Right to School

While the festival was winding down and I was wrangling my way through thousands of sunwashed, sometimes quite drunken revelers, my trainer continued to work with Saxony. She'd made one adjustment the same day I brought Saxony to the barn, sending me to buy a Baucher (bow-SHAY, at least that's my version) bit to replace the simple snaffle I'd been riding her in. I'm very curious to see how Saxony will go in the Baucher.

I'd told B pretty much everything I could think of about Saxony in the weeks prior to the move. It was an interesting recitation of facts and gaps. One of the things I told her about is how fussy Saxony is with her mouth during the bridling process. She offers much tonguing, yawning and rubbing as she settles the bit where she wants it, coupled then with producing sometimes copious amounts of drool during our rides. And I mean drool. It's not champagne, the fine white froth that sometimes results from the conversation between the hands of the rider and the mouth of the horse; it's just plain, clear drool. After having her examined by an equine dental specialist to rule out physical causes for her drooly fretfulness, I elected to wait until we were in training to make any changes to her tack. I don't know enough about bits and bitting to feel comfortable experimenting on my horse.

Because I trust my trainer, I went and bought the AlBaCon 5-1/4-inch Baucher she'd prescribed. This bit is made of German silver, with some copper added. B likes the Baucher for its steadiness in the horse's mouth. I'll see her ride Saxony in it on Thursday.

Meanwhile, B sent me a brief update during the weekend about what she was doing with Saxony, and it gave me a simple confidence boost in echoing some of what I already knew about her: "I rode her on Friday. She did very well. I can tell she's had some previous training. She was able to do both a shoulder in and haunches in at the walk. Her balance in the trot needs improvement, but I expect that to come quickly. She is weak in the canter, and needs to build her strength in the groundwork before we try cantering under saddle."

Naturally, I can't wait to get to the barn. Yes, I believe we'll come together, Saxony and I, and riding her will be wonderful, but right now nothing pleases me more to be learning about her. It's thrilling, completely thrilling.

Respect

When it comes to horses, what does it mean? I looked it up, but it wasn't until I reached the fourth use of "respect" as a noun that I found anything remotely applicable:  ...deference to a right, privilege, privileged position, or someone or something considered to have certain rights or privileges; proper acceptance or courtesy; acknowledgment.

But what, really, does any of that mean for a horse? I'm asking because I'm thinking about it.

The horse must respect the handler, the rider, stand for the farrier, stand for the vet... "Respect" is a human definition of a human value, something humans feel entitled to demand. I don't know if horses comprehend anything close to what we mean when we talk about respect. Perhaps they mirror something like respect in how they seem to manage herd dynamics. Perhaps it is "respect" that keeps one horse moving out of the way of another, but what if it is just fear? Perhaps it is "respect" that brings a horse to obey a rider, but what if it is just learned helplessness, the horse on auto-pilot, only and always seeking the path of least resistance?

The difference between fear and respect (and whether there is any) is what I'm chewing on right now. The topic of respect has recently appeared in some of the horse blogs I follow. It's also been a subject of sorts at the new barn and come up in regard to Scout. I don't have peace with this topic. That's because I haven't yet gripped it at a primal level, as though it were an impulse of instinct. Understanding things at the gut level is what makes them become bedrock for me, turns them into actual knowledge that I can apply. I'm not there with "respect" yet. Respect was nothing I grew up with, unless it lurked behind its heavier handed cousin, fear, so I don't have an inherent default setting in me that's about respect.

Stay out of my space, don't barge, don't bite, don't kick, stand quietly, lead calmly, listen to my aids, wait for my cues... I understand what people mean when they are speaking about the need for respect from their horses. I mean I understand the word. I didn't really have to look it up. Still, a word is just where we park an idea, a concept, or a notion; that's all. Communication begins as accord is reached, when the speaker and listener more or less agree on the meaning of a particular word. Accord can't really happen that way between a horse and its handler, can it? Not in so many words.

People will say that it happens in other ways. And it does; I know that. But the fine line is what I'm wondering about now. If "respect," for humans, is just fear managed and done up right, with civility and social grace, how is it any different for horses? Both constructs are about consequences, the whole respect-me-or-else thing. Obey me or else. My way or the highway. Right now I'm wondering what choice the horse ever has.

Another blogger, June, asked me the other day, "Well, what does Scout want?" What a tough question. I addressed it once before, here, but it was a joking kind of thing, even if  accurate. When I began to think about June's question, blam! I ran right into this "respect" question.

Finding Forward - Tim's Third Ride

Longer leg, straighter posture, loose shoulders - he's a quick study.

Wednesday evening, driving out to meet Tim for our fifth lesson, I found myself deciding two specific goals for his ride. If he could achieve both of them, I thought another goal might be met as well, especially if it could sort of be ponied, or led, silently between the other two. Sometimes the concert of action and reaction, give and take, aid and response between horse and rider can become overwhelming. It's easy to get lost trying to coordinate all the movements into the seemingly effortless symphony they are meant to be; it's a kind of turbocharged multitasking, I think. Plus you have to leave room for fun, appreciation, and constant awareness of your surroundings. Huh. How come riding is still the most relaxing thing in the world?

My first decision was to conduct the lesson in the outdoor arena. Though its surface is a little rough, it's much bigger than the round pen and would provide Tim an opportunity to ride in long, straight lines. My second decision was to introduce the concept of forward through addressing the leg aids. What I wanted to leave unspoken between those two decisions was the work we'd be doing to bring Tim further along in his use of the reins.

I set Tim to riding Saxony the full depth and breadth of the arena, starting by keeping her steady along the fence line. The size of the arena, coupled with its slight incline, presented a useful new perspective for Tim. He quickly discovered how long Saxony's stride is compared to Gambler's. She covers ground. Walking alongside at a distance of 15 feet, I casually asked him to move her off the rail and toward me by opening the inside rein and laying on his outside leg. Saxony moved in. We settled into an exercise of serpentines, in to the rail, then out from the rail, six strides per change. Eventually I walked a much smaller oval at the center of the arena while Tim rode serpentines along the perimeter.

It was hot, and Saxony was sluggish in her walk. Poor thing, I exploited her laziness to teach my thespian student about finding forward. I asked Tim to take up the reins a little bit and lengthen his legs against Saxony's sides. Her ears tuned in right away. "Just think forward, Tim, and squeeze your calves against her. You're just picking her up and sending her on." We practiced it again and again until Tim could hold Saxony in a good working walk, even catching her before she started to settle back. It was a good, long lesson, culminating in Saxony chewing and blowing out. That right there, her chewing and sighing, spoke to how well Tim had used the reins. He'd kept a light, even contact with Saxony through most of the lesson because it's not what he'd been focused on, not at all. We weren't talking about the rein aids, we were using them. Just like that, he's begun to find the touch.

Tim's Second Ride - Reins For Conversation

Yesterday I opted to put Tim on Saxony, who's a better size for him and doesn't need the urging to move that Gambler sometimes requires, especially when a beginner is riding him. I didn't want my thespian student distracted by constantly having to push Gambler forward, and I was also curious to see how Saxony would do as a "school" horse.

One of the (embarrassing to confess) things I knew nothing about when I returned to riding was the indirect, or outside, rein. When taking English riding lessons in my late teens and early 20s, my instructors taught me plain steering by direct rein, simply bending the horse's head in the direction you wanted to go. It's a wonder my hands remained light.

Inside leg to outside rein to help contain, shape and direct the energy of the horse while moving forward, on a circle or not.  That's what I was thinking about while I warmed Saxony up, bending her through figure eights, turning her on the haunches, turning her on the forehand. I wanted Tim to learn about it if only because I hadn't.

I'd already explained to Tim that horses are ridden from the seat and the legs to the reins, not the other way around. The concept of "seat" is daunting for a newcomer, I think, and leg aids can be as well, but almost everybody has seen reins in use with a horse and it's natural to think their function is obvious. It's not, and that's why I elected to begin with the rein aids. "There are two reins and both are used to converse with the horse," I told Tim. It makes sense to say it in so few words, but teaching it in a way that enables a beginner to feel the actual mechanics of it takes some thought.

I won't, but I could stop walking, couldn't I?

This picture is not illustrative of what I'm talking about, I just love the sly look in Saxony's eye. She proved herself to be a perfectly adequate school horse for a beginner, with all that that entails, including making fun of her rider by feigning ignorance from time to time.

I know I'm lucky to be helping someone who is so willing and excited to learn about horses and riding. Because I'm not an advanced rider (I'm really thin on canter work), I can only give Tim what comes from my experience, and from the holes in it as well. My struggles with confidence keep me wanting him to always feel safe and open. That's why I put Tim in shorter stirrups, to give him a sense of security in our early going.

After Tim was aboard Saxony, we walked a couple laps of the round pen. As we walked, I asked him to tell me how he felt Saxony differed from Gambler. We talked about her height, her stride, her swinging back and long, low headset, all very different from what he'd experienced aboard Gambler, a shortbacked, upright little Arab, dawdler or not.

Then we spent a half hour working on the rein aids. We began with contact and how to find and maintain it softly, so softly, and consistently. To get there meant Tim learning to take up the reins and learning to release them, sometimes just in the fingertips, sometimes through the wrists and up fluid arms. Saxony likes to look at her environment, and the movement of her head and neck created a natural opportunity for Tim to learn about following hands. He did really well, and I enjoyed seeing him comprehend how little pressure is required to stay connected to the horse. 

Once I felt Tim had begun to find a sense of the reins, I asked him to bring Saxony in off the fence and cross to the other side of the round pen. I pointed out a specific route. Focused on following my instructions, he spoke to Saxony through the reins, and even with his body, but he didn't notice because he was concentrating so intently on the route. It's wonderful what can be taught when the student isn't looking.

We worked on simple changes of direction in wide, gentle turns. We worked on halting and walking, walking and halting, worked on opening the inside rein, worked on maintaining the outside rein. There's a light that comes into a person's eyes when suddenly they understand something in their own way, after just a little guidance and practice. That's what I saw happen for Tim when Saxony began gently chewing in the bridle. Their conversation had begun.

Remember Slam Books?

When I was in junior high school, there was the thing called a Slam Book. Someone would grab a blank notebook, tear out half the pages, and then write a question at the top of each of the remaining pages. The notebook would be passed around and anyone who got it had to write answers to the questions. Kind of like what goes on below.

First, the setup. I had my reasons for starting this blog, one of which appears here, but it was, and is, just a journal to me. The fear I felt of my mare, Scout, was deeply troubling to me, so I wrote about it. It's harder for me to buy into self-serving, evasive personal mythologies when I'm confronted by them in black and white the next morning.

The writer Henry Miller once said, (loosely paraphrased), If you write for an audience, you'll never write the truth. So I didn't, and I haven't. But it did occur to me that there were other horse owners out there who could be struggling with confidence. I thought maybe they could help me. They have.

Four different bloggers in the ether decided to give me an award. I'm not sure what to say about that, so I'll just assume Denali's Mom, On The Bit, Dock Start, and A Process of Learning have found something useful in my journal. If so, I think that's wonderful.

This little award (which I put on my sidebar) comes with caveats, however. I've already taken care of the first, which was to thank and link back to the person(s) who gave me the award. The second is to offer up seven things about myself:

1. Seven is actually my favorite number.
2. I will never be able reconcile myself to being called "Ma'am" for the rest of my life.
3. I value being an adult because no one can make me eat anything I don't want to. 
4. I knew even as a young girl that I never wanted children.
5. My idea of hell is to be trapped for all eternity in a public women's bathroom.
6. People think I'm strong and outgoing. I'm not. I just know that the best defense is a good offense.
7. I'm still missing my calling.

The third directive was to bestow the same award on 15 newly discovered bloggers. My list is shorter because some I would have passed it on to have already received it.

Two Horses - After reading one post just last week, I went back to the beginning and read all of this well-written and insightful blog. Don't be too jealous of her life, it's hard work.

Sofie Learns Dressage - I've enjoyed following this young writer's journey as she attempts to persuade her cranky $750 former trail horse that she too can learn to love dressage.

My Life With Rescued Horses - Jay's strong love of horses and his belief that all of them have something to offer are enchanting.

Confessions of A Struggling Dressage Rider - She's candid, often funny, and always helpful. I love the role unvarnished truth plays in how she describes her rides. She offered the best advice for achieving a workable sitting trot I've ever heard. I tried it, and she was right. It worked.

Solitaire Mare - The blog is really called A Good Horse, but this is how I think of her. I like her bluntness as she writes her way through some really rough turns and searches for the new horse she will surely find.

Hoofbeats for Heartbeats - This blog used to be called K is For Kiki. I've found much to compare in her story of working with one of those "chestnut mare" types and I admire her for her guts.

Equine Insanity - A recent discovery, I find this a rich blog to mine, really well written. She takes the time to capture her thoughts in depth. I'm willing to read a three-page post, no problem.

I recommend all of these blogs for anyone committed to deepening their relationship with horses -- and with people, for that matter. The fears I face with my horses must always live in me, musn't they? It's just that horses expose and touch them quicker than humans ever can.

Too Much Information, Not Enough Knowledge

At the little barn of paradise, we've been searching for a new farrier since this time last year. I've given up one horse (Dar) and acquired another (Saxony), and still the quest for a farrier has dragged on. We met a new farrier on Sunday. He stopped to look at Saxony first, who's just down the road. I led her in the barn, money in hand, and told him about her arthritis diagnosis, assuming it was pertinent information. He startled me by telling to me to keep my money so I could apply it toward the cost of shoes in front for her. Shoes, rim pads and drill tack, to be precise.

I've never owned a horse who needed shoes, ever. It's not a problem for me to learn about it; I'm always forward leaning when it comes to understanding my horses and their needs. What threw me about this, though, is the skull-press of conflicting opinions. It's one of the hardest parts of owning a horse, I think. I only ever want to do what's right for my horses, but how can I know what that is when my skill-set is not infinite?

Backstory. I had a prepurchase exam done on Saxony. The vet who handled it detected something in Saxony's right rear pastern during the flex tests. She attributed it to a touch of arthritis. Nevertheless, I moved on and bought the sweet, sane girl. Several weeks ago my regular vet met Saxony, something I wrote about here.

During that visit, Dr. B mentioned that Saxony was slightly offset in her front left leg and that she paddled a bit. "Offset" and "paddling" were words new to me in the context of horses. Naturally, I pulped my brain to mush doing way too many internet searches in the following days, where wildly divergent opinions ranged from rendering plant prospect to Grand Prix Dressage candidate.

Information: 1, Education: 0

Here comes this new farrier, then, who bluntly informs me that Saxony needs shoes up front, that she may not have arthritis at all. And he seems to know his stuff, if only because I don't know his stuff.

Information: 2, Education: 0 

All of it started me hamster-wheeling to the enth degree, swinging dizzily from I bought a lemon! to There's nothing this mare can't do!  Yikes. I made some calls. The first was to another farrier, one who'd trimmed Saxony for her previous owner. I was hoping he'd give me a second opinion. "There's nothing wrong with that mare," he said. "No horse is perfect." I know that. I completely do know that. What I want is to not do anything to hurt Saxony or worsen her "condition," if she has one.

Information: 3, Education: 0 

I called my vet and told her about the shoe-happy farrier. I told her about the other farrier. I jabbered about winging and paddling and defect and floating the heel. She was very kind to me. That's why we pay them the big bucks. "Let's take some X-rays and see what's there," she said. Bingo. I'd rather spend my money on education than a bottle of Loon-A-Way.

Crossing Another Bridge (Behind Me)

The fleeting lucky days before winter's assault... I went out to the barn this morning with a friend visiting from out of state. The still air was soft with mist, the sky low and grey. It seemed a waste not to ride; I could count in my mind's eye the few remaining days like this.

We saddled Gambler and Scout, the only horses we had to ride. My friend is just learning horses, so I relied upon Gambler to take care of her. Saxony boards at another barn, so it would have to be Scout for me. My Scout, my little Red Death, the mare I don't ride anymore. I'd mostly crossed that bridge and not looked back, and hadn't been on her since early summer. K had been riding her since then, and she found keys to Scout that I never had. I experienced some of the changes in Scout as she stood quietly for the grooming and tack-up. No screaming, no stepping against the cross-ties, no wild eyes. That's the result of time under the hands of a rider whose confidences and fears are opposite those of Scout instead of exactly the same, like mine.

I just wanted to ride with my friend. There wasn't time to hoist my baggage up onto Scout. We led the horses to the grass arena, mounted and rode. It was peaceful, quiet, and immensely enjoyable. No matter all the things that I decided long ago are irreconcilable between me and Scout, there is always the familiarity that springs up between us. It was there today, along with something new. I wasn't tense on her. She spooked at some figment or other and I went with her instead of fighting her from my usual position of fearful lockdown. K's hard work with her has made her a better horse, a safer horse, and I could feel it. I also wasn't asking about any of that, though, while I rode. The anticipations I used to carry into every ride with Scout just weren't there. I think it's because of Saxony, I think it's because of Dar, I think it's because of barn chores, I think it's because of standing in the dark with an injured horse. A crust of experience has begun to accumulate after untold hours spent in the company of horses, and maybe my psychic skin just isn't as thin anymore.

My friend rode little Gambler all around the arena as I took Scout through some gymnastics, bending and stretching her through relaxed figures. I had to think when was it that I last rode her, but even then, it didn't matter. Ride the horse you have today. Today, for me, that horse was Scout. It was small, it was brief, it was simple, and I loved it.

Playing the Work

I've met many horse owners who talk about all the training their horse needs, the work on this, work on that...

(I love this runaway frosting slipping down Saxony's left front leg. I keep finding more Oreo goodness in my mare.)


So lately I've been thinking about whether the "problem-solvingness" part of having a horse consciously (or not) factors into our decision to own one. I think it might play more of a role than we realize, since working with the horse, training the horse, striving to better the horse consists of interacting with the horse, or "communicating." Communication is a primary tool that enables humans to feel connected to others. It's also a two-way street. After infancy, humans quickly learn to speak, but horses don't have that particular tool. I sometimes wonder if, given a chance to hang out and chat with my mares, I'd be able to handle what they said. From my perspective, I'm a good horse owner committed to providing my horses with the best care I can afford. I expect myself to be fair with them at all times. I ride kindly and quietly, despite my nerves. But what about their perspective? Do they know me? Do they think I know them? Do they even care, beyond the comfort they find in routine and familiarity? No matter what I do with them, no matter how much they bloom, they are still separate beings. And what if they were perfect? What would our relationship be then, with nothing left to teach? I suspect the horse can just "be," but that skill often eludes humans.

One of the things I have always made a point to do with my horses is play with them, just go and play together. I don't include riding in that, though I think a nice ride can be fun for both horse and rider. Scout and I devised a chase game early on. I'd stand in the center of the indoor arena, turn Scout loose and challenge her to get past me on the rail, positioning my body as if to cut her off. She delighted in the race every time, blowing by, tail flagged high, snorting. After a few minutes of this, I'd pretend to "lose" her, and go wandering around the arena calling her name. I honestly think she loved sneaking up behind me to bump her nose into my back. Playing seemed to bond us quickly, and I wonder if it was because we enjoyed playing together so much. I know I completely lost myself in playing with her.

Dar had a deep curiosity about tools, vehicles, objects of all kinds. I played with him by offering him things. I'd be using a strainer to sift out hay bits and leaves from the water troughs and I'd splash a little water on his face. He became silly with glee over this. Sometimes I'd lift the dripping strainer and cup his muzzle in it; other times I'd rub it up and down his face. I did a lot of laughing because his responses were so comical and eager. Just like with Scout, I'd forget myself and become completely engaged with Dar and our playing.

I also give nose baths to my horses, and this is the first way I've begun to play with Saxony. My nose bath consists of deep-cleaning the nostrils with non-toxic baby wipes. I add massage along the way, wringing out the edges of the nostrils between my fingers (something along the lines of Linda Tellington's TTouch.) I don't think Saxony ever had a nose bath before I began doing it with her, but now she almost whores herself in pursuit of it. She's ticklish, and what she seeks from the nose bath is the moment when I start to tickle her. She just craves that tickling. It's ridiculous how much time can pass while we do this.

I file this under being with the horse and hoping the horse will be with me. Not to take away from the beautiful achievements that result from harmony between horse and rider, but to remind myself that what exists between us before and after the "work" is what led me to horses in the first place.

Things He Started in Me

The fact of him, I mean. The facts. Eleven months of Dar, with Dar. I don't have him anymore, but he is an engine that started something in me.

I was dumbfounded by the ripping sense of loss I felt when I returned him to the jousters and then dumbfounded again by my grief the first time I saw him carrying Jack on his back. Soon, though, the demands of the festival left me scant time for mourning, though I was, though I did. Through my busy, helter-skelter days there he was, there he's been, there he went, a sometimes hazy, sometimes toxic blend of remembering and imagining. I kept putting it off for the work at hand, but he was always there, somewhere below the surface. But underneath it all, I couldn't see how he caused me to grow; I just wasn't looking there.

I knew this horse. I know that now. I knew he needed to fight it out with himself. Maybe he'll get that chance one day, maybe he won't. But I can live with wondering what he could have been because I know only practical things stood between us in the end, not a lack of willingness. I couldn't have afforded the facility, the time, or the trainer to help me answer the question of his nature as clearly as I wanted. I really wanted that answer, I really did. I didn't get it, and that's how it worked out.

These days, I watch with interest when I see Jack out and about aboard Dar. I see that Dar is just fine because he's boss of that kid, doing him a favor carrying him through sloppy, unkempt rides. Dar knows that world; it's where he came from. He can be lazy there, he can say no. He goes in a side pull knowing full well he can duck and buck anytime he likes. Disconnecting him from contact does him no favors at all. He'll lose most of the progress we made with him, but I'll never lose the progress I made because of him.

There were those 11 months, and amid them all the things you don't pay attention to in service of the things you have to pay attention to. I had an injured mare facing a long recovery. I had Dar, underweight and overdue for good basic care. It was triage more than anything, building him up while I tried to settle her down. You work on manners and never notice how easily you engage the radar that enables you to move around a horse safely. You back a pushy horse out of your space and never think of how simple it was to do. You train "Don't ever show me your teeth again" and forget about having done it because you never had to train it again. Endless instants that became as commonplace as breathing accumulated into knowledge and understanding. I have more confidence than I did the day before I got him, and now I'm ready for more.

The More They Stay the Same...

...the more they change. I got Scout in September of 2004. I was given bits and pieces of information about her, most of which proved to be inaccurate the more I came to know her. I was told she was a monster for vaccines. Not. I was told she was used on a ranch and her owner had no problem tying a rope to the saddle horn and dragging a gate behind her. No. That could never have been done with Scout. She would have lost her mind. Or maybe it did happen and she did lose her mind.

I was told she might be a little herd bound. I wish. She's a lot herd bound.

I was also told she was an alpha mare. There was no reason to doubt it, based on what I saw. Until now. I grew so used to seeing Scout in that role, I'm still stunned at how easily she surrendered it. Dar is boss. They've been on turnout together since Sunday. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep expecting Scout to take over. Maybe she will, but with each day that passes, it seems less likely. No blood has been drawn, no marks left by either of them. Scout pines for Keely, but otherwise there's no drama.

But Dar is boss. And that's another thing altogether.

The Manager in the Mist

Today was filled with a most penetrating, gravity-defying sort of rain. Water hung in the air, condensing into swollen drops that seemed to resist falling to earth. Cleaning stalls late this afternoon, every time I dumped the muck buckets I returned to the barn wetter, without ever actually being rained on. I was raking new shavings into Dar's stall when I heard squealing. I pulled the muck cart up to the dumpster and then opened the passenger door of the Pathfinder. I sat sideways on the seat, my feet on the ground. Somewhat sheltered, but surrounded by an unsubtle, oozing mist, I watched the horses.

Those guys were in a bad mood today. Perhaps they were fussy in their sheets, or maybe just tired of two days of rain and wind, but high action unfolded before my eyes. Keely monster reared high, menacing girlish Molly on the other side of the fence. Sam snaked his cribby nose at Dar. Dar pinned his ears and pawed his gate, shivering it in metallic blows.

Through the murk, I made out Scout standing quiet, her head high, her face watchful. Bored of Molly, Keely backed her rump into Dar's gate. He began to nibble at her sheet. Keely bucked and squealed, then rocked her rump into the gate again. Dar paced and pawed. Sullen, Keely cranked him up more. Boom, boom. She pressed her rump into the gate. Dar pushed back. The squeals intensified. Sam and Molly had words of their own, adding drama to the scene.

All done now. I could see the decision happen in Scout. Firmly, with purpose in her stride, she crossed the paddock and sent Keely to stand in a corner. All it took was one look. Then she settled herself next to Dar's gate, standing just out of reach of him. She looked anywhere but at him, waiting. He tried pressing toward her while she stood seemingly oblivious to his efforts. Finally, he relaxed into futility, and began to turn away. Scout's a canny, calculating mare. She chose precisely that moment to stun Dar with a well-timed lunge, snapping her teeth with a ferocity that truly surprised him. Game over.

Things you see, witness, that can be described so briefly, but reveal so much. Horses.

Sharing the Thing That They Are

When I was a teenager, hurtling around on my crazy, bolting pinto mare, I never thought of this: It's a wonderful thing to introduce a horse to someone who's never been near one.

When I got Scout five years ago, I wanted to show her to everybody in my life. None of my friends knew me during my previous horse life. Whole lives had long since come and gone in me. If my life hadn't been so remote back then, so separated from whatever horse community might have been around, I might never have left horses behind. But my friends came after all of that; it couldn't mean anything to them.

With Scout, the awareness of the amazing thing that it is to have a horse returned to me in an instant. I was decades older, and still completely captivated by it. A piece of me that I'd left lying dormant for 25 years was reanimated, a piece that I could never take out and show to the people in my life. Missing its catalyst,the horse, it was little but a story to tell.

How wonderful is it to teach a person how to safely give a horse a carrot, or lead a horse around an indoor arena, or hand graze a horse? How wonderful is it to show someone how to brush a horse, or give a horse a bath? It's that wonderful; it's so wonderful. I've felt the joy of seeing someone realize that, for all their size, horses are social animals, inquisitive and friendly, quick to attach themselves to people. I've seen friends take pride in haltering a horse, moving a horse out of their way, walking a freshly-bathed horse in slow circles under the warm sun. Wonderful. I know it's the horse, but it makes me feel like I have something to offer.

They speak for themselves, horses, and so many people never have the chance to hear what they say. I have loved bringing my friends close to the horses, because I still know exactly how it feels to learn these magnificent animals; I experience it every time I am with them.