When I wrote the last post about playing with Breyer horses, I remember how one of the most important criteria for whether or not a model horse got a lot of play time, was how well it could "canter". If the horse had the right configuration it could easily be held and rocked from hind legs to front legs as it cantered across the floor. Ginger, from the Black Beauty set, was probably the all time best cantering Breyer horse.
Raffles is my Ginger. He has a super easy canter that can collect and lengthen and is easy to sit. He has a big stride but it is effortless. He doesn't lurch. Ivy had a lovely canter also. One lady who rode her in lessons said "You could ride Ivy's canter and do your nails at the same time.". Ivy and I cantered almost every where we went in our younger days. While Raffles and Ivy are both good cantering horses, of the two, Ivy was definitely the faster one. She could gallop! She'd stretch out and get real low to the ground (at 14.2, she didn't have far to go) and tear across the fields or down the dirt roads with very little urging on my part. Raffles likes to think he's fast, but he's too chicken to go full out. In order to get him to gallop, I have to have someone riding in front of him so that he has someone to follow. He'll go just as fast as the other horse, but no faster. Ivy would get in front in stay there.
I've always loved to canter. In photos of my early riding lessons, there are pictures of me cantering around with my toes turned right out, like wings, on the wrong lead but with a giant grin plastered on my face. Years later, after riding hundreds of horses at the canter, it's still fun. What's even more fun than an all out gallop, is that moment when a green horse finds its balance and canters easily under saddle for the first time. The initial canter attempts are not for the faint of heart. There is little steering, lots of leaning around turns and not a lot of speed control. It's just a process though, and with patience and guidance, the green horses get the idea very quickly.
Riding Image yesterday, I had one of those moments when he got it, and the canter was balanced. He had self-carriage and I had steering and speed control. Moments like that are what I strive for and to get one is always an affirmation of the worth of Dressage training. Normally, Image canters like a runaway Greyhound bus. Not because he wants to, but just because he is big so he has miles of legs to organize, and he's a little goofy. During his ride yesterday, when I was actually trying to get something else, I got collected canter. It was lovely, easy and light and controllable. I don't know that I could have done my nails, but it was certainly a nice ride.
Earlier in the day, I had ridden Alex. Alex is much greener than Image and much less athletically gifted. When Alex canters, it's like riding a pogo stick down a steep hill. Alex is built a little downhill so it is harder work for him to have a balanced canter. He's trying and getting better, but anyone trying to do their nails is going to need buckets of nail polish remover.
Another horse I've been working with has a terrible time organizing herself into the canter. Venus is an ex-harness racer who was a pacer. She now has a beautiful trot but has not been able to do a true, 3-beat continuous canter under saddle or on the longe line. It is absolutely a complete myth that Standardbreds can not canter. All of the other Standardbreds I have ever ridden have cantered quite nicely. Standardbreds are not genetically inclined to have a good quality canter, but they are capable. Except Venus. She has cantered nicely in the paddock so I know it is possible for her, but after several years of work, she has yet to canter more than 5 strides in a row under saddle. And that was only once that she got 5. She has 4th level Dressage trot work, but does not have a canter. Or at least, not a recognizable one. She thinks she is cantering and she thinks she is doing a terrific job of it. She expresses absolute joy and satisfaction with her performance. "Look how well I am cantering!", she says as she flies like a manic eggbeater around the ring. Her front legs are cantering. The hind legs are doing their own thing. They aren't even both doing the same thing. Sometimes, her hind legs are pacing or trotting, but most often, one leg is going like a piston while the other leg occasionally gets left behind and hangs in mid-air for an extra stride. It's completely ridiculous to watch but the feeling of earnest concentration she exhibits makes it (almost) impossible to laugh at her.
Venus has been able to gallop successfully, but I have not been able to help her organize herself for a canter. I have tried every method and combination of aids to try and help her, but she still goes skipping and churning and being fantastically proud of herself. "My goodness,", she snorts after cantering practice, "that was quite a good job wasn't it? I went very fast and did not fall over or anything! I'm pretty sure that was my best job yet."
Venus may never find a true canter but she is loved by her person just the same. Not every horse will have a nail-doing canter just as not every person can be a champion gymnast or a brilliant artist or a perfect-pitch singer. But we are all loved just the same.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
It All Started With One Palomino
Even as a child, I was obsessed with horses. My bookshelf was filled with Marguerite Henry, Walter Farley and other horsey authors. My bed was buried beneath plush ponies, and my toy box (when I actually put toys in it) contained my collections of small plastic horses, medium sized flocked toy horses, Barbie's big horses, a green truck and horse trailer, and My Little Ponies among other things. The gigantic dollhouse my grandmother made for me became a stable at one point. There was an almost Shetland Pony sized ride-on plastic horse (named Ginger) in my room. Even stuff that wasn't a horse, became a horse once I got my hands on it. The marbles that I played with at the neighbor's house became a herd of wild horses and my bike was a horse. When I wasn't playing with horses, I was being a horse, and would trot around tossing my mane, whinnying and snorting.
On one birthday, my cake topper was a palomino rearing horse, my first Breyer horse. This palomino quickly became a favorite due to his life-likeness but his rearing stance made him difficult to play with. If he was tipped on to all fours, he did make a plausible race horse but the fragility of the angle of his legs caused him to have an early retirement and even the application of prosthetics. That little horse was the start of a collection, a portion of which I still own.
The Palomino was soon followed by a trio that I got for Christmas one year. There was a Clydesdale Stallion, a bay mare and a Shetland Pony. The three bays were deemed a family, even though I knew at that early age that ponies were not babies (but one can pretend) and were dubbed Prince, Lightning and Sugar. Each of them came in a cardboard box and inside the box was a fold-out pamphlet with pictures of all of the available Breyer horses. I was immediately hooked and pored over those pamphlets for hours.
My neighbor got some Breyer horses as gifts too, so I would go to her house with my little herd and we could play all day in the hallway upstairs in her house or in her living room on the braided rug. The braided rug made an excellent race track but it was hard to get the horses to stand up when they weren't racing. The hallway was unfinished plywood so it was better for keeping the herd on their feet and had great acoustics for the plastic-y hoof beats.
As my collection grew, I had to move up to carrying them to the neighbor's house in a laundry basket. I'd lug my horses, all tumbled together, across the yards to play. Our play horses most often became wild horses or domestic horses that escaped to become wild. We divided them up into families and each of the horses had a name and personality. Soon, my cousin got involved with Breyer horses and then the two of us spent almost every moment together playing with them. At sleepovers we'd play until my Dad would finally bang on the door and growl "Stop clomping those horses and go to bed!"
Clomp them, we certainly did. They raced and fought, escaped from barns and wild horse hunters with helicopters, and had grand adventures. Not without some casualties though. There were occasional broken legs with different versions of repair (everything from Scotch tape, to Super-Glue) a few broken ear tips and tails, but most of the damage came from rubs. The paint on the horses rubbed off on prominent places and the white plastic showed through. The rubbing occurred from the clashes of fighting, and travel damage (laundry baskets have no airbags) and hoof wear and tear from so much galloping and clomping.
As I got older and became responsible for buying my own additions to the collection, I also became more conscious of the care of the horses. When traveling, they were now wrapped in clothes in my suitcase or laundry basket to protect them slightly. They no longer fought with such vigor or raced with such abandon. I experimented with making tack to domesticate them more and with repainting battle-scarred horses. The collecting became more of the thrill than the play. I still named each and every horse and categorized them by breeds, colors, families, sizes, and alphabetically by name. The names became more glamorous and the horses each had "show names" and "barn names". Prince, Lightning and Sugar gave way to Springfield Fox (Foxy), PK Paco Boy (Paco) and Whispering Pines' Tipperary (Tippy). Some of the names were in jest (Zip It Kid and Little Brown Colt), some were named after real horses I knew (Impressive Chief, Tapeka), people I thought worthy (Andy's Birthday Girl, Justa Summer Squash) or in honor of fun events or special occasions (GP Says Sell It, Rum Tum Tugger) and then there were the ones I got as Christmas gifts that I gave holiday themed names (Yukon Cornelius, Stocking Stuffer, Christmas Fawn, Little St. Nick, Blitzen, Gabriel, King Wencelus...). Another good friend, who also collected Breyer horses, would even let me name some of hers.
Naming them became half the thrill of the collecting and I began keeping a notebook of potential names. To keep myself awake during class in school or long drives, I would either come up with new names or try to list all of my horses. As I approached the triple digit numbers for the herd, that became quite a feat. Soon, I had to resort to tags to keep all of their names straight. The ones that were major characters (Mikal Midnight, Lady Phase, Little Gal...) during play were never forgotten, but some of the newer ones that I acquired during adulthood and spent their days on the shelf, I was a bit fuzzy on. Shamefully, I would have to peek at their hang tags when I couldn't recall the name.
During my childhood, some of those horses seemed as real to me as any flesh and blood horse. I could see them cantering across a meadow, walking about with the wind in their manes, mares patiently watching the colts and fillies play, and I could swear that their black-painted eyes twinkled with life. For a while I was satisfied with the collecting. My motto was "It's not a matter of having too many horses, it's a matter of not having enough shelves." Then there came a shift, as it states in a diary I kept at about 5th grade, "I would trade all of my Breyer horses for one real horse!". Now, I have a stable full of real horses and my poor neglected Breyer horses, what is left of more than 300 models at one time, sit on their shelves gathering dust. Every once in a while, I take them down and dust them off and rearrange them (so they get to have new neighbors) but mostly they just stand as reminders of a time when possibilities were endless and I was only limited by imagination.
My notebook of horse names still exists, I have about 100 Breyer horses left after giving some away and selling others, but my days of clomping horses around on the floor are long gone. Now I spend my days with my real horses trying to teach them how to not clomp around, fight or race. My real horses are messier, more expensive, and much more trouble than my plastic herd. There is no way, however, that I would ever trade my real horses for 1, or 300, or all of the Breyer horses in the world.
On one birthday, my cake topper was a palomino rearing horse, my first Breyer horse. This palomino quickly became a favorite due to his life-likeness but his rearing stance made him difficult to play with. If he was tipped on to all fours, he did make a plausible race horse but the fragility of the angle of his legs caused him to have an early retirement and even the application of prosthetics. That little horse was the start of a collection, a portion of which I still own.
The Palomino was soon followed by a trio that I got for Christmas one year. There was a Clydesdale Stallion, a bay mare and a Shetland Pony. The three bays were deemed a family, even though I knew at that early age that ponies were not babies (but one can pretend) and were dubbed Prince, Lightning and Sugar. Each of them came in a cardboard box and inside the box was a fold-out pamphlet with pictures of all of the available Breyer horses. I was immediately hooked and pored over those pamphlets for hours.
My neighbor got some Breyer horses as gifts too, so I would go to her house with my little herd and we could play all day in the hallway upstairs in her house or in her living room on the braided rug. The braided rug made an excellent race track but it was hard to get the horses to stand up when they weren't racing. The hallway was unfinished plywood so it was better for keeping the herd on their feet and had great acoustics for the plastic-y hoof beats.
As my collection grew, I had to move up to carrying them to the neighbor's house in a laundry basket. I'd lug my horses, all tumbled together, across the yards to play. Our play horses most often became wild horses or domestic horses that escaped to become wild. We divided them up into families and each of the horses had a name and personality. Soon, my cousin got involved with Breyer horses and then the two of us spent almost every moment together playing with them. At sleepovers we'd play until my Dad would finally bang on the door and growl "Stop clomping those horses and go to bed!"
Clomp them, we certainly did. They raced and fought, escaped from barns and wild horse hunters with helicopters, and had grand adventures. Not without some casualties though. There were occasional broken legs with different versions of repair (everything from Scotch tape, to Super-Glue) a few broken ear tips and tails, but most of the damage came from rubs. The paint on the horses rubbed off on prominent places and the white plastic showed through. The rubbing occurred from the clashes of fighting, and travel damage (laundry baskets have no airbags) and hoof wear and tear from so much galloping and clomping.
As I got older and became responsible for buying my own additions to the collection, I also became more conscious of the care of the horses. When traveling, they were now wrapped in clothes in my suitcase or laundry basket to protect them slightly. They no longer fought with such vigor or raced with such abandon. I experimented with making tack to domesticate them more and with repainting battle-scarred horses. The collecting became more of the thrill than the play. I still named each and every horse and categorized them by breeds, colors, families, sizes, and alphabetically by name. The names became more glamorous and the horses each had "show names" and "barn names". Prince, Lightning and Sugar gave way to Springfield Fox (Foxy), PK Paco Boy (Paco) and Whispering Pines' Tipperary (Tippy). Some of the names were in jest (Zip It Kid and Little Brown Colt), some were named after real horses I knew (Impressive Chief, Tapeka), people I thought worthy (Andy's Birthday Girl, Justa Summer Squash) or in honor of fun events or special occasions (GP Says Sell It, Rum Tum Tugger) and then there were the ones I got as Christmas gifts that I gave holiday themed names (Yukon Cornelius, Stocking Stuffer, Christmas Fawn, Little St. Nick, Blitzen, Gabriel, King Wencelus...). Another good friend, who also collected Breyer horses, would even let me name some of hers.
Naming them became half the thrill of the collecting and I began keeping a notebook of potential names. To keep myself awake during class in school or long drives, I would either come up with new names or try to list all of my horses. As I approached the triple digit numbers for the herd, that became quite a feat. Soon, I had to resort to tags to keep all of their names straight. The ones that were major characters (Mikal Midnight, Lady Phase, Little Gal...) during play were never forgotten, but some of the newer ones that I acquired during adulthood and spent their days on the shelf, I was a bit fuzzy on. Shamefully, I would have to peek at their hang tags when I couldn't recall the name.
During my childhood, some of those horses seemed as real to me as any flesh and blood horse. I could see them cantering across a meadow, walking about with the wind in their manes, mares patiently watching the colts and fillies play, and I could swear that their black-painted eyes twinkled with life. For a while I was satisfied with the collecting. My motto was "It's not a matter of having too many horses, it's a matter of not having enough shelves." Then there came a shift, as it states in a diary I kept at about 5th grade, "I would trade all of my Breyer horses for one real horse!". Now, I have a stable full of real horses and my poor neglected Breyer horses, what is left of more than 300 models at one time, sit on their shelves gathering dust. Every once in a while, I take them down and dust them off and rearrange them (so they get to have new neighbors) but mostly they just stand as reminders of a time when possibilities were endless and I was only limited by imagination.
My notebook of horse names still exists, I have about 100 Breyer horses left after giving some away and selling others, but my days of clomping horses around on the floor are long gone. Now I spend my days with my real horses trying to teach them how to not clomp around, fight or race. My real horses are messier, more expensive, and much more trouble than my plastic herd. There is no way, however, that I would ever trade my real horses for 1, or 300, or all of the Breyer horses in the world.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Hair Today Gone Tomorrow
Human beings are always trying to get rid of hair in some places and add it to others. This goes for men, women and their horses. What is it about the natural growth of hair that makes it distasteful and causes us to act contrarily to how our bodies operate? Don't get me wrong, I shave my legs and wish that the hair were thicker and longer on my head, so I'm not saying everyone doing it is wrong. Just weird.
Throughout the history of horsemanship, the grooming details of hair arrangement has undergone some drastic shifts. At one barbaric point, it was fashionable to "dock" a horse's tail to about six inches. A horse has a tail bone at least 12 inches long, usually more, so that meant chopping off a good portion of bone, skin & muscle. This practice is still seen in some Draft breeds although now it is done out of ease of management rather than as a vogue cause. Still barbaric, however.
Now, people go to great lengths to create a tail on a horse that is lush and long, sometimes even to the point of dragging on the ground. There are false extensions that can be added. There are miracle ointments and topical sprays that guarantee hair growth. There are even methods of keeping tails wrapped in socks, bandages, panty hose and special tail bags to protect the investment of the growing tail.
A horse being prepped for a show can simultaneously have it's mane pulled (thinned and shortened by pulling out the long hairs), a false extension added to its tail, the hair on its white socks clipped off and then replicated with a powdery spray, it's whiskers on the muzzle and around the eyes shaved off and a buzz cut given to the horse's ears and jaw. Again, trying to get rid of hair where it wants to grow and adding it to places where it doesn't.
Not all people fall into the equine hairdresser category. There are horse people who could care less about the horse's hair and let it be as it naturally grows. There are also people who fall in between. I'm in between. I do some clipping, but I draw the line at whiskers. The practice of taking off a horse's whiskers is atrocious. Whiskers aren't just wiry hairs, they are important sensory tools. Removing them doesn't render a horse senseless, but it does take away that little bit of warning to the eyes and muzzle that danger approacheth.
My horses that don't go to shows, keep the majority of their hair. I keep bridle paths clipped so that haltering is neater and sometimes, if it is very muddy, I clip the long fetlock hair to prevent the skin condition called scratches. There is a pony who doesn't shed all of her hair in the Summer due to a metabolic syndrome, so she gets a full body clip in the Summer. Otherwise if the hair grows on the horse, it stays on the horse. For horse shows, I clip fetlocks, bridle paths (a modest 2 inches) and the long fuzzy hairs on the outside of the ears. I also pull manes a little, but finish them up with scissors. Pulled manes are then braided. I do not take off whiskers or the hair inside the horses ears. Clipping those areas is unnecessary and detrimental to the horse's well being.
My horses have won classes at all types of shows and many types of classes with their whiskers on and hair in their ears. Maybe, for classes I didn't win, the fact that my horse's whiskers weren't shaved was a deciding factor. I guess if that is what it takes to win, then I don't want to.
Throughout the history of horsemanship, the grooming details of hair arrangement has undergone some drastic shifts. At one barbaric point, it was fashionable to "dock" a horse's tail to about six inches. A horse has a tail bone at least 12 inches long, usually more, so that meant chopping off a good portion of bone, skin & muscle. This practice is still seen in some Draft breeds although now it is done out of ease of management rather than as a vogue cause. Still barbaric, however.
Now, people go to great lengths to create a tail on a horse that is lush and long, sometimes even to the point of dragging on the ground. There are false extensions that can be added. There are miracle ointments and topical sprays that guarantee hair growth. There are even methods of keeping tails wrapped in socks, bandages, panty hose and special tail bags to protect the investment of the growing tail.
A horse being prepped for a show can simultaneously have it's mane pulled (thinned and shortened by pulling out the long hairs), a false extension added to its tail, the hair on its white socks clipped off and then replicated with a powdery spray, it's whiskers on the muzzle and around the eyes shaved off and a buzz cut given to the horse's ears and jaw. Again, trying to get rid of hair where it wants to grow and adding it to places where it doesn't.
Not all people fall into the equine hairdresser category. There are horse people who could care less about the horse's hair and let it be as it naturally grows. There are also people who fall in between. I'm in between. I do some clipping, but I draw the line at whiskers. The practice of taking off a horse's whiskers is atrocious. Whiskers aren't just wiry hairs, they are important sensory tools. Removing them doesn't render a horse senseless, but it does take away that little bit of warning to the eyes and muzzle that danger approacheth.
My horses that don't go to shows, keep the majority of their hair. I keep bridle paths clipped so that haltering is neater and sometimes, if it is very muddy, I clip the long fetlock hair to prevent the skin condition called scratches. There is a pony who doesn't shed all of her hair in the Summer due to a metabolic syndrome, so she gets a full body clip in the Summer. Otherwise if the hair grows on the horse, it stays on the horse. For horse shows, I clip fetlocks, bridle paths (a modest 2 inches) and the long fuzzy hairs on the outside of the ears. I also pull manes a little, but finish them up with scissors. Pulled manes are then braided. I do not take off whiskers or the hair inside the horses ears. Clipping those areas is unnecessary and detrimental to the horse's well being.
My horses have won classes at all types of shows and many types of classes with their whiskers on and hair in their ears. Maybe, for classes I didn't win, the fact that my horse's whiskers weren't shaved was a deciding factor. I guess if that is what it takes to win, then I don't want to.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Retiring Raffles
The story of Gretchen will continue at another time so stay tuned for that. Meanwhile, I'm preoccupied thinking about some upcoming horse shows, the last horse shows I will have with Raffles. Raffles is 25 years old now and still lively, sound, and athletic but I decided to retire him from shows while he is still competitive. It's not an easy decision because I look forward to showing him every year. Once I finally found a competition atmosphere that suited him, showing was a lot of fun.
We don't always do well at the shows. There have been a lot of classes in which Raffles performed at his best but the judge preferred a different type of horse. It was frustrating and discouraging at times to not get recognition for my horse's performance but that's all a part of horse shows. The judge is going to have an opinion and his or her own predilections about horses. The horses I compete against are varied, everything from Saddlebreds to Friesians to Quarter Horses and many more breeds in between. A judge who enjoys watching a Saddlebred high-stepping around, barely contained, breathing fire and rolling its eyes, will place one of those over an earth-bound, shuffling, Quarter Horse. Both horse may put in an equally acceptable performance for its breed standard but in an Open class, the judge gets to make a decision.
Getting back on track now... the judging doesn't always go in my favor but when it does, it is a wonderful feeling. The horses at these shows are of very high quality and for my horse to fit in, is like being a member of a country club (only with less golf and more hair).
Honestly, the fun of camping out with my horse for the weekend is half of the reason I like to go. For a weekend, it's just me and Raffles. The situation is more of a rock-star and his personal assistant, however. Over the years, Raffles has become a bit of a celebrity and people will stop by his stall to say hello and tell me how much they enjoy watching him. Not all comments are given in admiration, occasionally, I catch a sour grapes comment that ruffles my feathers, but it's all part of horse shows. For the most part, people are very interested in him (he's usually the only Warmblood there) and complimentary about his performance.
Lately, my son has been joining me at the shows, now that he's old enough to not need constant supervision, and my Mom has come along to some shows as well making it a more of a family event. Sometimes my friends and students will come out to watch Raffles and cheer us on too. As meaningful as that is, I think the most touching moment I've ever had with Raffles was when we were on our own.
It was a crummy weekend anyway, with rain and cold, but then added to that was the addition of a break-up. Steering away from the melodrama, I'll just say that I was sad and lonely on top of cold, wet and not placing particularly well that day. I stood hunched up in my soggy raincoat in Raffles stall (out of the rain for a minute) watching the other classes going on in the ring and may have even been dealing with tears, but that could have just been the rain. I was aware of Raffles behind me and sometimes he will put his head over my shoulder and pull me in towards him to see if I have a cookie. This time was different. He stood very close to me, with his head down by my cheek. He inched closer until his eyelashes brushed the side of my face. Like the "butterfly kisses" I used to give my son when he was a baby, Raffles stayed there for several minutes and every time he blinked, his eyelashes tickled my cheek.
Raffles is a tall horse so he really had to keep his head low to do that. He has never been an affectionate horse so the act surprised me. Even when he was friendly, it was only an effort to mooch another treat. I didn't want that moment to end but eventually the spell was broken and he went back to eating hay and I moved off to try and restore the circulation to my numb with cold fingers and toes.
The small moment that we shared was more meaningful than any of the ribbons we won. It was a moment when Raffles connected to me because he wanted to, not because I asked him to. It was exactly what I needed at that time and for some reason, the big show-off cast off his tough guy persona and was cuddly. Just for a moment though. But that was enough.
We don't always do well at the shows. There have been a lot of classes in which Raffles performed at his best but the judge preferred a different type of horse. It was frustrating and discouraging at times to not get recognition for my horse's performance but that's all a part of horse shows. The judge is going to have an opinion and his or her own predilections about horses. The horses I compete against are varied, everything from Saddlebreds to Friesians to Quarter Horses and many more breeds in between. A judge who enjoys watching a Saddlebred high-stepping around, barely contained, breathing fire and rolling its eyes, will place one of those over an earth-bound, shuffling, Quarter Horse. Both horse may put in an equally acceptable performance for its breed standard but in an Open class, the judge gets to make a decision.
Getting back on track now... the judging doesn't always go in my favor but when it does, it is a wonderful feeling. The horses at these shows are of very high quality and for my horse to fit in, is like being a member of a country club (only with less golf and more hair).
Honestly, the fun of camping out with my horse for the weekend is half of the reason I like to go. For a weekend, it's just me and Raffles. The situation is more of a rock-star and his personal assistant, however. Over the years, Raffles has become a bit of a celebrity and people will stop by his stall to say hello and tell me how much they enjoy watching him. Not all comments are given in admiration, occasionally, I catch a sour grapes comment that ruffles my feathers, but it's all part of horse shows. For the most part, people are very interested in him (he's usually the only Warmblood there) and complimentary about his performance.
Lately, my son has been joining me at the shows, now that he's old enough to not need constant supervision, and my Mom has come along to some shows as well making it a more of a family event. Sometimes my friends and students will come out to watch Raffles and cheer us on too. As meaningful as that is, I think the most touching moment I've ever had with Raffles was when we were on our own.
It was a crummy weekend anyway, with rain and cold, but then added to that was the addition of a break-up. Steering away from the melodrama, I'll just say that I was sad and lonely on top of cold, wet and not placing particularly well that day. I stood hunched up in my soggy raincoat in Raffles stall (out of the rain for a minute) watching the other classes going on in the ring and may have even been dealing with tears, but that could have just been the rain. I was aware of Raffles behind me and sometimes he will put his head over my shoulder and pull me in towards him to see if I have a cookie. This time was different. He stood very close to me, with his head down by my cheek. He inched closer until his eyelashes brushed the side of my face. Like the "butterfly kisses" I used to give my son when he was a baby, Raffles stayed there for several minutes and every time he blinked, his eyelashes tickled my cheek.
Raffles is a tall horse so he really had to keep his head low to do that. He has never been an affectionate horse so the act surprised me. Even when he was friendly, it was only an effort to mooch another treat. I didn't want that moment to end but eventually the spell was broken and he went back to eating hay and I moved off to try and restore the circulation to my numb with cold fingers and toes.
The small moment that we shared was more meaningful than any of the ribbons we won. It was a moment when Raffles connected to me because he wanted to, not because I asked him to. It was exactly what I needed at that time and for some reason, the big show-off cast off his tough guy persona and was cuddly. Just for a moment though. But that was enough.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
No One Will Give You An Education, You Have To Take It
My education is a continuous process so I can never say "I've gotten a good education.". It's not done and never will be done. What I can say, is that I have taken what ever I can from every opportunity I've had, to study horses, and I know enough to know that I have still more to learn.
As a kid, I would ride any and every horse, especially if it was a horse known to be difficult. It started with the horse that the neighbors owned and lived out behind our house. The barn was kind of tucked back in the woods, not visible from any where, which made it very convenient for little horse fiends to do some sneaky riding. *The following story is in no way a recommendation, or something to be emulated because it's a wonder I survived (plus it was totally illegal). I rode that horse. With no permission, no knowledge, no supervision, no tack and some may say, no survival instinct, I rode that horse. I would tempt the horse (a biggish Morgan gelding) over to the fence with Ritz crackers, and then, ninja-like, slide onto his back from the top rail. He would then go racing through the trees while I clung like a monkey to his back. He must have recognized my monkey-ness because he routinely tried to return me to my native habitat by scraping me off on low tree branches. My surreptitious riding wasn't discovered until I decided to let my fellow horse-fiend cousin in on the fun, and took her over to ride the horse too. I swore her to strictest confidence which lasted as long as it took for her to get back home. The first words out of her mouth, when we casually strolled into the house, were "I rode a horse!". My mom, knowing the horse and knowing his temperment was shocked that I had done such a thing (and lived) but was surprisingly light on the punishment. She told me to never do that again and that was it.
When I was 10, I started riding lessons and then had to quit them at 14 when Mom and I got our own horses. At 15, I started teaching the neighborhood kids to ride on my horse, and got a job working pony rides. Then at 16, I started working at a riding stable. It was there, that I was exposed to all sorts of different horses and made it a goal to ride every one of them at least once. That was a goal accomplished with the exception of the little Shetlands that I could have carried easier than I could have ridden. College was an Equine program and fancier horses that offered more challenges. I continued my trend of choosing to ride the more difficult horses but quickly found a favorite and then really wanted to ride him all the time. I couldn't ride him with any grace or skill but I loooooved him and struggled to learn how to ride him correctly.
While in college, there were opportunities offered to all the equine students to attend events, volunteer, compete, or ride in clinics. If there was a list I could put my name on, I did it. I took every chance to do something with horses that was available and put effort into doing everything I did. If only I could say as much about my Economics class. We all have our specialty.
Everything I learned I took home and told to my Mom and the little girls in the barn and my riding instructor and my friends I went riding with. There was so much cool stuff out there that I had not even been aware of and wanted to share with everyone else. Needless to say, I did not share my Economics knowledge, mostly because I didn't retain any.
Now, most of my learning comes from the horses I ride and work with. I take lessons when I can but learn also from the riders I teach. There are books, videos and of course the internet (which can be a source of information and mis-information equally) for tutelage. The deal is, though, that you have to want it, go and get it, retain it, and use it; not everything, but the stuff that makes sense for you and works for you. Even though I did a report and oral presentation of Combined Driving Events, I couldn't recite, right now, the scoring system. It was interesting to learn, but I didn't continue to use that information because it didn't apply to my sport or career choice.
Other than Economics class, I gleaned whatever I could from my college experience and squeezed every drop out of what I could learn about horses. As an instructor and trainer, it's my job to help other riders and horses to be more balanced, more effective and happier. If I ever think I'm done, than it will be over. I still want to ride that next horse. Unless my Mom tells me not to.
As a kid, I would ride any and every horse, especially if it was a horse known to be difficult. It started with the horse that the neighbors owned and lived out behind our house. The barn was kind of tucked back in the woods, not visible from any where, which made it very convenient for little horse fiends to do some sneaky riding. *The following story is in no way a recommendation, or something to be emulated because it's a wonder I survived (plus it was totally illegal). I rode that horse. With no permission, no knowledge, no supervision, no tack and some may say, no survival instinct, I rode that horse. I would tempt the horse (a biggish Morgan gelding) over to the fence with Ritz crackers, and then, ninja-like, slide onto his back from the top rail. He would then go racing through the trees while I clung like a monkey to his back. He must have recognized my monkey-ness because he routinely tried to return me to my native habitat by scraping me off on low tree branches. My surreptitious riding wasn't discovered until I decided to let my fellow horse-fiend cousin in on the fun, and took her over to ride the horse too. I swore her to strictest confidence which lasted as long as it took for her to get back home. The first words out of her mouth, when we casually strolled into the house, were "I rode a horse!". My mom, knowing the horse and knowing his temperment was shocked that I had done such a thing (and lived) but was surprisingly light on the punishment. She told me to never do that again and that was it.
When I was 10, I started riding lessons and then had to quit them at 14 when Mom and I got our own horses. At 15, I started teaching the neighborhood kids to ride on my horse, and got a job working pony rides. Then at 16, I started working at a riding stable. It was there, that I was exposed to all sorts of different horses and made it a goal to ride every one of them at least once. That was a goal accomplished with the exception of the little Shetlands that I could have carried easier than I could have ridden. College was an Equine program and fancier horses that offered more challenges. I continued my trend of choosing to ride the more difficult horses but quickly found a favorite and then really wanted to ride him all the time. I couldn't ride him with any grace or skill but I loooooved him and struggled to learn how to ride him correctly.
While in college, there were opportunities offered to all the equine students to attend events, volunteer, compete, or ride in clinics. If there was a list I could put my name on, I did it. I took every chance to do something with horses that was available and put effort into doing everything I did. If only I could say as much about my Economics class. We all have our specialty.
Everything I learned I took home and told to my Mom and the little girls in the barn and my riding instructor and my friends I went riding with. There was so much cool stuff out there that I had not even been aware of and wanted to share with everyone else. Needless to say, I did not share my Economics knowledge, mostly because I didn't retain any.
Now, most of my learning comes from the horses I ride and work with. I take lessons when I can but learn also from the riders I teach. There are books, videos and of course the internet (which can be a source of information and mis-information equally) for tutelage. The deal is, though, that you have to want it, go and get it, retain it, and use it; not everything, but the stuff that makes sense for you and works for you. Even though I did a report and oral presentation of Combined Driving Events, I couldn't recite, right now, the scoring system. It was interesting to learn, but I didn't continue to use that information because it didn't apply to my sport or career choice.
Other than Economics class, I gleaned whatever I could from my college experience and squeezed every drop out of what I could learn about horses. As an instructor and trainer, it's my job to help other riders and horses to be more balanced, more effective and happier. If I ever think I'm done, than it will be over. I still want to ride that next horse. Unless my Mom tells me not to.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Gretchen In The Beginning
Sometimes, I have an opinion on an issue or a training topic that I feel could benefit other equestrians and sometimes I just feel like telling stories about horses I have known. Today, I feel storytelling-ish.
Gretchen is a horse that no one in their right mind would, on purpose, own and lovingly take care of. That is probably why she had 6 different owners during her 30 years of life. She spent the last 12 of them with me. Gretchen was a Thoroughbred/Hanoverian mare, bay, 16.2 hands tall, an attractive horse, a good mover but a nasty wretch. Of course, she had moments when she was pleasant, but they were elusive.
The tale I have been told of Gretchen begins at the farm where she was bred; a place where the young horses spent their first year or two at pasture, growing, moving freely and socializing. As they reached the age of 2, they were brought in to the barn to begin their training. If they needed a bit more growing time,they went back out for another year. Gretchen was one that went back out. At 3, it was deemed that she needed yet another year, she wasn't quite ready to begin work. At 4, she still needed of more time. This continued until she was 6. The mare basically ran loose until she was 6. This is what I attribute to most of her belligerence. The rest just comes from her having a screw loose.
Gretchen had some good Dressage training under saddle as a young horse but a problem was discovered with her stifle joint (the equivalent of a human knee) which sporadically would lock up. In the horse, the ability to lock that patella is what allows them to sleep standing up. As useful as the endowment is when sleeping, it is not welcome when the horse needs to to trot. Gretchen underwent a surgery to permanently disable the locking mechanism so that she could continue her career as a riding horse. The surgery was successful which meant that her stifles would no longer catch as she was in motion but they no longer would catch when she felt like having a nap either. For Gretchen's entire life, she would do a perfect London Bridge is falling down when she got drowzy.
At a certain point, Gretchen topped out in her Dressage training. At 2nd Level, a horse is required to begin showing true collection and with her particular conformation (Gretchen's back end was a little farther away from her front end than is necessary or desired) and her stifle issues, she could not comfortably do the work into and beyond that level. Rather than push the horse beyond her capabilities, her owner was compassionate enough to find her a new home. This is when I met Gretchen. She came to the stable where I was working to be used in the lesson program, but to be sold to an appropriate home. I was 16 years old then. Gretchen and I had very little path-crossing at that time. I did ride her for the purpose of making a sale video and it was the first time I rode a Real extended trot. It was an amazing feeling to have so much air-time between strides and though I hadn't asked for the big trot, it was thrilling just the same.
One of the students at the stable bought Gretchen and eventually moved her to her own barn at home. Years went by, I went to college, moved to New York to work at a stable there for several years and then moved back home. While looking for a property where I could start my own stable, I went back to my high-school Summer job. Gretchen had also come back. She was now owned by the daughter of the woman who owned the stable but wasn't really doing anything other than being a nuisance. My own horse was inching toward retirement so I was looking for a horse to ride and remembered enjoying my ride on Gretchen as a teenager.
At this point in the story, you are probably wondering when the horribleness comes in. It had been there all along, I was just either blissfully ignorant or not exposed to the brunt of it. That would change in a hurry. My first few rides on Gretchen, as a more knowledgeable rider, found that she was very out of shape and had numerous resistances and imbalances in her body, but I was eager to ride and she was a potential Dressage horse for me to start with. Plus, that blissfully ignorant thing hadn't really gone away.
When I did find my own farm, the woman who had been a mentor for me for so long, asked if I would like to take Gretchen along with me. Her daughter would sell her for a $1 just to know she'd have a good home. My mentor also threw in a pony to sweeten the deal. She even offered to trailer Gretchen up to her new home for me. Here is when I should have been suspicious of why everyone was so eager to get rid of the mare.
Her penchant for destruction became evident upon her arrival. She had kicked dents in the back of the trailer. Going out to feed the horses the next morning, I found Gretchen, still in her stall, but the sliding door no longer sliding and instead, dangling from it's hanger. She took the door down the next night also and also smashed her feed tub. Now with a rubber feed tub on the floor and a stall guard instead of a door, she was tucked in for the night again. In the morning, water bucket was now slightly mangled and the stall guard lay on the floor with not one snap whole. The next night, rubber water bucket, feed tub on the floor and chain across the door and she greeted us in the morning, again still in her stall, but with the chain no longer connected in the middle. Being creative or determined or stubborn, I refastened the chain the following night and also connected it to the electric fence charger. In the morning, no destruction. It was not a safe or efficient method to contain her, so I made the decision to leave her out in the paddock at night. She was content, I was relieved.
Gretchen's claustrophobia was the tip of the iceberg. She also was anorexic and just plain grouchy. Having her in my back yard and dealing with her daily, made me quite aware of just how much trouble she was. The first time I went to get her for a ride, she alternated between threatening to flatten me and running away. After a lengthy determined and stubborn effort to catch her, I finally resorted to calling my mentor. "How do I catch this horse?!" I asked her in exasperation. At Mentor's stable, Gretchen was in a small paddock attached to her stall which didn't allow her much freedom to express her feelings on being caught. Here, all of my known methods had failed including tempting her with grain (doesn't want to eat, remember?) so I needed help. Mentor replied, "Take a whip out with you and show it to her." I was quite positive Mentor was losing her marbles because surely the whip would just cause Gretchen to run away faster. This was the first time I would see just how contrary the mare could be. I returned to the pasture, whip in hand, and when Gretchen threatened to run by me and flatten me on the way, I held up the whip and growled at her "GRETCHEN! Knock it off!". To my absolute surprise, she stopped dead in her tracks and stood calm and still (though with a sour face) while I approached and put her halter on. From then on, I never went out to get her without a whip. There were times when I forgot to get one beforehand, but I improvised with a stick. I could brandish the smallest of twigs and she'd stand and wait for me to get her. In her elderly years, I could go out to get her and just point my finger at her and say "Gretchen, you stand there!" but anyone else still needed the whip.
The whip was necessary for grooming her while she was tied in the barn too. When cross-tied, Gretchen would swing side to side, throw her head, snap her teeth, kick, and fling herself back and forth. Unless you held the whip. Whip in hand, I could groom her in peace while she stood. I never struck her with it (except for when she started in the lesson program and she tried to bite the students, then she got a swat) I just had to hold it where she could see it, which presented a problem when I would need to get something from the tack room. I would have to get the longest longe whip I had and hold it out the door of the tack room while I, with feats of amazing stretchiness, would reach for whatever I needed.
The grooming and tacking up process itself was a constant flip-flop between Gretchen snarling and being serene. She loved her curry comb, hated the brushes. Except on her face, she loved having her face brushed, especially her ears. She hated her saddle, but would almost put her bridle on by herself. She loved her bit and would take it into her mouth before I even asked her to. No matter how gently or slowly I did up her girth, she still fumed about having it fastened. She hated having someone get on her, even from the mounting block, but loved going riding. I never found any physical reasons for Gretchen's complaints. It was all mental.
After I had owned Gretchen for a while, Mentor found a sale video for Gretchen made by her first rider. It was delicately edited so that it shows the owner getting Gretchen's halter and heading out to the paddock, then it cuts away to a shot of Gretchen being groomed, but not tied. It shows the owner bringing the saddle to the horse but then switches to a shot of her riding. All the scary bits were left on the cutting room floor.
To her credit, Gretchen taught me, and many others, some valuable lessons. I'll continue Gretchen's story in the next post. The best and worst is yet to come.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Old School
The stats on these horses would indicate that they ought to be doddering, feeble, quietly ambling about the arena, content with a bit of a trot now and then, but satisfied with moseying also. I should have to say, "Let's let Jolly rest for a little while.", and "How about we give Raffles a break now.". I should not have to have someone lead Jolly around at the walk, to try and anchor him down so his rider can have some control.
The youngest one is Henry at a mere 17 years old. Then there is Raffles at 25, Rocket at 28 and Jolly at 31. They were all used in a group lessons tonight for adult beginner riders. Even after 2 hours, we were still having to hold them back. They were like war horses charging into the fray. "Bring on the dragons!"
Where had my steady, reliable school horses gone? Who were these nostril-flaring, speed-walking steeds? The poor college student who had come to help me out, left skid marks in the sand from trying to hold these old fools down to a walk. With my injured knee, I had no hope of keeping up with them so it was all up to poor college student to make lap after lap around the ring hanging, for dear life, onto the bridles of those horses who were determined to see who could get around the fastest. At the walk.
They could barely contain themselves. "Let's Trot!", they snorted, as if they were all stand-ins for the Black Stallion. Raffles, the only one allowed to trot, because his rider had done a bit of trotting before, went down the long side like a Saddlebred in a Road Hack class. His startled rider gamely tried to keep up with her reins up under her chin somewhere and her legs doing a kind of polka beneath her. After that he was only allowed to trot when sporting a poor college student sized hobble.
Before next week's adult beginner group lesson, I think the overly-enthusiastic, geriatric school horses are going to need some powering down. I'm not complaining, I'm glad my old horses are this spry and sound. It just caught me by surprise. I was unprepared for their effervescence.
My old horses look superb for their ages and apparently, they feel like they are half their ages. If I felt for one second that they were uncomfortable or feeble, then they would not be working, but rather lounging out in the paddock. For now, though, let's Trot!
The youngest one is Henry at a mere 17 years old. Then there is Raffles at 25, Rocket at 28 and Jolly at 31. They were all used in a group lessons tonight for adult beginner riders. Even after 2 hours, we were still having to hold them back. They were like war horses charging into the fray. "Bring on the dragons!"
Where had my steady, reliable school horses gone? Who were these nostril-flaring, speed-walking steeds? The poor college student who had come to help me out, left skid marks in the sand from trying to hold these old fools down to a walk. With my injured knee, I had no hope of keeping up with them so it was all up to poor college student to make lap after lap around the ring hanging, for dear life, onto the bridles of those horses who were determined to see who could get around the fastest. At the walk.
They could barely contain themselves. "Let's Trot!", they snorted, as if they were all stand-ins for the Black Stallion. Raffles, the only one allowed to trot, because his rider had done a bit of trotting before, went down the long side like a Saddlebred in a Road Hack class. His startled rider gamely tried to keep up with her reins up under her chin somewhere and her legs doing a kind of polka beneath her. After that he was only allowed to trot when sporting a poor college student sized hobble.
Before next week's adult beginner group lesson, I think the overly-enthusiastic, geriatric school horses are going to need some powering down. I'm not complaining, I'm glad my old horses are this spry and sound. It just caught me by surprise. I was unprepared for their effervescence.
My old horses look superb for their ages and apparently, they feel like they are half their ages. If I felt for one second that they were uncomfortable or feeble, then they would not be working, but rather lounging out in the paddock. For now, though, let's Trot!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)