Shoeing my Barefoot Horse

Steward clog

When I got my Quarter Horse, Candy, in 2001, she was five years old. I was determined to give her the best care I could. There was a lot of talk at the time about the value of keeping horses barefoot. I bought in. My brain told me that barefoot was the natural state of the horse and my heart told me there was something wrong about nailing a piece of metal to an animal’s foot. The clincher was that slip-on hoof boots could be used in rugged terrain. For some reason, the fact that horses had been shod for centuries did not strike me as important. 

 

Ten years later, Candy started showing signs of lameness. No amount of natural trimming or boot wearing relieved her discomfort and I couldn’t in good conscience ride her in that condition. Seeing her limp around her turnout area tore me up. About this time, I got to know farrier and inventor Gene Ovnicek. We had many conversations about lameness, how it can be analyzed, and how it can be treated. I realized that helping a lame horse is different from maintaining a healthy one. I thought enough of Gene’s approach that I did a TV episode about it, which you can watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPDOZITaPeU

 

Gene suspected that Candy's soreness came from soft-tissue strain but he couldn't be sure. This is often the case with lameness since the structures involved are buried deeply inside the hoof capsule. Even without a definitive diagnosis, he was able to find a position in which Candy was comfortable and he built an appliance that would allow her to use her foot in that orientation. Sometimes it was a shoe. Other times it was a Steward clog. He told me something I’ve always remembered: “You can’t fix a problem while the conditions that caused the problem are still present.” By unloading the strained tissue, he was not only giving her pain relief, he was creating conditions under which healing could begin. In time, I was able to ride Candy again and she rarely showed signs of discomfort. There was something else I liked about Gene’s method:  he relied on Candy’s body language to tell him when he had a found a comfortable position for the foot. I saw him use this leverage-testing procedure on numerous horses and was always impressed with how he tuned in to what the horse was feeling and how grateful the horse was when relief came. Some went to sleep almost instantly.

I still believe that barefoot is the ideal state for a horse. Gene feels the same way, as do other fine horseman such as veterinarian Bob Miller. But we are all committed first to making the horse comfortable. Sometimes that means using shoes, at least for a while.  

Chunking

I was chunking before chunking was cool.

Chunking is an instructional design practice that breaks content into small, focused, and easily-repeated chunks. I started chunking in 1999 with “The Horse Show Minute,” my daily radio feature and the heart of my second book, Horse Smarts for the Busy Rider. In 2009, we began chunking on TV by embedding two-minute, standalone features in our shows. So far you’ve seen “Trail Tips,” a how-to series for trail riders, “Nutrition Nuggets,” an overview of horse nutrition, and “Ask the Expert,” a series on custom diet formulation for different types of horses.  A new chunking chapter begins in November when we roll out two new embedded series using this super learning format. The first brings back Dr. Judy Reynolds to debunk horsekeeping myths. The second takes on hoof care with anti-lameness crusader, Gene Ovnicek.

For some strange reason, talking about “chunking” always makes me hungry …

Hoof Boots

I like my horses barefoot. I figure about 99% of the time they simply don’t need shoes. It’s that last 1% that’s the problem.

Case in point: In 2008, I took my Quarter Horse mare, Candy, on a five-day, 100-mile men’s ride in the hills outside Wickenburg, Arizona. Of 180 horses, Candy was the only one barefoot.

I planned for it. My hoof trimmer touched up her feet. I purchased a tried-and-true brand of hoof boots and let Candy wear them for a day at home before packing them in my saddlebags. I would slap those babies on at the first sign of trouble. I was ready!

The first day of the ride was relatively easy but day two was a different story: Seven long hours up and down rocky hills. I thought it would never end. By the time we dragged ourselves into camp, Candy and I were both frazzled. I treated her to a shot of bute and myself to a couple of ibuprofen washed down by a Bud Light.

Day three was spent in camp, so Candy got a nice rest. Day four was to be another long ride and, as we were about to leave camp, I decided to put the hoof boots on. It didn’t go very well. Candy was antsy and I was all thumbs. Most of the riders were gone by the time I was ready and they’d left the water crossing at the edge of camp a muddy mess.

You can probably guess what happened next. Both of those boots came right off, sucked up in the mire, and with Candy’s pals disappearing down the trail, I suddenly had two problems: retrieving my brand new hoof boots, and controlling a buddy-sour horse.

I managed to get the boots, scrape off most of the mud and stuff them back in my saddlebags. My trail buddy, Edgell, held Candy’s reins. If he were not a pastor, I’m sure I would have been cussing a blue streak.

By the time we caught up with the other riders, though, something else was weighing on my mind. How could I protect Candy’s feet now? We had a lot more miles to cover, with more water crossings, and I had no confidence in the boots. I did the only thing I could think of: I got out of Candy’s way. I stopped directing her and gave her responsibility for picking her own way through the rocks. She knew where to go and felt safe with all the other horses. This was one case where she didn’t need my leadership. My focus became to sit as lightly and unobtrusively on her back as I could.

My strategy seemed to work. Candy never took a lame step. A hundred miles over rocky trails wore at least a quarter of an inch off her hoof wall. Maybe more. I know some of the other riders were impressed that she’d made it. I was proud.

Then I got her home. For several days, she spent most of her time lying down. The vet came and did radiographs. There was no real damage but I definitely had one very sore-footed horse. And one very large guilt complex. What had I put her through? Several weeks and several hundred dollars later, Candy was back to normal and didn’t seem to hate me.

Still, this was a wakeup call. If I wanted to keep my horse barefoot, I had to be smarter about protecting her feet when they needed it. That started me on a quest for a better hoof boot, one that would really do the job, that would go on easily, and would stay on.

More than a year later, the quest continues, but I have zeroed in on a boot I like. Some of my very serious trail-riding friends swear by it. I’ve acquired a couple pairs to try with our horses and I’ll let you know how it goes.

This is all any of us can do, really. Just keep searching and trying and learning from our mistakes. I think our horses sense our good intentions and they forgive us when we fall short. They know we can’t help it. After all, we’re only human.

R