Dar = To Give

They named this horse D'Artagnan. That's a great name for a joust horse or an adventurer, but not this boy. Who really is, I'm coming to understand, just a boy. "Dar," they called him, and so have I for the meantime. I looked it up tonight. It means "to give" in Spanish.

Names often come easily to me with animals. Cats have a way of announcing them. I hung my mare's name on her the day I met her; it was that plain to see.

Dar might be like a quasar, an energetic and distant galaxy. I see his energy coming up; I see his being holding back.

But we came far this week. As he begins to feel better, with steady food, regular deep grooming and necessary veterinary care, he's gaining strength. He has a long way to go, lots of muscle building, lots of flexing, lots of walking and trotting. But he's started. What feels as good as seeing an animal begin to bloom under good care?

Since the last post, we've advanced in our lunge work. Now Dar goes in a bridle and cavesson. Yesterday my wonderful trainer and I strapped a surcingle around his deep girth and suddenly my jouster transformed into a dappled circus pony. He likes the cavesson; it seems to make him feel secure. That's evident in his change of attitude. His ears stay active and often forward or swiveling toward me. He wears his mind, if not his heart, on his sleeve. He turns toward praise: "Who, me?" The cavesson keeps him light on his feet, light on the line. He works with less hesitancy, not so glum. He doesn't flee into a buck.

"Hello," he whiffles when I walk into the barn. "Hello, puppy," I say.

The Best Defense is A Good Offense

"That's fine, but keep moving forward," I told my boy. I think he's been in my care for three weeks tonight. I want him to leave the joust ring behind. I need to separate him from his past so I can see what he brought out of it and what he took in to it. We've been working on the lunge line. Walk, trot, halt. Stay out on the line; don't swoop in toward me, it's okay to just stand out there. Last Thursday night he reared, ears pinned in the resistance of forward. "Uh-huh. Move on," I said. Ears pinned, he obeyed. I watched the stiffness of his top line: his spine rises and straightens. Before long, he bucked. "Yeah, I get it," I said. "Tuh-rot!" And he did. His body language says no, but he obeys. I wondered then whether he was in pain. On Friday morning he colicked, nothing bad, but enough to depress him. I don't know him well enough to connect the events.

Sunday night, we returned to the lunge line. He was better, more relaxed, but I could see in him the question. I don't know yet if this big kid hates to work or learned to hate to work.

Tonight I asked him for a canter. He offered a silly power trot. "CAN-ter," I repeated. Almost, and a miss. Again. "Easy, easy." I brought him down to a steady trot. "CAN-ter!" He leapt into it, and then stayed there, circling out at the end of the line, fast in it until he tuned in to my voice. As soon as he leveled out, I brought him back to a trot. "Good boy. See? You're okay."

He understands praise; I don't know if he believes it, though. But already I get that I have to persuade him, and that's how both of us will accept possibility.

Joust Horses

I work at a renaissance faire, one of the largest in the country, one of the best. Every longstanding fair offers its guests the opportunity to watch a joust, a quartet of armored knights squaring off on horseback in dust and sunlight. The horses pound toward one another, breakaway lances shivering into splinters. A rider falls heavily, the instant calculated to thrill the crowd.

A joust horse is trained to a simple, one-dimensional skill: pivot and run. Armored riders sit deep, lean back, control the horse through neck reining and a bit of balance. There's no space between man and horse for subtleties like leg aids and seat aids. Leg armor makes that nearly impossible.

Joust horses must be trusting and indifferent at the same time. No two shows are exactly the same, but the routine never varies. Gallop. Pull up. Pivot. Gallop. Stand. Banners wave, crowds cheer, the sound system crackles. The horses wear caparisons, long, flowing trappings; some wear face armor. The challenges might undo an ordinary horse, but the joust horse accepts his work because that's what it is, his work. It has nothing to do with him.

To train a horse away from the joust, off of the joust, is to train him to be what he has never been: an ordinary horse. For my boy, only two months off the joust, "ordinary" doesn't yet exist.

Coming Back to Zero

I have had him for nine days. In that brief time, he's had his feet done, his teeth floated, a wolf tooth pulled, his mane and tail detangled, his sheath cleaned, vaccines injected, and a five-day course of deworming started. I need to bring him back to zero before we move forward.

He leans hard into the brush, eyes half closed. The cross ties were new to him, but he's learned that grooming feels good. My hands touch every inch of him, lift his feet, run along his spine and across his chest. I rub his ears, wipe his nostrils, flick the shedding block in short arcs through his curves. White hairs rain to the ground, rain over my black sweatshirt. He whiffles at my neck, rests his chin on my shoulder. This is the sweet time of convincing him that I will see him often, touch him often, speak to him often.

His eyes light up, his ears tip forward when I approach, but he hasn't yet spoken to me. I know he will, though. They almost always do, given enough time.

The Hurling Wind

We walked into the indoor arena tonight, the lead hanging loose in my hand, him with no name swinging his head softly from side to side. Another chance to inspect the corners, sniff the barrels, wonder about rolling.

Summer fell out of the sky overnight, leaving in its void wet wind and chill. The heavy mesh fly curtains heaved high in the doorways, lifting and slapping back: danger. He clenched his body, stiffening and staring. One step, another, and then another. He measured me and I measured him as we walked toward the wide doorway. A gust filled the fly curtain like a sail. He set his hooves and lifted in a single tremor, ears tipped, eyes wide, but he didn't leave the ground. I lost my breath for a second, seeing the drawn-up height of him in a flash: Can I really do this? We walked on, visiting each doorway, circling, stepping away, returning. Enough. Loose, big figure eights for ten minutes, a sigh, and back to the cross ties. Good boy.

It never occurred to him to wonder where the other horses were. That's a joy to me.

Released

Before I can re-home Scout, I have to get her in shape. A fallow summer has rounded and softened her. She spent the long days running her herd, browsing grass, keeping one half-interested eye trained on the business of the little farm. There were times when I saddled her, a sense of hope quietly there in me. Other days, I never went to the tack room. To ride or not ride depended on the strength and velocity of my dialogue with fear. Sometimes it also depended on a certain swish of her tail, an impatience in her eye as she strained to catch a glimpse of the herd.

Today, I had the ride I needed to have. I looked up at the sky when the familiar finger of tension scraped the length of my spine. Scout leaned into my hands, picking rigid steps. Just feet from the paddock, Keely ran and bucked, in heat and fretting along the fenceline.

Walk, trot, walk, circle, bend, walk. The minutes calm me. Scout stretches and blows. I see finally the one last inch to heaven that is all that is needed to link us to each other. But the metal to forge that final link is rare and beyond my skill to mine. Now that I know why she's not my horse and I'm not her person, I'm released.

Scout

Just like the girl in To Kill A Mockingbird, Scout is smart and curious. She's alert to the world, but sometimes too quick to flee it. Like me. Our tensions dovetailed beautifully early on. The hard life of a traveling horse had taken its toll on Scout: she learned how to say no; she learned how to look after herself. She was made when I got her, made and alone. It took me months to win her affection.

We grew, and we grew together, but we could not grow all the trust we both needed. Now, five years later, she still forgets me when she thinks of herself; that's just the way she's wired. Now, five years later, I see that I'm too old to be forgotten by the horse I'm riding. That's the way I'm wired.