Backblogged

This is my favorite picture of Mr. Tabby Man. Tab-Tab, a sweet, shlubby guy, died a few years ago. He was kneading me when I took this photo, which explains his stoned expression, but I also look this way tonight because somehow I came down with bronchial pneumonia during the summer and just got it diagnosed today. I only knew energy was draining out of me faster than I could store it and I was getting too good at hacking up chunks of blondish spackle. Ah, well.

None of that was enough to prevent me from going on a two-and-a-half-hour trail ride with K on Sunday morning. It was chilly, and rain spat through the wind from time to time, but it was so good to ride. I left Saxony alone over the weekend, not wanting to involve her with a less-than-present me, and rode Gambler while K rode Red Death. The ride didn't do my chest any good, but it did wonders for my head, so I broke even.

There I was practicing my sitting trot on little Gambler, whose peg-legged, steppy Arab trot demands a deep, relaxed seat and flexing, opening hips. I found my way to the elusive moment when those abstract concepts converged into a simple physical harmonic and I stayed there, again and again. You have that moment where you say I actually get it, I really actually understand it because you feel it.

It's a lifelong, ever-sustaining pursuit, riding, and rare for being one that's more fun along the way than not. That's how I feel about it, and that's what I talk about with friends who've never had horses in their lives. Then I gloat when I become an enabler.

Which is exactly what is happening here. A dear friend relaxes on Gambler, riding on the buckle, both of them enjoying a lovely stretch after a session on the lunge line. This was only the third time she'd ridden Gambler, but what seemed to have begun as a minor case of the 24-hour horse bug may have flared into ... full-blown horse pneumonia. Presenting symptoms include, but are not limited to, unrepentant grin, reluctance to dismount, and sudden use of the word "lease." I recognize the moment when someone discovers their love of riding, their love of horses, and I never tire of sharing it. I know what beginners don't yet realize, how that sense of discovery never leaves us when horses are in our lives, and how it can help us even in those parts of our lives that have nothing to do with horses.

Which makes me think of K and what's going on between her and Scout. I still had Dar when Scout passed her post-surgery-and-recovery soundness exam. With Dar in training then, and Scout long ago cast in the role of beloved nemesis, I could only nod silently when Dr. B said, smiling, "Put her back into regular work."

Dar played out as he did and then the high season of my job drew me into its four-month maw. Scout idled happily in the pasture and uneasily in the back of my mind. Until the day K asked to ride her. That was some 15 rides ago, and now I know "K" stands for Kismet.

Riding with them on Sunday, watching their growing connection, I continued to think about how they are matched, about how the right fears can sometimes dovetail with precisely the right horse in the best way imaginable for the horse and the rider. That's happening here, and I'll write about it when I've understood it well enough to explain what I mean. For now, it'll stay in my backblog, along with Saxony, thoughts about dressage, questions about endurance, and new steps to regaining confidence.

Six Long Months

Beautiful weather. I left work early to see the horses.

One thing has changed irrevocably in me since Scout's injury: my priorities. I won't allow less important things, less meaningful things, to push the horses into the background anymore. Keeping even one of them will require sacrifice and commitment, things I now realize I'm perfectly willing to accept. To work that hard for them means they deserve more of my time than the things that come easily.

When I pulled up to the barn today, Scout was lying down, her legs curled under her, catlike, in the sun and mud. She was basking, her eyes alert, her expression soft, completely relaxed. It's only the second time in the years I've owned her that I've seen her lying down.

The last time I was on a horse was in September 2009. I can't even believe that. But K told me I could ride Gambler whenever I wanted to. It means a lot to be trusted with another person's horse.

Gambler dozed in the cross ties while I spent 45 minutes peeling off some of his winter coat with a shedding block and brush. Eventually, a deep white pelt covered the ground around us. I love grooming horses, especially in springtime.

I tacked up Gambler and off we went. It was just a 30-minute ride, but I was also shedding. I left bits of frustration, pressure, tension and sadness behind me with every step. Gambler picked his way through the wet edge of the field. The sunlight, the stillness. Somewhere, a woodpecker jack-hammered a tree.

At the center of the south pasture, we rode serpentines and circles. I kept a light, steady contact, and deepened my seat, stretching tall.

Oh, I can remember how to ride.

Yuck

Don't you hate it when something as mundane and useless as the stomach flu keeps you from seeing your horses?

My alpha mare doesn't mind. She's still settling in at the pony club barn. Naturally, she picked a fight with her new paddock buddy 10 days ago and caught a kick on the left hock. Same old same old. But I am looking forward to getting back on her. It's been more than a month since I've ridden. When you love to ride, your body almost tells you when it's been too long. There's a kind of shadowy ache, like the horse is a phantom limb.

I was telling a friend last night how traveling back and forth between these two horses seems to lend me confidence with both. I forget the familiarity I have with her, but it comes back to me when I'm handling him. His youth casts her maturity in a calming light. She and I have our habits.

I take both of them out of their stalls, clip them in cross ties, and groom, talking, talking the whole time. Scout loves that drill, settles into it and sighs. Dar, on the other hand, is still a little unfamiliar with such direct attention. The first weeks, he kept his head high. Little by little, though, look. The draw bridge is lowering. It's true, you can begin to win a horse through simple touch.

Bringing Him Home

The jousters couldn't convince him to run toward another horse. This big boy, half Percheron, half Morab, steely dappled grey, looked the part but wouldn't play the part. A week ago, I wandered down to the pasture to see him. Last night, I moved him into a barn across the street.

Because I have decided to let go of the ever-vigilant alpha mare who I love, but with whom I cannot breathe.