You guys are awesome. Here's a present. With a disclaimer.
This blog is about horses and dogs. It's about training--the animals in my life, myself and the people who dropped in along the way.
My development as a horse trainer directly parallels my development as a decent human being. My growing up was not always monitored, was not always safe, and I certainly wasn't born horse whispering. While this story is true, it absolutely IS NOT about recommended training techniques. It's about growing up, sometimes at the expense of others.
Spirit was the trashiest horse I had ever laid eyes on. She stood about 13.2, a slab-sided, ewe-necked, pig eyed train wreck with a giant wonking hammerhead. Her back was a church pew built from warped boards, her spine dipped below the withers, rose in a bony hand waving hallelujah over her loins and spilled down her goose rump to a low slung tail, clamped firmly over her cow-hocked, club-footed hind legs. She had this huge hitch in her get-along, my first case of string-halt. Riding her inspired more prayer than I had ever mustered during a Sunday sermon.
The flea-bitten gray mare was also my first, official, horse-in-training. I was going to be paid, in hay, to make this horse safe for the six children who were supposed to ride her. The Henderson family was suburban, had never owned a horse or had a riding lesson, and couldn't figure out why they couldn't get on their new toy.
"I paid good money for her," George Sr. said. "She's a guaranteed kids horse."
They had bought Spirit, sight unseen, from somebody who had owed George Sr. money. She had arrived at our barn with 10 bales of moldy alfalfa, a feed store grazing bit and bridle, no reins, no chin strap, no halter.
I gave them a list of things to buy, brushes, new hay, grain, and tack. My wish for a saddle was denied, the kids were to learn to ride "like wild Indians," like me. I didn't point out I rode bareback because my saddle had been stolen, or that I wasn't an Indian. This horse, and the riding lessons I could give the wild herd of wolverines who owned her, would just about earn me enough to buy a new one.
I was seventeen-years-old, fearless when it came to horses, and totally cowed by any and all adults. If Big George wanted his kids riding Spirit bareback then it must be possible.
As an added incentive, George Jr., the number one son, was my age, handsome enough to make me melt and in the habit of watching me ride. At school, on the streets of the 'burb, a boy like him would never know a girl like me existed. His crystal blue eyes would sweep over me like a mail box on his sidewalk or a pothole on his street. When I rode his eyes followed me. He asked questions and listened to my answers with his hands in his pockets and his head bowed. The sun glinted on his streaky gold hair and I waited, my heart pounded, and I held my breath as he digested my answer, his shaggy head rose and a slow, wicked smile crept across his beautiful face. There was admiration and praise in his voice, I felt like John freaking Wayne. It made me so weak I almost fell off my horse.
So hell yeah, I was going to train Spirit.
On my first day, I came to the barn in my standard summertime horse clothes--cut-off blue jean shorts, my favorite red tee and sneakers. Fear of my mother's eagle eye spotting any change of dress or manner, and absolute terror of Junior looking at me and finding me lacking, stopped the temptation to dress more like a trainer or God forbid, someone prettier. My crazy hair might have been cleaner than usual, my legs were shaved, and my shorts might have been the shortest and fringiest pair I had, but that was the only deference to Junior's potential presence I dared.
When I haltered the mare and led her to the fence George Jr. hopped the fence across the ditch and sauntered towards us, the rest of the Henderson brood followed behind, flowing in and out of each other like so many escaped ferrets.
Spirit knew kids. It became clear, even to me, that she had put in her time. She loved to be brushed and petted. She loved having her one attribute, a luxurious silver tail that dragged the ground, combed, at least until I bent over to untangle the end. She lashed out, her cow kick a blur of motion I barely registered before I found myself on the ground, my thigh clutched between both hands and my teeth clenched against the building blocks of a fist sized hematoma. Bitch! Spirit sucked back and shook her head.
"She does that a lot," Junior said. The rest of the Henderson kids, who stair-stepped down from Jr. to about five-years-old, giggled and elbowed each other in the ribs. So much for John Wayne.
I crawled over to the fence, well out of Spirit's range and pulled myself up. An angry bruise was already covering my thigh. I was covered in dirt and manure, and the baby oil I had slathered on that morning guaranteed it was with me for the day.
The only way to redeem myself was to get her ridden. I grabbed my ring snaffle and held the bridle between her ears. She immediately squinched her eyes shut, stuck her nose out and opened her mouth wide. She wasn't about to get her teeth banged Yep, this was a short horse who had been bridled by a lot of kids.
I led her out to the field, shortened my inside rein to stop her from grazing and vaulted on.
Before I had loosened my rein or adjusted my seat, Spirit reared up and threw herself backwards. We crashed to the ground. When I landed, I banged my head hard and got the wind knocked clean out of me. It seemed in by best interest to lie still and think things over for a bit. Spirit got up and stood close, her piggy little eye looked directly into mine. She began to crop the grass, I continued to contemplate her eye. She was soft, relaxed, and I swear, amused.
"She does that a bunch too," Junior said.
I rolled my head to look at him, heard my neck pop, and knew this was going to hurt. Junior was standing a foot away, legs splayed, arms akimbo. The rest of the little bastards were laughing on the other side of the ditch. He didn't help me up.
This blog is about horses and dogs. It's about training--the animals in my life, myself and the people who dropped in along the way.
My development as a horse trainer directly parallels my development as a decent human being. My growing up was not always monitored, was not always safe, and I certainly wasn't born horse whispering. While this story is true, it absolutely IS NOT about recommended training techniques. It's about growing up, sometimes at the expense of others.
 |
| This isn't really Spirit. She was flea-bitten, bigger head, shorter neck, but you get my drift. |
The flea-bitten gray mare was also my first, official, horse-in-training. I was going to be paid, in hay, to make this horse safe for the six children who were supposed to ride her. The Henderson family was suburban, had never owned a horse or had a riding lesson, and couldn't figure out why they couldn't get on their new toy.
"I paid good money for her," George Sr. said. "She's a guaranteed kids horse."
They had bought Spirit, sight unseen, from somebody who had owed George Sr. money. She had arrived at our barn with 10 bales of moldy alfalfa, a feed store grazing bit and bridle, no reins, no chin strap, no halter.
I gave them a list of things to buy, brushes, new hay, grain, and tack. My wish for a saddle was denied, the kids were to learn to ride "like wild Indians," like me. I didn't point out I rode bareback because my saddle had been stolen, or that I wasn't an Indian. This horse, and the riding lessons I could give the wild herd of wolverines who owned her, would just about earn me enough to buy a new one.
I was seventeen-years-old, fearless when it came to horses, and totally cowed by any and all adults. If Big George wanted his kids riding Spirit bareback then it must be possible.
As an added incentive, George Jr., the number one son, was my age, handsome enough to make me melt and in the habit of watching me ride. At school, on the streets of the 'burb, a boy like him would never know a girl like me existed. His crystal blue eyes would sweep over me like a mail box on his sidewalk or a pothole on his street. When I rode his eyes followed me. He asked questions and listened to my answers with his hands in his pockets and his head bowed. The sun glinted on his streaky gold hair and I waited, my heart pounded, and I held my breath as he digested my answer, his shaggy head rose and a slow, wicked smile crept across his beautiful face. There was admiration and praise in his voice, I felt like John freaking Wayne. It made me so weak I almost fell off my horse.
So hell yeah, I was going to train Spirit.
On my first day, I came to the barn in my standard summertime horse clothes--cut-off blue jean shorts, my favorite red tee and sneakers. Fear of my mother's eagle eye spotting any change of dress or manner, and absolute terror of Junior looking at me and finding me lacking, stopped the temptation to dress more like a trainer or God forbid, someone prettier. My crazy hair might have been cleaner than usual, my legs were shaved, and my shorts might have been the shortest and fringiest pair I had, but that was the only deference to Junior's potential presence I dared.
When I haltered the mare and led her to the fence George Jr. hopped the fence across the ditch and sauntered towards us, the rest of the Henderson brood followed behind, flowing in and out of each other like so many escaped ferrets.
Spirit knew kids. It became clear, even to me, that she had put in her time. She loved to be brushed and petted. She loved having her one attribute, a luxurious silver tail that dragged the ground, combed, at least until I bent over to untangle the end. She lashed out, her cow kick a blur of motion I barely registered before I found myself on the ground, my thigh clutched between both hands and my teeth clenched against the building blocks of a fist sized hematoma. Bitch! Spirit sucked back and shook her head.
"She does that a lot," Junior said. The rest of the Henderson kids, who stair-stepped down from Jr. to about five-years-old, giggled and elbowed each other in the ribs. So much for John Wayne.
I crawled over to the fence, well out of Spirit's range and pulled myself up. An angry bruise was already covering my thigh. I was covered in dirt and manure, and the baby oil I had slathered on that morning guaranteed it was with me for the day.
The only way to redeem myself was to get her ridden. I grabbed my ring snaffle and held the bridle between her ears. She immediately squinched her eyes shut, stuck her nose out and opened her mouth wide. She wasn't about to get her teeth banged Yep, this was a short horse who had been bridled by a lot of kids.
I led her out to the field, shortened my inside rein to stop her from grazing and vaulted on.
Before I had loosened my rein or adjusted my seat, Spirit reared up and threw herself backwards. We crashed to the ground. When I landed, I banged my head hard and got the wind knocked clean out of me. It seemed in by best interest to lie still and think things over for a bit. Spirit got up and stood close, her piggy little eye looked directly into mine. She began to crop the grass, I continued to contemplate her eye. She was soft, relaxed, and I swear, amused.
"She does that a bunch too," Junior said.
I rolled my head to look at him, heard my neck pop, and knew this was going to hurt. Junior was standing a foot away, legs splayed, arms akimbo. The rest of the little bastards were laughing on the other side of the ditch. He didn't help me up.
