Phantom Mare — What The Farm?

Recently, we got ourselves a “phantom mare” on the farm. What is a “phantom mare”, you ask? Is it a spooky creature, roaming country barns at night? Is it some kind of horse nightmare? Or is it, perhaps, this writer’s stripper name?

Just when I thought I had little more to learn about horse breeding, farms, barns and such, I can now add “phantom mare” to my farm vocabulary.

Our farm is a breeding farm for harness racing. Standard bred horses are bred through artificial insemination. Up until recently, that meant that our farm manager, “The Sheriff” (because he’s in charge of everything) would have to order overnight delivery of some high-quality semen whenever he was to inseminate a mare in heat. Or, he would jump in a truck and go fetch it if the product was within a day’s drive. This dash for the goods is indelicately referred to as a “cum run.” Not my words, mind you.

The whole process of ordering or running to procure fresh horse fluids is laborious and time consuming, not to mention expensive. After years of doing this, “The Sherriff” and my husband decided it was time to invest in “standing a stallion.” When one owns a reputable, prolific stallion, one no longer needs to go through all that trouble to obtain fresh, actively swimming specimens. It’s kind of like having a cow and getting the freshest milk. Only ickier.

So, we had a beautiful stud barn built on our farm and found a tall, handsome, desirable stallion to, er ... stand in there and make regular ... deposits. The stud barn boasts a shiny new “phantom mare,” which is a padded, cylindrical kind of Ho-Ho looking thing that is on a sturdy pedestal that is cemented into the ground. It looks like the vault device from high school gymnastics. Think of that thing on which that brave, tiny, gymnast, Kerri Strug, broke her ankle in the 1996 Olympics. She soldiered on, running and vaulting herself over the device, sticking the landing on one foot.

What happens in the stud barn with the phantom mare is just a little bit less dramatic than an Olympic event. Mr. Stud is brought into a large “collection room”, complete with a beautiful view. There may or may not be some Barry White music playing on a portable speaker nearby. A mare who is in heat and hot to trot, as it were, is then led into the collection room and held in a “stanchion,” a kind of mini-stall, nearby the phantom mare. Mr. Stud is brought into the room and as soon as he sees or smells that frisky mare in the stanchion, he is metaphorically off to the races.

Giddeyup: Identities have been concealed to protect their privacy.

But Mr. Stud never gets to roll in the hay with that little lady. Rather, he is led to the phantom mare where he, um, lets loose, and, with the help of The Sherriff and his farm assistant, “Wonder Woman,” (because she’s so strong and can do everything) deposits his goods into the largest zip lock baggie you’ve ever seen. The whole affair is over in a matter of minutes. Mr. Stud is led into his stall to rest and recoup. He would have a smoke, but there’s no smoking allowed in barns. The mare in heat is led away, perhaps a little bewildered and embarrassed by what just happened. They then take the deposit into the breeding lab within the stud barn and immediately put the liquid gold in refrigeration. Later, The Sherriff will examen Mr. Stud’s little guys for motility and then ship the sought-after swimmers off to customers near and far, or use it right there on the farm (fresh is best!)

The stud barn was completed earlier this summer and, built by local Amish craftsmen, it is a beauty. My husband was eager to take me on a tour of the place. Running his hands over the gleaming wood doors and sturdy steel stall fronts, he boasted, “This completes the whole vision of this place,” sounding just a little bit like a Bond villain.

Watching him pat the nose of the stallion, I knew my man was just happy to have another male around in his life. A stud, no less! With three daughters, my husband has been outnumbered in our house for thirty years. Back when we found this farm, it was perfect in so many ways. When I realized that the much sought-after farm of my husband’s dreams, the place where he was going to do “manly things” like shoot guns and fart into the wind, was teeming with estrogen, chock-full mostly with female horses ... well, let’s just say that God has a sense of humor. I’m glad he’s got a male buddy now.