Growing Up On Muddy Creek:
Horses, Horse Sense and Horse Doctorin'
By Perry Piper
Even today, a good farmer must be a jack of all trades: a horticulturalist, an electrician, a bookkeeper and a banker. But in the early days on Muddy Creek, it was necessary to wear even more hats. The farmer had to be a blacksmith, a wheelwright, a tinsmith and even a veterinarian. Every farmer had a copy of the standard treatise on Diseases of the Horse, a three-inch-thick volume that contained the standard treatment for every conceivable ailment with which horses, mules and other livestock might be afflicted.
In the spring, after a long winter's layoff from hard work, horses were inclined toward sore shoulders. Oftentimes the collars were ill-fitted, like clothing that was handed down to the young'uns from the elders. Horse collars were no exception: they cost money, hard money, and none were thrown away, but were passed on to younger workers. (Seems I have heard that line before.)
Sometimes the pads were not adjusted as they should have been, and care had to be taken that the horse was properly conditioned. Most importantly, the operator had to know his charges and be aware of problems before they arose.
Speaking of horse liniment: Old man Catterton was reputed to have made the best horse liniment in the country. Most of the neighbors were discreet enough not to talk about what was in it, but would rather talk about the results of using the product. His praises were sung far and wide. Even Uncle Walter admitted that "The best 'stuff' I've found since I left Memphis" came from right up there on Red Hill.
In fact, some of the menfolk would have need to visit him several times a week to replenish their stock. You see, in the spring, there was always a great need for spring tonic. The more affluent ladies of the area resorted to Perunia or Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Elictra, but the men preferred old man Catterton's brew, er, product. Sorry.
My mother used to tell about Mr. Charley Wagner, who had an affinity for the fruit of the vine, coming into a tent meeting over at Tom Town one night. He interrupted the conclave with "I had a bottle of horse medicine out here in ma' buggy and it's gone. Now I just wanna warn folks not to drink that medicine, 'cause it's poison, hear? Poison!"
Speaking of medicine, when a horse needed a dose, the usual way was to "drench" him. This was done by filling a quart whiskey bottle with the dosage mixture, whatever it might be, and then apply a "twitch" to the horse's nose (a "twitch" being a foot-long piece of broom handle with a six-inch loop of rope in one end. The loop was slipped over the horse's nostrils and twisted so that even the most stubborn horse was made docile). The bottle was then inserted into his mouth as far as possible, and the contents "poured" down his throat.
A review of the 1920 census shows that in Lawrence County alone there were 6,386 horses and 1,438 mules on the 1,710 farms in the county, an average of 4.6 animals per farm. This is for every farm, and since many of them had only a buggy horse or two, the larger farms would be tending at least four teams, while some, like my Uncle Clint's, would field as many as a dozen teams in the oil fields. The horse and mule business was big business, and vets like Carl "Doc" Case did very well caring for them. Veterinarians didn't have time for cats and dogs in those long-ago days.
When dad was teaching Uncle Walter how to harness the team and care for the horses when he came to live on Muddy Creek, he cautioned him about some cardinal principles of horsemanship. "Keep the wrinkles out of the horse blanket when saddling Old Doll, and watch out for a burr under the saddle: Some of them Legg boys might just get set to pull a trick on ya'." It'd be a trick that would certainly get a rise out of Old Doll, docile as she was.