This Boy is a Ham Boy

I have thoughts building somewhere in back of my brain, but maybe it's nothing more than the bloat that comes from horse constipation, that irritating condition that results from having the itch but no opportunity to scratch. Yes, I was at the barn Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, but the absurd weather meant we worked with Dar only on Monday. I could have joined him for a good, stretching wallow in the rich, ooogy mud last night, but, well, who has the time?

Nevertheless, something has become clear to me. Men like my doofus. They seem to be drawn to his silly, earnest need for attention, his compact, cloddy bulk, and his demanding friendliness. And I think he likes it.

K's husband took these pictures last Sunday.

Here I am.

I am Dar.

I am very cute.

Lay it on with a trowel, buddy.

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.