Impossible Green

Someone who never before groomed a horse polished one of this pair.

Yesterday evening I was at the new barn for the first session of Horse Boot Camp 101, Muddy K style. My friend Tim has been cast in a film shooting in July, a wild, post-nuclear, apocalyptic Western of yet-to-be-revealed storyline. It seems that horses must have survived whatever calamity befell the country, however, because he'll be expected to ride in the film, something which he hasn't done since the proverbial mechanical pony circle of childhood. He asked me to teach him about horses. Twist my arm, why don't you? Longtime readers of my horse journal know I love sharing my horses with people, love it maybe more than any other thing I do.

My six-week boot camp is going to fun for Timmy, but not nearly so much fun as it's going to be for me. Sometimes you don't have a clue what you know until you're asked to share it. I'm curious to see where I run aground, hoping that I don't.

We started at the beginning: Here is a barn. In it is a horse. I combined basic anatomy study with a lesson in grooming. We began at the feet and ended at the face. As I showed him how to lift and pick a hoof, Tim also learned about the frog, bars, sole and heel, laminitis and founder. Then we groomed rough to fine, shedding blade to body brush, following the curves of the horse with discussion layovers at withers, croup, poll, eyes, nostrils, jaw. It was wonderful for Tim, wonderful for me, but wonderful most of all for Gambler, a once-muddy mess who went into an impossibly green pasture clean, bright and white.

The Gentleman Guest

On my way out to Scout's barn to do PM chores, I stopped first at Saxony's barn to see how she is wearing her new trim. Saxony was preoccupied. Something was going on. Something in blue.

An elderly gentleman guest arrived at the barn several weeks ago for a 30-day stay. He is three feet tall and quite partial to his blanket.

The gentleman guest can bank a fast curve with real finesse.

He was feeling remarkably youthful today, able-bodied and agile despite the wintry footing. His desire was that everybody join him.

 

Some consented, after a fashion, to the gentleman guest's special edict: Must play.

The gentleman guest displayed uncommon skill in managing the terrain, braking and accelerating according to the path of his trajectory. Others prudently made way for him.

 

He startled all curious onlookers.

Running around like a madman in his tiny blue blanket, the gentleman guest was full of joy, he was full of self.

And who could blame him? Not me. I wanted to kidnap him, him and his teeny-tiny feet.

Eff You, Blogger, But Thanks Anyway

Blogger ate the final paragraph of my last post, about three sentences' worth. Because fever also bends the mind, I don't remember the words precisely as I wrote them. I'll just try to assume for now that they were smart, incisive and confidence-building. Why not.

But I do read what I write, and, looking at that post today, I mined from it these two things:

   1 - All the other horses were outside and she was ticked off. 

   2 - Scout mindful that all the other horses were inside. 

The one was the catalyst of her blow-up, the other the keeper of her calm. And this started me wondering: If Scout got everything she wanted, would I be able to ride her no-drama confidently? What would that be like; I mean, what parameters would Scout set? Well, I'm just fever-warped enough to try thinking about it from her point of view...

Hi, Scout. Hey, pony. Let's go riding tonight.

I am busy happy being with the horses right now, thanks.

Come on. Just a short ride, nothing fancy (like we ever do fancy.)

Don't want to, but it's not like I hate you or anything. I love you, bringer of carrots. Say, could you pull those bits of ice off my whiskers?

We could both use the exercise, you know. 

Yes, you could. I see that. Well, you can ride me right here in the dry lot, then. It will be nice to walk along the fence. You can have your "ride" and I can monitor my herd. 

In here? I thought we'd ride to the south pasture, just over there.

Why would we you do that? I can't see the herd from there. I'll jig, you know, and scream out. I'll go spooky on your ass. I'll have to rush and brace. Here is best. We can even trot a little, k? I do like that bendy-stretchy thing you do. My neck gets heavy reaching down to eat all day.

(Sigh) 

So I'll keep noshing hay while you get the grooming box and the saddle and bridle. I love that grooming, by the way. K, an hour for grooming, 10 minutes tack up, and then food time at six means hey, we've got, like, eight minutes. Yay! Let's go riding! I'm so glad you asked.

( . . . )

( . . . )

And I'll go take my temperature now.

 

Squeal!

Saxony floated today.

I took a good, good friend to meet her this afternoon. We brought her into the barn for a once over. I picked out her feet and brushed away what little dirt she'd collected. For a horse who is outside as much as she is, unblanketed, munching hay all day and many nights in a large dry lot, she stays remarkably clean.

While I worked on her, she mugged shamelessly for treats from my friend. Someone gave me a bag of Gold Label German Horse Muffins for Christmas, and Saxony has lost her mind over the rich concoction of molasses, oats, sugar, beet pulp and who knows what else packed into the dark, dense muffins.

Though the cold was snapping at us, I decided to put Saxony on the longe line in the riding ring. The footing was packed hard under shallow snow and the ground was level. Saxony was ready to play. I sent her out on the end of the line, letting her set the pace, encouraging her to find her footing. Steps into the trot, she bucked and squealed, reared and twisted. I so wanted to let her go, but the fencing around the ring is too low to be sure of. I wouldn't want her to sail over it in an exuberant moment. 

And that's the word for it. She was exuberant today, snorting and prancing, high-tailing and peanut-rolling. Heading into one of the corners of the square riding ring, she lifted into a floating trot, beautifully rounded, natural and forward. "Wow," I heard from behind me. At first I thought it was an echo; it could have been, because I had thought it myself.

So, squeal. She squealed and I squealed. I realized in that moment how much I've worried about Saxony's diagnosis of arthritis, like it was the end of the world. But there's a horse under there, not just another problem. She was there, floating easily and happily through the bend. I caught myself in the act of making problems where they don't need to be by making them bigger than they are. We aren't destined for the Olympics, we're just destined for each other. I really enjoyed watching her playful antics for the rest of 10 little minutes on the longe line.

Afterward, we loaded her with muffins and turned her out. Leaving, I looked back and blew her a kiss. Somehow it was easy to imagine she returned the gesture.