Tril, you're so LAME. And you make ME feel lame. LAME!

Oof.  I suppose there is a reason the word meaning "crippled or physically disabled" has come to have slang meaning of "stupid, boring, and/or ridiculous"--because apparently the reason why horses go lame is "stupid, boring, and/or ridiculous."  I mean, seriously.

I have frequently said (and always only partially in jest) that Tril is like having a third son.  He is sweet, gregarious, and endlessly curious, exploring and conquering his world in his constant, innocent, hands-on investigations.

However, there is also a lot of:

"No, don't put that in your mouth."
"That's not a toy."
"That's not a toy either."
"Well, what did you think was going to happen?!"
"What the hell is that?"
"What did you do to yourself now?"
"How the heck did you hurt yourself there?"

Within a few months of owning Tril, I stopped worrying about the lumps and cuts I'd find on his legs. If he was sound, I shrugged it off.  Whereas my pretty, dainty, feminine grey mare rarely had a mark from the knees down, Tril frequently looks like he's been running through briar patches while wrestling baseball bat-wielding weasels.

I used to document every lump and bump, like this small one on the outside of his right (photo left) front leg, worried that he'd done something akin to that hideous (but asymptomatic) splint on the same leg.  But he was sound, so sigh and move on.

Aw, look at how cutely worried I used to be about itty bitty lumps

Once, as best I could gather, he got the leg straps of his new fly sheet up in his groin and sliced some very delicate territory like a giant, painful paper cut. "How the heck did you hurt yourself there?" What do you do with that except Bute him and leave him alone?  It's not like he's going to let me put antibiotic ointment there.  Then, there was the big rubbed-gash-like thing behind his elbow that as best I could gather was created by kicking himself getting up.

Then there was this:

Ow.

Ow!

Ow ow!

"What did you think was going to happen?"

Trilogy had been enjoying some turn out and grazing on the property when some firecracker shot up his butt, ignited, and sent him wheeling and bolting around a corner for no reason in particular.  He scrambled, fell, and skidded upside down a good six feet or so before righting himself, popping up and trotting away snorting and tail flagging like no one saw that, and if they did, he meant to do it.

Ow ow ow!

I had been cleaning his stall and saw the skid and was incredulous watching him slide, four limbs up in the air, and took all these photos for documentation.  Note the landing strip he created in the process:

Talent

I looked him over, cleaned and dressed his multiple wounds, gave him Bute, put his fly mask on to protect the scrapes on his face, snapped a final photo, shook my head, and went home for an adult beverage.

All.  Boy.  ALL boy.

Since then, he seemed to slowly learn his boundaries and how to not, oh, maim himself on his fly sheet/pipe corral poles/dirt/gravity/bubble wrap.

When I see his legs have marks, I check his soundness, shrug my shoulders, and move on.

His legs:

...look a bit like my 3yro son's legs:

Ask me where all those scrapes, bumps, rubs, and bruises came from.  On either of them.  Go ahead, ask.

I have NO idea.  But, they're not complaining, so...*shrug*

So, Monday when the farrier came and noticed Trilogy was lame at the walk when I led him out, I shrugged.  He was fine when I'd turned him out for a good run-off-the-crazies a few hours before, and figured he torqued something mid-yee-haw.  He was shod and trimmed and left to be.

Wednesday, I noticed he was still walking a bit off and asked a trusted friend with a damn keen eye to take a look (I always ask her, "Can I borrow your eyeballs?").  She noted he was slightly off on the same leg--the left front (white leg)--and helped me discover a little heat on the inside of that leg toward about midway down.  No noticeable swelling--well, nothing unusual for him--so I followed her suggestions of a little arnica on the heated area, wrapping his legs with bandages smothered in ichthammol to keep my mouthy boy from eating them, and of course...adding a little Bute to his grain bucket.

Tools of the trade

Be grateful this blog cannot capture the smell. It's like he slogged through the La Brea Tar Pits. 

His "I'm bored" face.  Too bad, Tril.  Deal.

"Hmm, wonder if I can somehow hurt myself WITH the wraps!"

I let him be then went back Friday to check on him, and I could not believe what I was seeing:

Yup.  He still had heat on the left front, but now he's lame on the right front.

What.

The.

HELL?

I put in a call to the vet, who advised Bute, rest, and time. Of course. If it gets worse, doesn't improve, or comes back, it's probably time for me to have him come out and look a bit more thoroughly.  Of course.

And a little Quietex won't hurt in the meantime...of course.

Guess it's time to focus a bit more on Firefly's ground driving.

Never a lame step in the 8 years I've known her.
Of course.