We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime

NO MORE WORD VERIFICATION!!! COMMENT AWAY!


I have to give it up.
I don't want to, it's been an unending source of amusement to me for years.
I'm going to miss it.
Seriously.
I have decided it's time to quit making fun of the Natural Horsemanship movement.
All of it.
Even...Parelli.
It's too bad, because I still have a huge reservoir of jokes waiting in the wings. Sigh.
Recently I have had two events happen which made me reevaluate. I just hate it when that happens.

The first came about when I dropped in to watch a NRCHA event in my area. I was missing my old fellow competitors and friends. I was aching to watch a good fence turn or two. I wanted to size up the locals and see how behind I was falling. So I gathered up my cohort and fellow cowhorse lover Kathy and we went to catch some action.

I was visiting with top Colorado trainer Jill Cook when the name Parelli came up. I did my usual eye roll and snort, which Jill missed. I am really glad she did. Keep in mind, this is a group of horse people who don't discuss Natural Horsemanship, ever. It truly means nothing to them. The techniques are all known to them, usually because the basics are part of every decent trainer's repertoire and are pretty much covered in the first thirty days of training. Or they're techniques not used because of a difference in approach, but not because of ignorance, because of choice.The idea of choosing what is considered colt starting 101 as a way of life is not their deal. Nothing more, nothing less.

"You know, he showed at our xxxx event last year," Jill said.

"What? You mean Parelli?" I was amazed.

"Yep."

"How'd he go?"

"His cutting was amazing, he told me he's been riding with xxx and it's making  huge difference. The rest he hung in on."

"Well good for him, I like hearing about one of these guys getting out and competing."

"Did you know he has an autistic son?" Jill asked me.

"I didn't."

"I loved watching how he and his wife are with him. They have him riding and competing and he does real well. Pat talks to him through an ear piece and walks him through, he does a real fine job. It was great watching how they interact with him. They help as needed but have let him become a real hand. That has to be so hard."

I walked away from the conversation with a full plate. The only Parelli I'm familiar with is the showboater, the man who sells his way as the only way, the man in the ads with a cult type following I just don't understand.

At our cowhorse event he came quietly. No entourage, no fanfare. He was a family man working and competing in a tough competition. The impression he made among hard core horsemen who for the most part, only vaguely knew who he is, was a good one.

My next eye opener was finally watching the movie "Buck."

The "magic" was as exaggerated as I expected. Goodness, if every colt we dealt with was as rowdy as the ones they portrayed in the movie there would be an awful lot of busted up horse whisperers out there.

Training aside, which was pretty much what I expected, it was the man who got to me. This quiet, gentle man had overcome so much because of horses. His life time of equine study had taken him so far. He had broken the chain of abuse that haunts families like his, saving his own family, his daughter's future family and himself through learning how to train a horse.

The changes he had gone through were identical to my own. So close, it physically hurt me to watch the movie. It definitely cleared up some questions I carry with me about my obsession with, not just training horses, but doing so by understanding their minds. Why I can't stop, why I always try to keep learning, keep moving forward. Every key I find to unlock the next door, well, it unlocks something inside of me too.

I've learned a lot in the last few weeks. I learned the thinking behind training through understanding is what these men share. It's not about the technique, thank goodness because I'm not buying a damn carrot stick or playing a single one of the 7 games, it's about getting to the core of who we are through the mind of a horse and sharing it with other people who want to know too.

So that's it. No more jammin' and slammin' on the horse whisperers. Just not going to do it, no matter how tempted I might be.
The reality is these guys are making a living studying the minds of horses. The rest is just fluff.
I'm sure going to hate letting go of all those Parelli jokes though.

Mouthy Monday

 PonyFan wanted to stay anonymous. I'm glad she decided to come out of hiding and share her story with us.

Gotta be honest folks, this is the kind of story that gives me goosebumps.

Not just because she's caught up on her laundry either.

How I learned to love horses.

I was born a country girl on a little durum farm in north Canada. I liked it just fine, my grandparents ran the farm and there was always so much to do and see. Red tractors to fix, old and greasy, and gardening, and grass to cut, and I followed my grandfather around as he puttered in the shop, and drank with the local good old boys. Or I followed my grandmother around as she tended house and garden and cooked up endless soft white tray buns for those same good old boys.

But my mom, well, she wanted more. She wanted out of this dusty place, and endless chores and fourteen miles to the nearest dirty little town. She wanted malls and grocery stores and good schools for her kids, and public transportation. So we picked up and moved middle of my kindergarten year. My dad was a local schoolteacher, and he’d found a job in the city.

Horses never even entered my mind at this age. I had My Little Ponies and similar stuff but I preferred Ninja turtles. Riding lessons were always going to be a financial impossibility for me so the thought never crossed my mind. I didn’t even like movies about horses.

Until I had my midlife crisis at the tender age of twenty-five.

I had a whole lot of expectations riding on me, and a serious case of the smarts, and everyone I knew had a plan for my life. Except me. I was miserable. I didn’t know what I wanted. I picked up college, two, three, four times but never managed to finish anything. I’d fail my chemistry classes because that day I had discovered a burning interest in genetic inheritance. Or tropical fish. I fell in love with a boy who couldn’t get along with anyone, not even me.

And somewhere along the way I became selfish. I’d never been any good at being happy, I’d always much preferred to make other people happy. Now I was devoted to making myself happy no matter what. Reality could be held back by any foolish decision that made me happy right now. Tomorrow, I could do something even more foolish.

It was a terrible downward spiral, the more foolish I was the more foolish I had to be. I spent all my time making myself happy, and couldn’t even manage to take half decent care of myself. I couldn’t handle anything, not my chauvinistic boyfriend, my job or even keeping my place clean.

And that’s where I found horses. I befriended the stereotypical unemployed horse hoarder, and heck, she was looking for a roommate out in the country. She convinced me that buying a horse could be the best thing I ever, ever did. I went back to my childhood, the good old days, and remembered the good old boys, and their ball caps and snakeskin boots and the smell of hay.

 I bought myself coming three year old untouched pinto mare. She was beautiful, I had no idea what I was looking at then, but my dream horse is a little 14.2 chestnut tobiano paint/paso cross. I just loved her thick flowing mane which fell on both sides and shone like white silk.  She seemed to walk and run so fancy – she gaits and has lots of extension. (Hey mugs, if the paso wasn’t enough, her paint side is all foundation quarter horse, poco bueno). Her body and legs were solid, but she seemed delicate somehow. The paso added a lot of refinement. Her body was almost entirely white, and her dainty dished face was the prefect shade of rich chocolate brown. She had the largest dark eyes and eyelashes I had ever seen on a full grown horse.  

I learned quickly then that buying a horse is nothing like buying a dog. Green and green makes black and blue, or so the saw goes, and boy, did we make each other black and blue. She arrived with a good deep cut from being chute loaded, and I never was able to tend it. Catching her was next to impossible, I had to leave her halter on, and even then I had to spend hours in the field with food. And once I had her, I had no idea what to do with her. She called the entire time I led her from the pasture, dragging left and right on the lead, and if spinning back didn’t work, she’d rear at me to intimidate me into letting go.

And slowly, I started to learn to question things. Things I read, people I knew and people I met. In the horse world, like life, everyone was quick to judge and even quicker to give advice.  I learnt to look at the bottom line, and judge the method by the results. A good spanking worked much better than the million molasses cookies I purchased. I stopped believing everything everyone said, and started looking, asking, then demanding proof. I started to value honesty as a virtue, and tried to be more honest myself.

I started to question myself. It seemed the more frustrated I was with that little pinto mare; the more I wanted to do right by her. I wanted her to have food, shelter, and regular medical care even though I wasn’t very good at getting myself any of those things. We were both unkempt, hungry creatures. Even when she tied and pawing her way to China trying to escape my attentions, I felt a kinship with her. I felt like I was the one striking out at nothing, getting nowhere.

Every time I picked myself up, and brushed myself off, I wanted success more than I had wanted anything my whole damn life.  Every time I chased her around for forty minutes because she just didn’t feel like getting caught, I beamed like a loon because she was no longer turned out in a halter, and it was only forty minutes, not four hours.

She started to learn to lunge and wore tack, and we worked on desensitizing, but I can’t tell if we were desensitizing me or her. The more I worked with her, the more I realized she needed me to take charge. I had to have a plan, be the one in control. I started to organize myself, and then my life so that she could have what she needed.  Because I needed her more. I made little changes first, then big ones. It wasn’t a quick process; it was more like waking from a coma. I was weak and ineffective at first.

The first time I rode her was after I’d rented her a private pasture on a private property where the horses were all fat, shiny, halter horses. I saddled her up, and she didn’t flinch, or sidestep, or crow hop. I plopped a big rubber dee into her mouth, and gingerly mounted her from the fence of the round pen. We did seven circles each direction while my legs trembled and then I slid to the ground.  It was fall of her fifth year.

Since then she’s moved to a boarding barn, and had thirty days where the trainer informed me that she was a true delight to work with. I’m pretty sure you can still see the spot where my jaw hit the floor. I ride in the arena and outside around the barn. My little pinto mare even trailered to the local trail park with me, where she outshone seasoned trail horses. I’ve gone a long ways too, and I still take lessons biweekly, and catch rides on other horses at the barn whenever I can. I probably average eight rides a week.

I can’t decide what my moral should be. Something funny like the only thing I learned was that I don’t know anything, or maybe sweet, like this little mare helped me take charge of my life. I think she taught me how to dream in reality and escape fantasy, but what do I know? Nothing.

 My bills are paid on time, and I am getting better and better at taking care of myself, and there is no feeling like riding. Together, we are the expression of the relationship between human and horse. Sometimes it’s a silly expression, but that’s okay. Everyone thinks I am a kook because I don’t have cable (or even a TV), and I haven’t replaced the broken door on my car yet, but I’m all caught up on the laundry, and well, I am happy. We have miles and miles to go.

Buying a horse was the best thing I ever, ever did.

Horses and Artists

unicorn and griffin - mugs

One of the great things about this blog is the connections I find to like minds.

I have talked in the past about how I've noticed there are a lot of ADD Horsaii out there and from the great stories that are told around our Mugwump camp fire I know we have some kick-butt writers.

There are other connections I have found as well.

 I've been allowed to see incredible creativity through you guys. Let's take one more step.

When I'm perusing your blogs and websites I come across a lot of artwork. There is a bunch of cool Horsaii art out there. So I'd like to give the artists a page too.

Send me a website address, a sample of your art (jpeg please, remember my six-year-old granddaughter has sharper computer skills than I do), a brief intro to jhuntington@cowhorseart.com and I'll start an art page.

It can be any type of artwork, photography, sculpture, painting, you name it. The only qualification? Wanting to share and of course, being Horsaii.

If People Were Horses

Just think how much simpler life would be if we were more like horses.

When we gathered around the dinner table the meanest one would get dessert first. Then the mean one would get to walk around the table and eat off everybody's plate and it would be considered good manners.

If our ribs were showing nobody would call it a "bikini body," they would call a rescue organization.

The bigger our butt the more desirable we'd be.

When our Grandma calls us "big-boned," it's a good thing.

If we didn't like somebody we could scream and kick them. Nobody would get arrested or question our motives.

If we DID like somebody we could still scream and kick them and we'd be forgiven.

When the mean girls in the clique snubbed us we could eventually win them over by following them around and looking sad. Then we could scream and kick them too.

Being big, fat, crabby and mean would only make you more popular.

Communication would be so much simpler.

If a woman didn't like a man she would scream and kick him.

If she did like him she would scream, kick him and then pee on the floor.

No conversation, no flowers, just scream, kick and pee.

You guys are inspiring me! so I'm adding on!

We would never have to do Kegel exercises. Out of control bladders would be sexy.

Farting when we ran would be a sign of high spirits.

Farting during dinner would simply mean we have good digestion.

Conformation - Let's All Get Paranoid!

Sorry about the title. I didn't want anybody to think this was yet another blog post about the rights and wrongs of how our horses are put together. There are puh-lenty of those available.

We can find blog posts, articles, books, and chat lines all loaded with tons of advice from lots of people dying to show their prowess at drawing a straight line via Photoshop so I know which horses are crap and which are worthy of our consideration.

There are unending descriptions, using lots of big words about muscles, tendons, angles and bone, proper hoof shape, tail set and the length of the back.

I'm not arguing about the validity of good conformation. It's a fact that the better the build the better the chance of achieving the levels of performance we're looking for. Good conformation helps a horse stay sound, gives us a smoother ride, more loft, less knee, a higher jump or a quicker cut out of the herd.

The thing is, I've had a lot of horses in my life with less than ideal conformation. OK, I'll be honest, none of my horses have had the perfect build. I bought my first horse Mort, because he had a pretty head. It wasn't until after I owned him I found out his feet turned out, his neck was too thin and set too high, he was apple-butted, narrow and I'm sure there was a bunch of other stuff I just don't remember.

I loved Mort like nobody's business and I rode the living tar out of him. I rode him until his shoes fell off and then I rode some more. I didn't know enough to tell when he was foot-sore or that I could kill him with grass clippings. I kicked him out to eat spring grass 24/7 every year after keeping him corralled every winter. Cringing yet? Me too.

The thing is, he was sound his entire life. He never foundered, never limped, never missed a step. He had incredible wind and endurance, was agile and quick. What he wasn't was fast. He didn't outrun many better built quarter horses, but he certainly outlasted them.

My second horse, Oakie, was built the way they "should" be. He had some fancy breeding and I didn't hear the comments about his faults like I did Mort. He developed massive navicular and died when he was eight years old from a reaction to blood thinners.

The next horse was a little mustang we called Belle Star. She was maybe 14 hh in her shoes (if I let her feet get long), weedy, a little ewe-necked, cow-hocked and long backed. She weighed about 850 pounds. She was loaded with heart, packed me through the mountains without complaint or problem, and her crooked little legs caused me no trouble at all.

Annie, one of the best horses ever born, was long backed and had a short, level croup, not what you'd look for in a quarter horse. Plus, SHE WAS LAME. We babied her bad foot, kept her comfortable with glucosamine, but without drugs, and used her with respect. She raised my daughter, taught me tons and there are hundreds of former kids who have loving stories to tell about learning to ride on her.

Sonita had lovely conformation. A little high headed,a little short necked, but everything else was pretty darn good. Her nice short back made her quick on a turn, but didn't help with her stops in any way. I always had to hope her spins and cow work would make up for her 15 foot stops. And then there's the fact she was nuts.

Loki had great legs. She was low-hocked, had nice straight canon bones, great reach and good feet. She was also incredibly long-backed. I mean looooong backed and narrow. Her turn arounds were effected, but she had flawless lead changes, could do lovely, level tempi changes and won a slide stop contest against the Big K with a 30 foot slide. She was a solid cutter and decent down the fence.

Madonna is close to my ideal of a perfect build. Yet she's over the knee, pigeon-toed and  her right front foot is slightly clubbed. She has slightly higher knee action than I like (it adds to her "my pretty pony" look). She is sound and athletic and the best horse I've ever had.

Odin is turning out to be wonderful. Loki is his mom and his dad is also a foundation bred quarter horse. He is showing signs of having his mother's slide stop and his father's elasticity through his turns. His back shorter than Loki's, he's much stouter and has his daddy's pretty head. My foundation bred, nothing fancy, colt may be the most correct horse I've ever owned. Don't disagree with me, I might have to kill you.

My point is correct conformation is not the end all. I learned what to look for from my 4-H hand book when I was 12. I haven't varied much from it since. It was a good handbook.


When I look to buy a horse I have my own way of doing things.

I buy bloodlines for specific tasks.

I'll try different bloodlines if I don't end up with what I want.

I look for basically correct conformation.

I'll try out a horse with faults anyway.

If the horse moves in a way that appeals to me I'll giver her a go, don't care about shoulders or pasterns if the horse feels the way I want.If a horse rides in a way I like, I'll accept many, many conformation faults.

I check stride length, stopping ability and cattiness. If it all feels good I'm on board, conformation be damned.

There are things I won't accept.

Extreme cow hocks. Ewe necks. Severe clubbed feet, or more than one club foot. Stick necks (short, upright, thick), off-set canon bones or narrow-based hind ends.

The rest is up to the horse.

If I had a better trained eye I would have missed many, many good horses.

All that being said, I wouldn't buy without a vet check, unless it's a horse I know, or it comes from a person I trust.

Mouthy Monday

Hold on to your hat for this one!

http://howtobecomeamushmaster.blogspot.com/2011/08/troubadour-tale.html

A Troubadour Tale

For a year and a half I struggled with this extremely hot and motorized horse that just wanted to go. We placed well in the speed race at shows and we could always win the flag race if I managed to pick and stick. We always had a connection. When you're making it around the arena in less than 8 seconds there has to be a good partnership there. In all the races he never, ever let me fall even though he turned so hard more often than not I was dumping dirt out of my left boot.

During the 2010 season we had managed to rack up enough points to go to the state horse show in Little Rock, Ar. We flubbed the speed race when he stumbled just before the clock and ran a slow 8.8 seconds. We had to wait until a few days later to run the flag race. On that day our association was the first to get to go. I just completely missed the flag and was disappointed I hadn't placed at state. As I was down at the trailer getting ready to go home a friend running down to tell me that we get a re-ride. Apparently the barrel crew set up the barrels wrong. I trotted my horse quickly back to the arena and got ready for my final go. I knew as soon as he pushed off we were golden. I reached over and snagged the flag as he shot towards the turn. It was a tight, fast turn and I grabbed my right rein to pull him close to the fence so I could stick. I pointed the end of the flag down and felt it sink deeply into nice gritty sand. I had leaned out extremely far in order to stick and I turned in my saddle to see if the flag was in the bucket. What I had not accounted for was the very sharp turn at the end of the arena. I couldn't get straightened up in time and hit the pipe panel and woven wire gates at 30mph.

Speed Race

Flag Race

What I remember next was coming back to consciousness lying on my side under the announcers stand. I didn't yet feel pain and I looked wildly around for my horse. I could see him being walked through the legs of the crowd of people standing around me. He was screaming and pulling against the man leading him trying to see me. As we waited for the ambulance I asked three questions, 1) Did I stick the flag? 2) What was my time? (3 Is my horse OK? The answers were yes, 8.236, and yes. When the ambulance arrived I rolled over onto my back and tried to stand only to be held in place my an EMT. They didn't want me moving in case my back or neck was injured. As they loaded me into the ambulance my horse screamed and reared his full height and looked right into my eyes. I looked back at him and cried for him, all I wanted was to touch and reassure him.

At the hospital I discovered I had snapped my right arm clean in half and moved it a good four inches, I needed 300 stitches to close the gaping wound in my forehead, and seven staples to put my scalp back together. When they cut my jeans off they found two dull scrapes in my upper right thigh. No one knew what caused it. After I'd been stitched, stapled, cleaned, and settled in a room my best friend's dad called to talk to me. After making sure I was all right he told me "I want you to know how much that horse loves you. When you fell he stopped dead in an instant. When you two came to a stop one of his front feet was resting on your head and he carefully moved it and stood over you. I could see how scared he was but he let me take him and lead him while you were tended to." By this time I was already crying, all I wanted was to see him. My friend's dad continued, "When Shelbe and Kristen led him in to get your trophy he was manic. He fussed and fought and dragged Shelbe to the spot where you fell, knelt down, and rubbed his nose in the dirt. He didn't stop screaming until we got him home and turned him out." I then realized those marks in my leg were from the nails in his shoe as he tried to stop. 

Arm Exray



After Surgery



Right after surgery





After that conversation I was so distraught the staff upped my medication so I would sleep. The next morning I had surgery that put my arm back together with a plate and 10 screws. The day after I demanded my doctor send me home. When I arrived home I begged my dad to take me out and see my horse. In all our years together he's always been the first to greet me. Now he refused to look at me. My dad had to force him to hold still so I could touch him. It broke my heart to see him so scared of me. It was almost like he was ashamed, like he blamed himself. I took a few days to heal and I asked my dad if I could ride. He agreed, saddled Troubadour, and ever so carefully he lifted me onto his back. Troubadour had always been a hot horse, speed had always been the sole measure of his life. But as he walked around like an old lead pony I felt him coming back to me.  



A couple of weeks later my best friend wanted to take him to the Show of Champions in Melbourne, Ar. My dad agreed in order to keep me off the horse. When my friend arrived to take him he loaded like a lamb. As she drove away he realized I wasn't going with him. He then proceeded to try to kick her trailer apart. She ended up having to sedate him. He never ran as well for her as he did for me. He had decided he was a one woman horse.



When I went back to college he went with me. We're apart of the Collegiate Stock Horse Team and he now has a handle on him. We still compete in speed and flag races, currently we're tied for first in my age division. No one else has been on his back since Melbourne almost a year ago. I have some scars and pains to remind me that without a good horse, you have nothing. Troubadour will never be sold. When the time comes he will be peacefully euthanized at home and buried. I will always carry a part of this horse with me. He's my heart, my whole heart.

The Incredible Lightness of Being lll

I need to make sure my idea of lightness is understood. I guess I can start by explaining what it is not.

It is not a horse so unwilling to touch a bit I am feeling  all over the place because all that’s happening is my horse is ducking and dodging faster than Bugs Bunny getting shot at by Elmer Fudd.

It is not a horse so reactive to my leg he bolts to the side when I lean over to open a gate and accidentally touch him with my spur or calf.

It is not a horse so intent on anticipating my every move I can’t make a mistake and never get him to recover.

These are all scenarios I have witnessed with horses described as “light.”

The phrases soft mouthed, light in the bridle, sensitive, or, needs a light hand, all set off alarms in my head when I see them in an sale ad for a horse.

Why? Because all horses are sensitive, they can be dulled like the second day on a number two pencil or sharpened like the chopper blade in my Cuisinart (that sucker bites!) by the treatment they receive in the course of their life.

Soft mouthed? Again, all horses feel pain when their mouth is mistreated, how they respond to it depends on who the horse is and what’s been done.

Light in the bridle? I prefer my horses to be solid thank you very much.

Needs a light hand? They all do. Every single one of them.

So when this becomes a promotional tool I have to question how well the owner understands any of these things.

For me, lightness comes from the understanding between horse and rider. My part is to learn to ride. To really, really learn. This means putting in the hours on the horse’s back until I instinctively know which leg is where, mine and the horse’s at all times I need to know by feel when a horse is going to move with me or against me and be able to resolve a bad situation or at least ride it through and to reward a good one by a slight release or a brief moment of peace.

I need to feel my horse through my reins. I ride western, so this is a literal statement for my finished horses. I need to know my horse is with me  through the slightest lift of my hand or squeeze of my fingers. My bit should be nothing more than a communicator and I want to know my horse is a solid presence on the bit, ready and feeling my hand. I know the contact is more direct in an English bridle, but in my experience the feeling was very similar. A good horse is there.

On my horses part I want a reasonable response to every cue. I want the horse to move where he should be when he should. I want his hip, shoulders, head and feet to be ready to respond as I need them to, almost without thought.

So do I have all these things? Hell, no! It’s my goal, what I strive for every day, every ride. Not with impatience or anger, just awareness. I ride with an imaginary ¼ inch of air between my horses and me. Every time I move out of my air buffer I try to understand why, then change it. I haven’t had a horse yet who didn’t understand, then appreciate my air buffer. They soon learn to try to maintain it too.

So how do I get this lightness?

I try to get it by combining the riding I did as a kid and the riding I do now. As a girl, I just rode. As long as the horse went where I pointed him I was good to go. Long before the idea of teaching him stuff crossed my feeble little brain I was learning how to hang on. My horse directed the action for the most part, I just hung on. By doing that I was learning to feel his movement, his reactions, his train of thought and to react to them. Eventually I could tell what side of the trail he would choose, when he would spook, when he would run and when he would refuse, just by the feel of him.

As I grew up and began to want more I start to want him to react to me, read me by feel, know what I wanted and how I wanted to respond.

Unfortunately, I’m not as good at showing a horse what I want as the horse was at showing me. So I have to break everything down.

Before I spin my horse he has to understand forward, hip control, shoulder control and to translate what I mean when I block one direction while asking for another. I am going to teach each step and know we both agree before I go on to the next.

Each time my horse and I figure out our goal my next step is to get the same response with less action from me. This is how we become light. If my horse only has a muddy concept of what I’m asking for then he pretty much can’t get lighter. I’ve created the muddiness myself and can’t expect him to see through it.

I have to be able to feel the cause of his resistance and understand it before I can get rid of it.

The longer I ride, the more subtle I’m becoming. By teaching my horses lightness through solid, clearly understood cues, they are pretty easy for anybody to ride.

Reaction and action can become one and the same thing if we just keep working at it.

It’s work well worth it. If I keep working at it I might just get it. 

Mouthy Monday

This story was sent with just the name of the author. It's beautiful, both in the writing and the emotion. I'm hoping she writes in and tells us a little about herself. I'd love to read more of her writing.

Letting Go

Sunday, February 20^th

6:30 AM

Stumbling over a knee-deep snow bank, I mutter to myself in frustration as I half-open, half-crash into the doors and fall into a heap of fleece and snow on the floor of the barn. What an excellent start to the day. Dragging myself and the forty layers of clothing I’m wearing up off the concrete, I turn around and pull the peeling wooden doors shut again, heaving against the icy wind and giving a sigh of relief as the frigid gusts of wind are shut out. Surviving winter on the farm is like walking uphill both ways to wherever your grandfather had to go back when he was young. I pause for a minute and stand quietly in the aisle. Something’s different, something’s wrong. You know that panicked feeling when you realize you’ve forgotten something important but can’t place your finger on what it is? That’s what I was feeling, as though something was missing.

I shrug and turn to the feed bins. It’ll come to me eventually, things like that always do. In the meantime I have thirty hungry horses to tend to. Propping open the big yellow bins I reach in to begin prying apart frozen buckets and preparing grain. This has become so routine that I could do it in my sleep. Half the time I do: being fully awake at 6AM every day on weekends is sometimes impossible. I laugh to myself when friends complain about having to work, they don’t know how much easier it is to fill a till compared to filling a hayloft. As my thoughts wander absentmindedly I suddenly realize what’s missing -the entire barn is quiet. Normally I’m greeted by a chorus of hungry nickers and demands for breakfast. Today there’s been nothing except for the sound of a horse pawing.

Pawing. Who’s pawing?

Thirty pairs of eyes turn from me to the last stall in the barn, and then back to me. My breath catches in my throat. It’s Jojo.

I run down the aisle with my thoughts racing ahead of me. The intensity of his pawing increases and when I reach his stall I can see him slamming his hooves furiously against the ground. The shavings in his stall have been dug away and are now banked in mounds against the wooden walls, which have been deeply gouged by the corks on his shoes. The aluminum on his feet is sending sparks flying as his shoes strike the concrete. He’s chewing the air with ears pinned flat against his head. As I slide open the latch on his stall door his knees buckle and he collapses, letting out a long moan.

“Oh fuck.”

 I yank the halter and leadrope off his door and kneel down beside him. Tearing off my gloves I check his gums for circulation, finding them to be completely white. He curls his lip up, yet another bad sign. He’s covered in sweat despite the cold weather. With shaking hands I lift his head and buckle his halter on. Jumping up, I begin heaving desperately in an effort to get him to stand. He stares up at me with a pained expression. Some people say horses don’t show emotion; that’s a complete lie.

 “C’mon bud. Get up!”

 I growl at him and whip his flanks with the end of the leadrope. It seems cruel but a colicking horse needs to be up and moving, not lying down as their intestines become even more twisted. He takes shallow, rapid breaths and finally manages to stand. I immediately drag him down the aisle and out the barn, grabbing my cell phone and a whip on the way out. The winter wind hits us like a solid wall as we trudge across the courtyard to the arena. I dial my boss’s number in as we walk. The phone rings for what seems like an eternity, my heart beating faster with each shrill tone.

 “Hey, it’s Jojo. He’s been up and down all night. Yes, I just got him up and walking. You call the vet, I’ll call Brea. Hurry.”

 I hang up and continue walking, dragging lines in the arena dirt with my heavy boots. Jojo follows behind me with short, painful steps. He shoves his head between my shoulder blades and the hair on the back of my neck raises as his shallow breaths creep down my collar. With the vet and his owner on the way all we can do is hurry up and wait. I try not to think any further than five minutes ahead.

6:00 PM

I’m sitting in the corner of Jojo’s stall, cocooned in a spare wool cooler with my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee carried down to the barn by my boss’s grandmother. I wouldn’t give up this job for anything in the world, it’s like my second family. I stare at Jojo with dull eyes. He would seem to be fine to anybody walking by, but I can tell he’s still off. The little hay we’ve given him is strewn throughout his stall, churned into the shavings. He’s standing against the far wall with his tail clamped tight to his hindquarters and his head hanging low. Any other day he’d have his nose buried in my lap, demanding attention and searching for the never ending supply of mints I keep in my pockets. Regular doses of Banamine throughout the day have kept him quiet and comfortable, but that’s just a Band-Aid fix to the problem. According to the vet he is suffering from epiploic foramen entrapment. In layman’s terms this means that a portion of his intestine has slipped through a small slit that exists in the abdominal wall, cutting off circulation to the digestive system.  It would take a true miracle for the entrapment to resolve itself on its own. Emergency surgery is the only option at this point, but a second trip there this year is financially out of the question for his owner and the chances of a successful surgery are extremely low. Jojo has a history of colicking, he’s a high-stress animal, a picky eater, forgets to drink enough and is prone to getting himself cast in his stall.

It’s a wonder that these horses manage to survive in the wild, but centuries of selective breeding has turned out high-performance animals with equally high needs and this is the result. Lots of talent and athleticism seemingly paired with a deathwish. There isn’t much we could have done to prevent this particular episode of colic though, so nobody should shoulder the blame. But a decision must be made and at this point I feel as though we are just putting off the inevitable. I sigh and wriggle deeper into the blanket, breathing in the comforting scent of alfalfa, bran and horse. My thoughts slow down as I realize what has to happen. I’d do it now if I could, just to let him go before the drugs wear off and he reverts back to biting his chest and flanks and kicking his belly in an effort to relieve the pain. But it’s not my decision.

9:00 PM

                This feels cruel, miracles don’t just happen. We can’t just wait and see. Wait for what? We’re just putting off something that has to happen anyways. I stumble through evening chores, throwing hay into stalls and topping up water buckets for the night, then flick off the barn lights and sit on the bench outside. I lean my head back against the steel siding, close my eyes and stay there until my arms and legs go numb from the cold. When I finally open them I notice it’s dark and the stars have replaced the wispy clouds that dotted the sky this afternoon. I realize my boss is talking to me. I look up at her, trying not to show my feelings. We don’t let tears streak our dirt-stained faces here; it’s usually either smiles or nothing. Her words fade in and out as I stare blankly back at her, then finally tune in to what she’s saying.

“We’re just waiting on Brea at this point; I’ll let you know when she calls. We can’t do anything until she’s ready to let him go.”

I give a slow nod as the words register in my mind. Picking myself up off the bench I walk to my car, turn up the radio and pull out of the driveway. Driving home I stare at the smattering of snowflakes as they drift into the reach of my headlights and swoop up over the windshield.

Monday February 21^st

5:30 AM

                I’ve been sitting awake in bed since 5AM waiting for the phone call. The silence of my house has been strangely calming and I sit quietly with one hand buried in my dog’s warm coat, using the other to trace patterns in my pilled and faded flannel sheets. My eyes dart anxiously from the clock to my phone with every second, watching each digital minute tick by. Finally I see “Incoming Call” flash across the screen and I instantly pick up the phone before it even has a chance to ring.

“She’s ready, come up. The vet will be here in an hour.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

I let out a muffled sob and hang up the phone. Getting out of bed I walk downstairs, shove my feet into the winter boots warming under the radiator and grab my keys off the kitchen counter. I pause for a minute, thinking I should eat something. I then realize that my stomach is churning and whatever I manage to eat would more than likely come right back up.

6:30 AM

                With a racing heartbeat and weak arms we go for one last walk. It feels strange, leading someone to their death. Every step is measured; each footprint will be remembered as the last. The air is sharp, cold and quiet as tears run silently down my face with each soft breath. This laneway will never be the same; neither will the wooden stall door, the smell of snow, or this particular date in February. I wonder if he knows what’s about to happen. Something tells me he does; horses are more intelligent than many people are aware of. I stop and turn to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck as he presses his forehead into my chest. I can feel him shaking as my own body shakes with each sob. He’s trembling from the pain, not the cold. I inhale shakily, grasping his leather halter with one hand to trace his name engraved on the nameplate, twisting my fingers through his mane with the other. I give a brief nod to his owner and she glances at the vet.

We both mutter as he takes his final breaths.

                “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

 I can’t help but let a quiet scream escape my lungs as his legs crumple and his body slams against the frozen ground with a deadening thud. It’s always terrifying to see twelve hundred pounds of strength and muscle simply crash to the ground.

It’s odd to see adults cry. I walk over to Brea and wrap my arms around her as tears stream down her face. We kneel down beside him together and I reach over and slip his eyelids shut. It looks as though he could be sleeping. Brea runs her hands down his warm neck, I place mine on his soft muzzle and we sit there in silence for a while.

I wrap one arm around her shoulder. We stay there as the snow falls gently down. We talk about Jojo, about his successes, his attitude and the one time he managed to throw me in one of his playful bucking fits. I show her pictures on my phone of him tossing his feed tub in the air, stealing her gloves and throwing pylons around the arena. We remember all his firsts. The day she bought him, his first ride since retiring from the racetrack, the first time he jumped, his first course, his first show, his first time swimming in the pond.

She lets out a pained sigh.

“I feel guilty, like we should have done more. I’m so sorry.”

I look at her and shake my head, there’s nothing to apologize for. Keeping an animal hanging on a thread, keeping them alive because we love them and can’t bear to let them go, that’s selfish. Making the decision before it has to be made for us is completely selfless, and one of the last things we can do for them after a lifetime of shared memories. My answer to her is simple.

“Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is let go.”

Horse Blogs and The Bearable Lightness of Being

Chevelle had a great suggestion. She would like to do more sharing of our Horsaii blogs than just putting them on the Mouthy Monday stories or adding them at the end of a comment.

I'm going to add a page this weekend of Horse Blogs. They don't have to only be about horses, the writer simply has to like them.

Send me the name of your blog ( jhuntington@cowhorseart.com), your blog address and a brief description of what it's about and I'll post it on the page.Tell me if you ride hunter/jumpers, endurance, trail, just around the yard, reined cow horse, whatever. I'll list them in categories and we can visit back and forth to our hearts content.

I'll finish up the lightness series today, but it may be evening before I get to it. The sun is shining and the ponies are calling!

Later.

OK. thanks to Chevelle my real email is now posted.
Razzing welcome and deserved.

Mort, Me and the Upper Rio Grande 50 Miler

Mort liked to be in front.

He really, really liked to be in front. If he didn't get to lead on the trail he would jig, tossing his head hard enough to break my nose if I didn't pay attention. When that didn't work he would begin to canter, almost in place, an angry, rumbling growl rattling deep in his chest.

Here I was, riding with a group of women who rode these 50 milers "for fun" on a regular basis. Their horses were fit and shiny, their tack was clean and worn and they rode with an ease I hadn't seen in an adult rider before.

They were kind and friendly and tried to put me at ease, asking about my horse, my experience on the trail, if I showed at all or if I just rode, just about anything they could come up with to get me talking.

Fat chance.The best I could offer were grim, one word replies, made up for the most part of, "Yup," and "Nope," with a few "Maybes," thrown in for comic relief. I was embarrassed beyond belief. There was no way I could let him go in front. I was a guest of this group and they had actually read the map the night before the ride. I needed to ride alongside them in the open and behind them on the narrow trails that climbed high into the pines.

Mort decided to up the ante and added some foam slinging, head shaking to the mix. I hung on for dear life.When he started to show his heels every other stride Jenny decided it was time to step in.

"Gotta lotta horse there," she said.

"Yup."

"Is he always like this?"

"Pretty much."

"What happens if you let him go?"

"He'll go."

"Does that scare you?"

I just snorted. I was way too cool to bother answering that one.

"Then let him go."

Now she had my attention. Eyes bugged, mouth open, maybe a little drool in the corners, attention.

"I mean it, he'll really go." Maybe the sun was getting to her. Maybe she couldn't hear so good. Probably she was like every other adult in my life and just didn't believe me.

"I'm sure he will," she paused and waited while Mort bucked in a little circle. "If you can, just sit there. Don't try to stop him or steer him. See how far he takes you."

"OK," I said. I was wondering if she had bets with her buddies on how many tries it would take before she killed me, but I wasn't going to let her think I was chicken.

I let him go.

Mort hesitated for just a second before he shot ahead and down the trail. He was as surprised by the turn of events as I was. He blasted down a rocky incline, his ears flicking back and forth between me and the trail. I didn't lean forward and ask him to go, I didn't try to stop, hold or steer him. It made for a wild, unsettling ride.

Without our usual tension my balance was off. He popped over a log when the trail leveled off and I almost biffed it. I didn't know what to do with my hands, my legs were so tight I had two inches of air between me and my saddle. My stirrups slipped away from me, first one, then the other.

Mort was weaving and wobbling across the ground, his head was high and his feet unsure.What the crap was going on?

I never felt out of balance, even bareback I always had a seat like glue. It seemed like I was going to have plenty of time to figure it out though, my rowdy dun was showing no sign of slowing down. Mort launched off the trail and through the trees, I was suddenly getting slapped in the face by branches and ducking heavy limbs. This was getting nuts, I was going to have to pull him in before I got my head knocked off.

My seat suddenly showed up. One second I was stiff kneed and lurching from side to side and the next I was where I belonged. My shoulders loosened, my back relaxed and my legs let go so I could find my stirrups. As my seat deepened and steadied Mort began to find a rhythm. He curved back through the woods and found the trail.

He began to slow, still moving at a good clip, but easy and relaxed. This was getting fun. Finally he broke down to a trot. His breath was labored, his neck was lathered, but he trotted along the trail with his ears pricked and his tail waving a cheerful beat.

We heard a faint whinny far behind us. Mort stopped and spun around. He, like me, was too cool to answer. I stayed with him like I should and we both looked up the trail. We waited, a good fifteen or twenty minutes, before the women showed up. I sat on him, letting him graze, listening to his breathing slow and head back to normal.

Jenny broke into a wide smile when she came around the bend. She had been worried, I could tell. I was proud of staying with him and glad she realized I had meant it when I said, "He'll go."

"He really took off," she said.

"He's like that."

We headed out together and Mort didn't walk ten steps before he started to jig. I glanced at Jenny.

"Let him go."

I did and he did, but this time we didn't go nearly as fast or far.

The group caught up, we fell in and Mort stayed at a walk for a good five minutes before he tried to pass. It gave Jenny time to tell me what she was doing.

"All a horse really wants is to stay in his herd," she said. "Sometimes the pulling and jigging comes from not knowing his place and then it turns into a fight with you. If you don't pick a fight with him, maybe he'll quit trying to leave."

"I'm not trying to fight with him."

"I know, but think about it, when your horse puts his head up it's because he's nervous. If he puts his head up and you make your reins tighter, he can't relax. He thinks you're telling him not to."

I looked at the other horses ambling along, heads low, the whole group of women talking and looking around, with their horses on a loose rein.

"But he takes off."

Jenny laughed, a great big belly laugh, but it didn't make me feel embarrassed. "He certainly does."

About then Mort started making his move to the front. I kept my reins loose and looked back at Jenny.

"This time, as soon as he passes Meg bump him with your calves and keep at it until he lopes off, once he gets going, relax again."

I did what I was told and as soon as I quit bumping him, Mort stopped and waited for the group, not twenty feet behind us.

Pretty soon Jenny had me bump him up before he passed Meg, the lead rider.

He barely broke into a trot.

Before we got to the next vet check I was walking with my group, my horse on a loose rein, satisfied with being a horse or two behind. If he sped up, I would squeeze him forward a few steps, relax, and he would drop back to a walk.

I had a lot to think about. Why had I lost my balance when I first let him go?
Why was he slowing down when I asked him to go forward and why did he speed up when I pulled on the reins?

These thoughts were completely crowded out of my head by the biggest question of the day.

Why were the insides of my knees starting to feel so raw?

I looked down at my cords and saw dark, damp dots starting to seep through the fabric. I rubbed my fingers across them and the skin at the bend in my knee immediately began to burn. I looked at my fingertips and saw pale red stains. I had started to bleed right through my corduroys.This couldn't be good.

Mouthy Monday

This post from NCEFT is so in tune with my thoughts on lightness (which I'm still dwelling on BTW) that I couldn't believe it. Plus a big kudos for the Horsaii at NCEFT who share with those most in need. 
Mugs


I work for the National Center for Equine Facilitated Therapy (NCEFT) in Woodside, CA. We try to improve the lives of children and adults with disabilities by providing equine-assisted therapy and equine assisted activities and promoting research and education in the field of hippotherapy. We recently started a blog in the hopes of sharing our stories, and this post gives a little bit of insight into our approach to training therapy horses. I hope that being featured on your blog might help bring more awareness to our own blog and the benefits of equine facilitated therapy


Blog: NceftSpeaks.wordpress.com
Original Post: http://nceftspeaks.wordpress.com/2011/06/27/the-therapy-horse/

We ask the world of them. To both tune in and tune out. To be dead to the world and yet so sensitive a touch or a word elicits instant change. We ask them to be therapy horses. Friends, teachers, soft rumps to lie on, warm bodies to hug. They listen unwearyingly to stories, quietly endure bouts of tears, and show heart-breaking tenderness.

The question is, are these horses born or made? We say the answer is both, born with kind souls and carefully shaped into solid citizens. In the process of auditioning potential horses we come across quiet horses, loving horses, easy horses. Yet, rarely do we find therapy horses. Why? What training techniques result in Expectations. The steadfast belief that one’s horse is not only capable of the task at hand, but that the task itself is unassuming. The NCEFT staff currently has the pleasure of working with a young Fjord, TUF Stormy Weather, owned by our Barn Manager, Bonnie MacCurdy. Having just turned 6 in May, Stormy is shattering expectations by not only participating in daily hippotherapy sessions, but playing roles as a therapeutic driving, vaulting, and riding horse. Though born with the soft temperament essential to therapy work, it was careful training that brought Stormy to his full potential.

Now, don’t confuse careful training with finessed training. Not to say that timing and release aren’t important, but in the immortal word’s of Nike, “Just do it.” We believe our horses can do anything. We approach every task with the simple expectation of success, nothing more. The path to success may be filled with twist and turns, bumps, and dead ends, but we get there. Too often we confuse perfection and success, and as a result, too often does failure discourage us.

Earlier this year we took Stormy and our other two Fjords—7 year old Tonka, and 14 year old Sebastian—to a handful of schooling shows. Our goal: a different discipline every month. None of the shows were perfect. At the Hunter-Jumper show all the horses were a little strong in the ring. The Dressage show found an exuberant Sebastian more interested in hand-galloping than halting at X, and Stormy’s slow jog went out the window at the Western show. Yet every show was successful. Not only did the horses stand quietly between classes, but cantered to a win in the Equitation pattern class, earned scores over 70% in Dressage, and nearly took home a Western buckle.

Many of us are deterred by the idea of failure, making no attempt if perfection is unlikely. We limit our expectations and spend more time analyzing our faults than actually doing anything. We try to teach our horses to canter by spending entire rides trotting a circle, analyzing our bend, suppleness, impulsion, flexion. But we don’t canter.

So, how do you train a therapy horse? You ride them down the road to the tie-rail by the grocery store, you hop on bareback for a game of mounted basketball, you canter on the right lead, left lead, any lead really as long as you’re cantering. You put scarves on their heads and throw balls at their legs, and sing “Old McDonald” at the top of your lungs. You stop analyzing and start doing, and before you know it, somewhere between the trail rides and champagne races you realize your horse has learned to halt off your seat, to sidepass and back, to move forward with a shift in weight. Somewhere amidst all the “doing” you’ve found success.

Reply to:

Reply to syfogleman@comcast.net

Princess Horses

OK. I've got a confession to make. I have a weakness for fairy princess horses.

Becky in Her Prom Dress

You know, the kind of horse that makes me want to wrap my hair up into a loose bun, decorate it with wild flowers and ribbons, dig through my clothes from the 70's until I find my old Gunne Sax dress, and go for a ride.

Although I have read many a disparaging word about these over priced horses, and their usefulness in my life is questionable at best, I can't help but daydream, at least once in a while, about what it would be like to own one.

Of course the long flowing mane and tail would remain, not only spotless, but untangled. It would blow softly in the breeze even when my princess horse was standing in his/her stall.

Our communication would be so perfect, so entwined, we could ride all day, saddleless and bridleless (the whole time looking SO much cooler than Stacy Westfall), so I could practice ballet. Which of course I would know how to do. Then we would sit around at night and watch the REAL True Grit, the one with John Wayne, and he/she would drape his/her head over my shoulder and nuzzle my hand with a velvety soft non-slobbery muzzle in commiseration when Little Blackie dies.

Gypsy Vanner

My fairy princess horse would love to wear ribbons and bells and never get manure stains, even if his/her feathers completely covered each perfectly formed foot.

My fairy princess horse would be soooo much prettier than yours.

Here's the truth about some of the fairy princess horses I have known.

Gypsy Vanners: I don't care what anybody says, these are nice horses. If they are truly gypsy scrubs and some gypsies in Ireland get to put their kids through grad school because we stoopid Americans keep paying a kabillion dollars for their cart horses, hey, good for them!

I mean, look at that horse! Tell me he's not ready to go slay a dragon or something.

Andalusian

I helped another trainer prepare newly imported Vanners of various sizes, ages and brokeness for sale. Even the rankest, non-halter broke five-year-old stud was sweetly puttering around within 30 days. They were smooth to ride, very people oriented, didn't have a spook in them and just lovely to watch.

Andalusians: Fiery, athletic, hair growing machines. Still easy to train (at least the two I experienced)
and look good under any kind of saddle. Soft and sensitive, these horses are meant to be somebody's soul mate.

Saddlebreds: Long ignored by much of the horse community and the topic of justified political debate over many of the training methods used on them, these are horses worth paying attention to.

American Saddlebred

They are incredibly kind and somehow have been able to maintain their intelligence and wicked sense of humor in spite of being bred to be kept as some kind of weird robot horse.

Tell me this guy isn't a princess horse just waiting to happen!

Morgans: I know, these mighty little work trucks are all around using horses. I've long known this would be the breed I'd be riding if I wasn't hooked on my quarter horses.
BUT they can still qualify in so many ways as a fairy princess horse.

They grow wonderful hair, the show Morgan's I have known had the patience of Job, they were elegant, funny and still dignified. The Foundation Morgans are even cooler in my book, they have the solid look I admire so much. Plus, another confession, my favorite color is a sun-kissed sorrel with a flaxen mane and tail. Put it on a Morgan and I'm over the moon. Sigh.

Go ahead, tell me those two fillies aren't princess horses.

Yes they are. I want the one with her head up and I'm going to name her Flicka.



Lusitano: And last but definitely not least, the breed of horse I really, truly will buy if I ever get to a point in my life where I can take on a horse for coolness factor alone. These horses are fierce, proud and oh so elegant. How can they not be? They are the bullfighting horses of choice. No, I don't want to bullfight. Yes, I feel sorry for the bulls and the horses. I do not condone bullfighting. That's not my point, please don't hate me.
Have you seen the way these horses move?
They absolutely blow my mind.
In my fairy princess world I would become a true cowboy princess and train my awesome Lusitano to compete in reined cowhorse. How much more amazing could life ever become if I had a Lusitano cowhorse?
You know it will be astounding, because these puppies have been bred to FIGHT BULLS! Imagine what they would do with a yearling Angus heifer! YIPPEE KI YI YAY!
And...I would be saving a Lusitano from becoming a bullfighting horse.

lusitano

bridleless lusitano



Uri-Lusitano that I Really, Really Need




The truth of the matter is, I guess I do have my fairy princess horses. They give me endless joy and take me to another world any time I need them too. I'm grateful for them every single day of my life.

Odin



Madonna