rottweilers were developed as herding dogs? Any dog with a bite big enough can kill. There are too many breeds to list, let alone ban. Criminals do not live by the rules of the law, as demonstrated in Canada's failed Gun Registry program. Responsible dog ownership is the answer. If you have a dog at large, make the owners hurt where it counts with heavy fines. If a dog bites a person, make their owners pay, big time! If they don't have the $$, have their property seized or jail time served. Make owning viscous dogs a liability! Lay criminal charges against people that fail to contain or guard the public against their animals. Impose REPERCUSSIONS that make people think, act, socialize and train their dogs!

My DB and I owned two Rhodesian Ridgbacks (a hunting breed) that would absolutely bite anyone that posed a threat to their family. They lived to be eleven years old and never once had the opportunity to unwarrantably bite a person and were contained, well socialized and friendly in public places. They were a massive responsibility and required an extremely diligent owner, as does every dog with "stopping ability" (the physical ability to bite or stop a human.) There are clubs all over the country for people with protection trained dogs that rarely, if ever pose a threat to the community because their owners are responsible and their dogs are trained. Personally, I would not buy a Pitt Bull or any other breed that was bred for fighting. I appreciate dogs that were selectively bred for trainability, athleticism and temperament. There you have it, my two bits!

Does your horse melt in the rain?

Food Porn

I really don't know why I feel the need to use this blog as a confessional! I am not, nor have I ever been Catholic, I suffer no guilt in not testifying my transgressions! Nonetheless, here you will find, yet another. My sin? Food. I love food....with a capital "L". Fruit, veggies, pasta, bread, cheese and chocolate....mmm....chocolate. I don't like mushrooms or mustard but everything else is fair game! God gave me a passion for good food. He threw in the tendency to get fat for shits and giggles. This baby's got back, let me tell you! There has not been a single day since I hit puberty that I have not worried about food or my weight. I have had a long and rocky, love/hate relationship with food for as long as I can remember. But for the past year I have been working hard to change the dynamics of how I see and relate to it. My health depends on me doing so. I had to learn to put vanity aside. My heart, literally and figuratively, was suffering as a result of years of obesity, binge eating, starving, and dieting. I came to understand that my weight was no longer about how I looked, but instead, a reflection of how I felt.

Being fat effects so many aspects of your life. I do not go to beaches in fear of wearing a swimsuit and I love to swim but wont go to the public pool for the same reason. I avoid social occasions where I may see people that last knew me as slim or smaller than I am now. I perpetually put off doing things and going places, waiting to be a few sizes smaller. My "Bucket List" is long. I've dreamed of going to Paris for years but I want to wait till I can shop in all the designer stores. I want to swim The Reef in Australia and hike the West Coast Trail but am not physically fit enough to do so. Not to mention the impact my weight has had on my relationship. Sensuality is born of confidence and security in ones self. I have examined all of the many repercussions of being fat, at length, and decided to made a change.

Firstly I had to change the way I feel. As a woman, I am all about feelings! I needed to stop viewing my body as an enemy and start appreciating and nurturing it. I have forever hated my legs. They are short and thick. I needed to see them as strong and powerful. I no longer see myself as short, but as petite and feminine. My shoulders are broad and my hips wide, but these things simply make my waist look smaller. Everything is a matter of perspective. I stopped sucking in my cheeks and belly when looking in the mirror or making fun of myself all the time. A good friend of mine taught me to say, "thank you" when someone pays you a compliment rather than denying their observations. I didn't loose weight at first, but I stopped FEELING fat. Right now, I feel like a strong, healthy and slim woman- inside. Once I was able to change how I felt internally, I started to change the way I looked externally. I read a book called, "French Women Don't Get Fat". I highly recommend that everyone, young and old, fat or fit, read this book. As a Canadian from the West Coast I will admit to being prejudice towards all things French (of the Canadien variety or otherwise), but when I put aside my defensiveness, I learned that French woman really do have something to teach the Western world...or at least this book does. Here are a few of my favorite tips:

-French woman usually think of good things to eat while American woman worry about bad foods to eat.

-they do not eat "sugar-free" or "fat-free", instead they eat the real thing, in moderation

-they eat with all five sense, allowing less to seem like more.

-balance your food, drink and movement on a week by week basis. (don't worry if you have a bad day, just eat less and work harder tomorrow.)

-never let yourself be hungry and never let yourself get full.

-drink water, all day long.

-little things count, both additions and subtractions.

-move as much as possible (walk to the store, take the stairs etc.)

-don't diet

-love, eat and laugh

Lastly, the author suggests, "French woman dress to take out the garbage, (you never know.)" Today, I would have been well served had I taken this last recommendation to heart. It seems that all my walks down memory lane this past week attracted the cosmos to my cause. I went out for eggs this morning in a ratty old pair of jeans, t-shirt and my hair a mess, without a drop of makeup....oh, and a little mascara under my eyes for good measure. In seven years of living in this town I have not come across any of my old flames. Not one. You better believe that on this day, looking like hell, I run into my first love at the market. Isnt it funny, how life is like that? When you think of someone for the first time in years and then run into them soon after? Damn that Murphy and his laws.

And on to food porn we go! It is not as kinky as it sounds, I promise. My favorite star? Paula Dean. That woman loves butter like none other! Today, she actually deep fried cheese cake! Seriously. I love to watch the food channel. I call my favorite shows, "food porn." I lust over all the food that they eat- that I cant. I drool over their caramel fudge cakes and pot roast dinners! I like to imagine that I am there with them, eating that delicious food too! I watch in awe as they make succulent dishes and divine desserts! *sigh* I love Paul Dean, Anna Olsen, Bobby Flay.... Oh! And I'd marry Mario Batali.

My relationship with food has evolved. I am loosing weight and carry myself with a new found confidence (with the minor exception of being caught poorly dressed and haggard looking by an ex!) I love food but I love living life even more! Cheers!

Skinny Dipping

I went skinny dipping yesterday! Well in a sense I did. There was nothing "skinny" about the dipping that I did. I guess you could call it "chubby dipping", but then the connotation of that would imply something of an entirely different nature. Do you ever feel overwhelmed with the need to do something crazy? To just let yourself go? I do. As Goose and Maverick (Top Gun) would say, "I feel the need, the need for speed!" Perhaps it has something to do with the walk I took down memory lane this past week. Something about the contrast of who I was vs who I am, barbed me. Am I getting old and settled before my time? Rebellion has become a long lost feeling that I hadn't even realized I missed it. So I let go. And I went skinny dipping in broad daylight.

It was 33 degrees Celsius yesterday, muggy as all hell and I am not a heat person. I had just spent three hours at the barn with the farrier and had that heavy legged and light headed feeling that precursors heat stroke. I had planned on riding but gave up on that idea in the first half hour so I simply did my chores and headed home. I walked in the door to discover that my house had become a sauna. Opening every door and window and turning on every fan failed to make a dent in such stagnant heat. My big Cattle dog, Hawk (Hawkeydog) was sprawled on the kitchen floor panting. He gave me "the look" like I had better get him the hell out of the house or else. I didn't even bother to change my cloths, I just grabbed a bottle of water, my dog and a magazine and jumped in the truck. We went for a ride with the windows down and the music turned up loud. With my long dark hair whipping madly around my face, I played with the curves of a windy road and pushed the speed limit. I felt ridiculously wild and reckless. I was headed for the river.

My home town lies at the foot of an ocean sound and is surrounded in snow topped granite mountains. An abundance of creeks and streams lace the valley, each a tributary to a large river that flows in to the salty waters of the Pacific. To me, any flowing body of water with high mountain walls, feels like home. The river is, and has always been, a piece of my soul. In troubled times, when I seek to find peace within myself, the sound of rushing water centres me.

For the past few years, I stopped going to the river. I don't hike alone anymore and no longer walk my neighborhood at night. Some would argue, and I would have to agree, that I finally came to my senses and developed a respect and concern for my personal safety. I use to spend a lot of time alone in the woods, on foot or horseback, which was a going concern for my friends and family. I understood the risks but felt that living was more important that dying. I also had two dogs that were protection trained and provided all the security I needed to feel safe, at least against threats of the human variety. Looking back, I realize that I stopped going into the bush soon after I lost them. A few close calls had put the fear of God into me so that a feeling of vulnerability slowly overwhelmed the enjoyment and peace of mind I use to draw from my time alone in the woods. There was never a definitive moment where I decided to end my little excursions or "walk abouts", as Mick Dundee would say. Actually, I am guilty of letting things go unexamined in more than one area of my life. There are a few pairs of jeans in my closet that have not fit me in years, yet I haven't thrown them away and I cant remember ever admitting at a specific time that they had become to small. I simply stopped wearing them. Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." Hmm....

So.... Yesterday I took a long walk in the woods, alone. Hawky and I found the river a quarter of it usual size, its rocky bottom lay barren and exposed. A little stream of water weaved its way back and forth, from bank to bank, rippling over the rocks and setting alight a million sparkles in the late afternoon sun. I followed the river bed up a valley of tall Cedar trees and deep into the woods. I couldn't place what exactly it was that I was looking for but something compelled me to continue onward. With ever passing step, I found myself more alone and more connected to vast forest around me. At a narrow and high banked cut of the river I found a large boulder sitting in a deep pool of water. As I stopped to admire this beautiful and idyllic spot, I realized that I had found what it was that I had been looking for. Peace.

The water was so clear that I could see every stone and pebble under its surface. I sat down on a large hot stone and let my legs dangle in the cool current. The bed of river rocks radiated heat and the air hung heavily around me. The water looked so crisp, cool and inviting. I slipped off my light cotton leggings and stepped in to the pool. As I kneeled on the sandy bottom, the cold water touched my waist, my breath came short, and ripple of goose flesh ran up my arms. All my inhibitions were laid aside as I was seduced by the welcome relief of cool water on hot bare flesh. I pulled off my remaining clothes, one by one, and lay myself length wise into the current. With the pull of the water on my hair and my body floating weightlessly in the sun, I felt like a nymph or wild fairy, something inhuman and feral. I inhaled my surroundings, the brimstone sent of wet rocks, the hum of insects in the wood and the perpetual rustle of a soft wind flowing through the Cedars. After a time, I became cold and crawled out to lay myself on a hot, flat boulder. The late summer sun warmed and dried my body as I daydreamed. I walked back to the truck in a stupor, leaving the river behind me.

I drove home slowly, with the windows down and the wind in my hair, at peace.


_____________________________________________________________

****Pictured at top is a photo of myself at seventeen hiking in the backcountry. The lower picture is of Hawky at the river I went to yesterday.****

Color Genetics

Other than reining, cutting and cowhorse bloodlines, one of my favorite horse topics to study is color genetics. I am astounded at how often people mistake the color of their own horses. Some have even paid a premium for what they thought was a blue roan (that is actually a gray) or bought a "palomino" that is actually a sorrel with flaxen mane and tail. I will admit to being stumped a time or two myself. It doesn't help that the definition of a color can vary from one breed association to the next or that at times you need to use genetic testing to determine the true color. When I began my quest to better understand color genetic I found that some websites provided to much scientific information or made things overly complicated while others got their facts wrong. I would like to explore color genetics in today's entry to see if I can get the basics across in a simple and easy to understand format. I wont delve to far into the science of color or the rare genes and combinations but instead will try to change the way you see a horses color by understanding the basics of how they come to be.

To start:

1: It is important to understand that all horses are essentially either black or red underneath whatever color they appear! Bay, buckskin, palomino and grulla, are all black or red horses with extra genes that change how they appear. Even gray horses are black or red underneath. I like to think of a horses color as a layers of paint that always start with a primer of red or black. Some do not get any additional colors genes (layers of paint) added. Red horses are simply that. Red.

Red- these include all shades or chestnut, sorrel, liver, cherry, sooty, etc. These horses do not have any black on their bodies (some dark chestnuts can appear to have black manes and tails but they are really a deep dark chestnut).

Other horses are simply Black: A true black horse has no brown on his body unless his usually black coat has been damaged by the sun. He always has a black muzzle and flank. Many dark bay horses are mistaken as being black.

2:- For the sake of simplicity, we need to consider Bay as a base color even though technically, Bay is dilution gene effecting a black horse. It is easier to understand the other color genes that change a base color if you consider Bay a base.

Bay- It causes the body of the horse to lighten to varies shades of brown while leaving the points (feet, mane and tail) black. From horses with only brown muzzles or flanks all the way to a light russet or blood bay, as long as there is brown somewhere on the body and the points remain black, a horse is considered bay.

Now that we understand the three base colors we can explore the other genes that create the beautiful array of colors we find in horses today.

3: One of the most common genes that effect the color of horses is the Creme gene. It is a dilution gene which means that it lightens the coat color. When you apply the Creme gene to base coat of:

Red- you get a Palomino. This causes the mane and tail to become white and generally for the body to lighten to a deep to light honey color. If the base color of red was a deep chestnut, sometime this will result in a chocolate palomino (mane and tail white while the body is a milk chocolate color).

Bay- you get a Buckskin. This causes the body to lighten from sooty brown to a light or dark honey color but the points (mane, tail and legs) remain black. Distinguishing a Bay from a Buckskin can be so difficult as to require genetic testing. While some are obvious with a honey colored body and black points, other can be a deeper brown color to appear almost bay.

Black- you get a Smokey Black. This can cause the black coat to lighten while the points generally remain black. Smokey Blacks are generally hard to recognize and again are often mistaken for bays without genetic testing.

The Creme gene is unique in that when it appears in its homozygous form (a horse that received a creme gene from both parents and therefor carries two) it physically presents itself as a different color than in it heterozygous form (single gene.) When two creme genes are present on a:

Red- it creates a Cremello. These horses are a soft creme color and have two blue eyes, no dark patches and pink skin.

Bay- it creates a Perlino. Perlinos also have creme colored coat, two blue eyes, no dark patches and pink skin. Generally they have slightly less creamy coat color and almost have a bluish sheen. Genetic testing is generally required to distinguish between a perlino and cremello.

Black- it also creates a Perlino but has no Bay gene.

What is unique about cremellos and Perlinos is that they must pass on one creme gene to any foal they produce. A cremello/perlino will therefor always produce a buckskin, palomino or smokey black when bred to a Red, Bay, or Black horse. If a cremello/perlino is bred to a horse that already carries a creme gene (buckskin, palomino or smokey black) there is a good chance that both parents may pass on their creme gene, resulting in a cremello/perlino foal. If two cremello/perlinos are bred together the resulting foal will always be a cremello/perlino. For this reason cremello/perlinos are often desired breeding stock because they will always produce the more desired buckskin/palomino or smokey black colors. It is possible for a cremello/perlino to also carry the dun, roan or paint genes but they always appear creme in color.

It is always important to remember that a horse can have more than one color gene on top of his base color of Red, Black or Bay.

4: Another common dilution gene is the Dun gene. Dun also lightens the body color but also ads what is called Dun Factor.

Dun Factor are markings such as a dorsal stripe (dark stripe that runs down the back from wither the tail), Shoulder Barring (a dark shading that runs over the wither), Zebra Striping (darker lines or stripes that appear on the upper legs), Face Mask (darker shading on face that may have a cobweb pattern), Guard Hairs (silvery hairs on the top of the mane and tail) and Dark Tips to the ears. A Dun will have one, some or all of the above markings.

When you apply the Dun gene to:

Red- you get a Red Dun. Red duns do not have any black points on their body and any of the Dun Factor they present appears in a deep red color. Their bodies can be any shade of red but generally appears as a lighter honey red body with dark red mane, tail and legs.

Bay- you get a Dun. Dun can range from a light honey, to a rich chocolate but the points always remaining black and the Dun Factor always presents as black.

The horse pictured at right shows an unusual amount and prominence of Dun Factor but this example functions well in demonstrating where each is located. Usually duns have a thinner dorsal stripe and much lighter barring at the shoulder.

Black- you get a Grulla (sometimes written as Grullo or Grullya) This color is another that is commonly misunderstood. The black body turns anywhere from a light silver to a mousy gray, or dark blue. It is a striking color and often sought after by breeders. The points must remain black. A dark face and little white is considered desirable. The body can appear a browny color in which case genetic testing is required to determine if the horse has a bay gene (and is therefor dun) or if the horse is genetically black (and therefor a grulla).

The dun gene may also appear in a homozygous form (a horse with two genes of the same kind) but in Duns, there is no physical different between a homozygous or heterozygous (caring one gene) duns.

5: It is possible and not uncommon for a horse to have both a Creme gene and the Dun gene. When you apply both to:

Red- you get a Dunalino. The body is lightened to a striking yellow honey, almost pink color and the mane and tail become white. The horse presents Dun factor in a darker shade of honey. Personally, this is my favorite color.

Bay- you get a Dunskin. Generally a horse with both the creme and dun gene will present as what is called a buttermilk dun. The body is lightened to the color of buttermilk while the points and Dun Factor always remain black. It is possible for a horse to be a darker dun color and also carry the creme gene.

Black- I cant find a name for the Dun + Creme gene on a black horse but it does generally present as a softer smokey colored grulla or silver grullo.

Six: Gray- generally horses that are gray become progressively "white" over age. Some go "white" earlier than others. Gray horses can range from a soft rose color gray (horses with a red base) to a dark charcoal color (black). They often are born with a fairy solid Red, Bay or Black coat with white hairs flecked throughout. As they age the gray flecking becomes progressively more dominant. Gray is an extremely dominant gene and so most gray horses will produce gray foals. A gray horse can have any variety of other color dilutions but Gray is always the most dominant and will eventually turn the horse gray.

7: Roans- roans are most commonly confused as grays or vise versa. The distinguishing difference between a Gray and a Roan is that Roan horses do not have white flecking on their their points (mane, tail, and legs) and the face is always solid in color (white markings are allowed such as blaze, strip etc. but solid is preferred.) The white flecking can range in density to create a coat that is almost silver in color to one that is fairly dark with a moderate amout of white hairs (so long as they are distributed evenly.) Where the skin in scared, the white hairs do not grow back in and so Roan horses often show dark marks over their body in the color of their base coat. When you apply a Roan gene to:

Red- you get a Red Roan. The faces, legs and tails remain a solid red color while a consistent degree of white hair fleck the entire body of the horse (as shown at right).

Bay- you get a Bay Roan. Most people do not recognize the difference between a true Blue Roan and a Bay Roan. A Bay roan has dark legs and black mane and tail but usually have a brownish hue to their coat and their solid faces show brown. (shown at left)

Black- you get a Blue Roan. Blue Roans are striking horses with a bluish tone to their coat. Their faces and points are always solid black. The bodies appear a silver blue.

There are many different genes that will effect the appearance of a horses color. Some include champagne, silver, pearl, robicano, flaxen, and all the various blanket patters of Appaloosas'). And many, many more! The rule of a base of Red, Black or bay still always applies.


I will only go into Paint Horses briefly. Paint horses(horses with patches of white on them) can be very difficult to classify but the general rules still apply. The horse always has a base coat color that is Red, Black or Bay with any number of Dun, Creme, Roan, etc. coats on top PLUS a gene that causes white patches that cover varying amounts of the body. I will pull this info from the governing body of Paint horses, the American Paint Horse Association.

Tobiano- the dark color (or non-white) usually covers one or both flanks. Generally all four legs are white, below the hocks or knees. Generally the dark color appears as ovals or round patters on the chest. The head is always solid with a normal face marking (stripe, blaze, star). A tobiano can appear as predominant dark or white. The tail is generally two colors.

Overo- the white will not usually cross over the back of the horse between the withers and tail. Generally one or all four of the legs are dark. Generally the white is irregular and is rather scattered or splashy. Head markings are distinctive with either bald face (large white blaze), apron faced (white extends around muzzle) or bonnet faced.

Tovero- Dark around ears, may extend down forehead and over eyes. One or both eyes blue. Dark around mouth that may extend upward. Dark on chest, may extend up neck. Dark patch on flank. Dark patch at base of tail. The rest of the body is white or may have small spots of dark.

I hope that this brief (I guess that is a matter of opinion) outline of horse color genetics will help you approuch the subject with a better understanding in the future. What is your favorite color?

Addictions

Some of you may have noticed that I have not been writing about horses, which was, originally, suppose to be the topic of this blog. I don't have any shortage of horse stories and I tend to collect a new one just about every day yet I don't know if I want to, or if I should be, focusing on horse related stories. I love horses, obviously, and I spend the better part of my day with them or thinking of them. I am pretty obsessed about them in general. My Poppie use to warn friends of the family, "Don't ask my granddaughter about horses or any other form of animal unless you have an hour or two." He was only half joking...

I would never want to live without a horse and need my time at the barn but I worry that perhaps I am filling my time and day with them as a way of avoiding other aspects of my life. It is easy to fall into a pattern and not question your motives, when you truly love what is that you fill your days, months and years with. But I do have other interests and passions that I do not explore because of the amount of time I dedicate to horses. I love read, write and draw. But I find myself reading about, writing about, and drawing, horses! I want to travel the world. I want to get an education and build a career that will allow me the freedom to live the lifestyle that I dream of (horses, a farm, fancy truck and trailer...horses and more horses.) It seems like I constantly find myself saying, there is always tomorrow. I am starting to figure out that tomorrow, is today. I never imagined that I would be one of those people that talk about all the things that they are planning on doing, but never actually do any of them.

I own a reining horse that I have in training full time. She is my dreamhorse but my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so to speak, when I made the plans that I did when I bought her. My horse is living the life that I dream of, so, does that make her my dreamhorse? She is going places....without me. I cant afford another horse but I keep a gelding that I love, because I love him, not because he gives me what I need. I can barely keep him sound enough to ride the amount that I do, which is about a third of the amount and at a quarter of the intensity that I would ride a younger horse. I am working for my horses, they are not working for me and I have no one to blame but myself for it. I do get a tremendous amount of enjoyment in working with both of them but I still want another younger horse (with reining training) so that I can fart around and practise at home while waiting to ride my real horse. I think I found him too! (my friends and family are just shaking their heads right now because I always have a horse in mind.)But how can I justify getting another horse? If I were not emotionally attached to the gelding I purchased 9 months ago, I would have sold him the after the first 3.

So, I have not been writing about horses because they occupy just about every other moment of my day and so I used writing this blog as a means to clean the cobwebs from the nonhorsey part of my brain. Perhaps I should change the title of my blog and focus my attention on telling stories of my past and/or exploring the prospects of my future. But then, even if the the adventures I write about are horse related, or not, they inevitable stem from a horse crazed mind.

Like, right now, I am thinking about how in the hell I can swing that gelding I have my eye on...Seriously, I am. I plan on going for a hike today but I know that I will be thinking about that stupid horse for a large part of the time. For me, horses are a sick addiction. I don't always say that with the humor that it implies. What if I really am? Addicted to horses. The definition of addiction is: "the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something..." Am I enslaved by my passion to horses? I really don't know if I can answer that question, which is, in a sense, and answer in itself.

"I kissed a girl, and I liked it!"

For those of you that don't keep up with the times, don't panic at my title. I am referring to Katy Perry's new song, "I kissed a girl", that Billboard listed as the #1 single of the week. It is the song of the summer of 2008. In today's day and age, a catchy beat and a hot chick panting lyrics like, "I kissed a girl and I like it, the taste of her cherry chap stick."... is pretty much a fail-safe hit. I like the song, it is really cute and I like singing along with it. It also happens to be just one of the many things in the media today that has me wondering just where it is that woman's lib and the sexual movement has brought us over the past 4o or so years. I want to clearly state that I have absolutely no prejudice towards gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transgender, or what. ever. ....on the contrary, I don't care in the slightest what your sexual preference is or is not, so long as it does not exploit anyone. I also love most genres of music and listen to anything from Stevie Nicks and U2 to Steve Earl and Garth Brooks. New country, old country or top 40, so long as it has a good beat and doesn't say the word "umbrella" more than a dozen times, I'll listen to anything. Btw, a month ago I had the chance to watch Jewel sing live and a capella. She was out of this world. I secretly have a girl-crush on her, but that is another story. Anyways, on to The Woman's Lib. thing....

Dr. Laura calls me a "shack up honey" or an "unpaid whore" due to my bad ass "out-of-wedlock" behavior so I am hardly going to go and get all preachy on you. A few months ago I was talking to a fifteen year old girl at my barn and was shocked to hear at what is really going on in high school today and how things have progressed in the decade (or nearly) since I was there myself. I wonder whether shows like "Girls Gone Wild" have played a part in this trend and what long term effects this loose lifestyle will have on the youth of today. While I certainly appreciate that I owe my freedom and liberty to the Woman's Lib., I think that at some point the pendulum swung to far to the other side and we are now objectifying ourselves.

I'll admit that I've played the field enough to get pretty good at the game but I never lost my self respect in the process. How many of these "wild girls" will grow up to be emotionally and physically healthy, respectable young women. I am sure that we have all had a 'slutty' friend or two and some of us are guilty of living vicariously through them but most of us have also recognized that most of those women are unhappy, lacking in self confidence and no longer feel worthy of a healthy relationship. Cougars are rarely happy people. Yesterday's walk down memory lane had me thinking about all of the above. Whatever happened to dating? As in, going to the movies, holding hands and maybe neckin' a little. Each generation worries about the moral integraty of the next. Do you remember the scandal over Madonna's "Like a Virgin"? There was even a time when Elvis' swinging hips were considered vulgar. *sigh* Elvis....Times change. I get it.

"She's Gone Country"

I have a confession- Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen I was a full blown, hard core, tire biting red neck. It was a passing phase. While a few remnants of this former life remain, these days, with the exception of my horse life, there is little redneck left in me. I am still confident that duct tape can fix just about anything and I swear like a sailor but I spend more time sipping green tea lattes at Starbucks than drinking beer on tailgates to qualify. Is has been a long time since that I went for a ride in a jacked up truck, hit my head on a gun rack, or headed out in to God forsaken nowhere to "shoot shit". I'll admit to missing some aspects of a country life. Like sitting by a bomb fire (Oh, alright, a tire fire!... my carbon footprint is forever f#$ked) or going "fourbyin" (ripping through pristine wetlands (I am going to hell), mud flying, engine roaring and my body flying around the cab like a rag doll) I have no regrets about leaving that life behind me. I love my man, my life and the home I have built with him but cant help but miss, on occasion, that wild and reckless feeling of being young, footloose and fancy free. Thankfully, I collected enough wild teenage memories during that time to fulfill my reckless streak through a lifetime of sensible living. And if I ever need a boost, my boy is more than willing to take me for a wild ride at breakneck speeds through the back 40, with only a passing comment about damage to the suspension or paint job. I cant tell you when I stopped being a "redneck girl", or even if I have but I can tell you when I started. Ten years ago, this August 1st weekend. Like most teenage girls, I was desperate to fit in and find a label or a group to belong too. In the summer of my sixteenth year, I found one, at Logger Sports.


Yes, there is such a thing as logger sports. It is a a fun, festival style competition, usually found in small logging towns that depend on the foresty industry for the majority of their economy. The sport draws professional exhibitors from around Canada and other countries such as Germany and Australia. Local loggers also compete, but mostly at a non-professional level. Obstacle courses, climbing trees, and a small square pond sit in the centre of a large, immaculately groomed grass field, surrounded in wooden bleachers gone gray with age. This energy packed competition includes tree climbing, axe throwing, birling, tree topping or falling and various log chopping and sawing events, all requiring enormous strength, balance and coordination.

I should mention that this sport is actually quite fun to watch. Most are timed events involving a high level of danger, deafening power equipment, and plenty of fast action. My personal favorite is the tree climb, where a professional can scale up and down an eighty foot tree in 30 seconds! Birling (or log rolling) is also a lot of fun to watch. Two men stand at either end of a log, 15 inches inches in diameter, floating in square pond of water. Each tries to unbalance the other by spinning the log back and forth in a blur of lightening fast feet. The spinning log churns up white water and the birlers use their hands and spiked shoes to kick at the water and splash their competitors in an attempt to distract one and other. It is all very dramatic. Inevitability one or both are sent flying off and into the pond, to emerge with their t-shirts and pants plastered to their muscly chest, arms, and backsides..... I digress.

At the time, I hadn't much interested in sport itself. To a teenage girl with nothing but boys on her mind, Loggers Sports was nothing but a smorgasbord of testosterone laden men. Being a smarter than average bear, I volunteered to work on the grounds and as such, was able to go behind the scenes, and get up close and personal with the stars of the show....



I had volunteered at a booth, located on the grounds, that raises money for charity by selling beef on a bun. Every year massive chunks of beef would be roasted over a huge open spit, sliced, and doused in gravy. The resulting sandwich is a time honored and favorite tradition of the logger sports weekend. I had been working the booth for a few years previously and had always loved arriving early in the morning to start the spit fire, serve the loggers breakfast and watch the grounds come to life. In the years previous, I had been an awkward, pudgy, pimple faced teen that was considered more of a pet than an object of interest to any of the younger staff or competitors. This year was different. I had lost the 50 or so pounds that I had found during puberty and my baby faced had melted away to that of a young womans. I hadn't quite come to terms with my new found form or the resulting interest it had inspired from the boys at my high school. I doubt any of the returning crew recognized me as the pudgy girl from the year before and I hadn't quite accepted it myself yet, either.

One night, long after the show had ended, my boss asked me to do one last thing on my way home. I was to deliver two huge roasts of beef to the grounds crew and exhibitors for their dinner. I was instructed to carry the meat from our booth, across the exhibition field, and to the infamous "Loggers Barn" where the men would congregate to drink and share stories after the days activities. My boss could hardly have known how terror stricken I was at the prospect of such a simple assignment. He didn't know what it was to be an insecure sixteen year old girl who would scarcely consider going to the bathroom without a entourage, let alone walk into a room full of unknown adult men, alone. The thought alone was enough to make my knees weak and send my heart pounding.

I know now, looking back, that I was pretty, young and full of verve, with long dark brown hair, big blue eyes and and a curvy body that exuded the unique countenance of a woman freshly bloomed. All I knew at the time was that I had woken up that morning with a pimple on my forehead the size of Vesuvius, and equally as volatile looking. I desperately racked my brain for any tangible excuse to not go. Before I could muster a reply, the roasts where thrust into my arms and I was being told who, and only who, I was suppose to give the meat too. Somehow I managed to balance the two huge barons of beef, that were braced on the length of my forearm, across the grounds to the Loggers Barn without taking a single breath.


I can still distinctly remember the few brief and horrifying moments I spent in that barn. A flood of sounds and smells hit me as I walked through the door . I stopped dead in my tracks. The rooms smelled of sweat, beer, and sawdust and it was terribly loud, as 30 or so men seemed to shout and talk over one and other. I was the only female in sight. While I did remember that I was only suppose to hand over the roasts to a specific person, at that moment I couldn't remember my own name, let alone who it was that I was suppose to give them to. I just stood there, stock still in the middle of the doorway with a huge roast beef in either arm and deer in the headlights look in my eye. My breath caught in my throat and felt my cheeks blaze with a deep blush. A group of men, closest to the door, stopped talking too stare at me. Within a moment, every eye in the barn was pointed in my direction and all had stopped talking. "I have meat for....." was all that got out of my mouth before the first comment was shouted out.


It does not take much imagination to figure out how half a simple sentence like that would be perceived in a room full of heavily inebriated chauvinists. One man shouted a comment, then another and the room erupted with laughter, cat calls and shouts. "I mean, I have beef for...." I tried again and failed. I could have died right then and there, on the spot. I gave up, tuned on my heel and walked out of the room. One man stood up and followed me outside. My face was beet red. My ears, ringing. "I think that meat's for me?" he said, with only a half an grin, his implication, clear. I didn't care who he was, I thrust the roasts into his hands and fled, vowing to never show my face at Loggers Sports again.



I didn't want to go back the grounds but my sense of obligation to the charity overcame my reserve. Of course, the next day, most of the men from the night before came by to get a burger, poke fun and a few even came by to ask me out. The man that I had handed the beef too caught me eye and before the weekend was through I had taken my first ride in a big jacked up truck. In passing, I also discovered a genre that would come to define the next few years of my life. By the end of that summer I had developed a taste for country music, the throaty sound of Flowmasters, and the hum of Super-Swampers on pavement. I traded in my English saddle for a Western model and gave up jumping for cattle penning. My vocabulary was peppered with redneck lingo like "git" and "y'all" and Alan Jackson's "She's Gone Country" was my theme song. For the next few years I embraced the redneck culture of the small town where I was born. I rode the back country, wore a belt buckle and dreamed of running barrels. It was a lifestyle that embraced a freedom of spirit, youth and rebellion that spoke to me at the time, and still does, in part. I ride beautiful, well bred reining horses in a saddle that cost more than my first horse but I wont give up the nasty, beaten up ol'Ropers that I've had since high school. I have fed the horses in an evening dress and high heels and gone to a gala with duck tape holding my earring on....so I can hardly claim to be cured. I still love to ride a dirt road in an old pick up but lately my thoughts stray towards the lack of airbags and crumple zones. But then, the roar of powerful engine can still bring the color to my cheeks. Perhaps there really is something to be said for that old expression, "you can take the girl out of the honky tonk, but you cant take the honky tonk out of the girl."