Max turned seven yesterday and enjoyed the attentions of his fans on the yard. He had a birthday card sent all the way from Canada which was posted on his door, declaring "7" in big silver style!
I kept him in for my yard shift in the afternoon so I could give him a bit of a pampering session before turning him out. He was tied up under shelter because it was raining, and I went about my business, replenishing the hay stock out of sight.
I had just been in search of scissors to cut baling twine when I glanced over to see Max standing very still, and looking troubled. My view was obscured by a wall, so I couldn't see all of him.
"Max? What's up?"
"Spot of bother lady! Halp!"
I walked towards him then. His expression seemed confused and vulnerable and as he came into full view, I breathed in deeply to steady rising alarm.
Max must have been pawing the ground, or having a scratch, but he'd managed to get his left foreleg caught over the rope of his head collar, and he was stuck there, on a rudimentary pulley system of his own making. If he raised his head, his leg came up; if he tried to put his leg back down on the ground, his head was forced down, too.
I approached at a leisurely pace and teasing him in a sing song voice, "Oh, Max. What are you like?" He kept eye contact with me and remained still, which was what I wanted. He was in a predicament all right, and ripe for injury if he lost his marbles and panicked.
"Stuck."
"Yes, very, stuck," I agreed as I reached him, putting one hand under his raised knee to support it, then slackening off the lead rope so I could unclip it.
"There! That's better, isn't it?"
Max nodded a sweet little nod, and I reclipped his lead rope, retied it much shorter, and gave him a pat on his neck.
Clever boy to stay so calm. I guess he's all grown up!
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