Kash Questions

Outside my French doors, it is perfect riding weather. Cool, but not too cool, sunny and no wind. I decided Fold the Kash and I would take a spin around the farm. It was time to ride out of sight of the barn, the pasture mates, and off into the deep woods that surround our property. I put on my safety vest in case HE decided this wasn't such a good idea.
With a young horse, every new question you ask can produce any number of answers like, No way, let's spin, I'm not taking another step, let's back into the trees, bucking is more fun, and maybe a combination of all. Or, if you're really lucky, the young horse might say, "sure, let's go."
I admit I was nervous. When at home, we haven't gone very far before, as he's better with a buddy and I can't ride two horses at one time. I've played it safe and stayed within his comfort zone, short forays only as far as he'd go without me sensing he was getting nervous.
This doesn't mean he hasn't been asked things and proven he can do them. We've done our away from home work. He now goes well in a group or with just one other horse. Creeks are no problem and steep inclines and drops a piece of cake. Logs are stepped over carefully, ditches, stepped into and out of one foot at a time. He'll jump a small course in a ring. No hidden monsters in the forest for this guy. He takes everything in stride, WHEN he's got a buddy, or knows they are near by.
Today, was the perfect weather for seeking new ground when all alone. I mounted up and off we went. Down the drive and into the woods, back up a trail and past the barn. So far, so good, but soon we'd be at the spot where he has always exhibited a bit of nerves and we'd turn around. Why? Because this horse simply wasn't ready before now. He needed to learn to trust himself and me. It's taken time and now and then, I found myself feeling impatient, but it takes two ready to move forward to make a good horse. Don't ask the question, unless you and he are ready for the answer, has always been my motto.
The question asking spot was coming up fast. I felt butterflies awakening in my stomach and started chattering to Kash, more for me than for him as we moved on. Talking would force me to breathe.
One step, two steps, ten steps, more. We reached "the spot". Eleven steps, twelve. We were past the turn-around point. I asked him to take the left trail and walk down a steep hill.
Head down and a buck and I'd be a goner.
Hmm. Not a flicker of ear, not a quickened step. I asked him to move out.
Kash answered, "Sure, let's go." Onward we went.
This little guy is ready to broaden his horizons, at a nice leisurely pace and with a new sense of self-confidence. It was worth taking the time, like most good things are worth taking the time. I said in the beginning, perfect riding weather. Dang, it's great to be right
Wishing all a Fold the Kash and go kind of afternoon.

Trusting Kash

Kash and I had a nice ride today. He remained steady on the slippery ground and tolerated a furious attack of horseflies. We also had our first test of horse trusting rider. A small creek crossing had Kash at a standstill, feet planted, eyes large with fear of the mysterious bottom. I do not ride with spurs on Kash, as he is young and I want his training to be one of memories of team work not pain. I asked him to go forward over the water. He gave me one of his big eyes looks as if he was saying, "You've got to be kidding."

I kicked. He stood. It was time to muster my courage and be the boss. If I were to be the rider he needs, I could not retreat. I kicked his sides, again. He stood. This was make it or break it (me, when he realized he could refuse my bidding and explode) time. I could not fail him and I prayed our months of working on trust would mean he would not fail me.

I used my best "do what I say" voice and ordered him to move forward. HE DID!

Over the creek and onward to being a full partner in the world of horse and human he went. He moved with great energy after the crossing, exhaling all his pent-up anxiety, as did I.

We moved a stride closer to being better in both our lives today. I am so very proud of this young horse for overcoming many things and learning to be all he can be.
Hope you had a good day, too, all.

Kash, "A Mudder? Surely, you jest."

Today, Kash and I joined my friend Janet Cummings and her horse on a trail ride. I was a bit nervous. Kash hasn't had many outings. Our first challenge came not long into our ride. Recent rains let mud behind. There in front of us was a huge orange mud Monster waiting to eat us alive. Or at least that's what Kash and Janet's horse, Deacon believed.
Janet and I looked at each other. I said, "This may be the shortest trail ride ever." Janet agreed. We both knew there was worse to come. After a few firm body language discussions, Kash and Deacon decided to take our advice. They minced through the mud. We gave them lots of praise.
Then, we came upon a small lake in the trail. Or at least that's what the horses thought. Kash looked back over his shoulder at me, as he likes to do, and said with those big brown eyes, "You want me to go in there?"
I straightened his head and gave him a nudge. He didn't budge. It appeared I could understand horse speak better than he understood rider signals. Eventually, the two horses, practically clinging to the trees on the edge of the trail, made their way past the puddle. I believe they decided, we'll go, but you'll get a few scratches for making us do it.
The day became one of lessons on walking through, around, and past water in all its forms, from small streams, to large puddles and mud monsters.
Near the end, Kash sashayed through deep mud with nary a glance, then peered back at me with a "did you see that" smirk.
Me, I gave him my best rider signal, a big, old hug. "You're such a Mudder," I said.

Always and Forever

A rainy, read a book kinda day outside my French doors. Of course, that won't stop me from slogging to the barn, throwing down hay, distributing grain and filling water buckets as horses drip over the fence, ears pricked waiting, always. I can see one from here trying to send me mental messages. Will he go in the run-in and eat hay? No. He'll stand there, watching me look outside, while he looks inside, those big brown eyes and quivering muzzle saying, "Feed me. Never mind that I have green, green grass, a dry place full of hay. I want grain." I give him my best glare. He doesn't even flinch. This staring contest could go on forever. Guess it's time to go find the rain gear. Time to take care of the creatures I love. Always.

Talking to Mother Nature

Rain, wind, cold, outside my French doors, Mother Earth is shrugging off her winter wear and searching for her spring bonnet. "Next year," I grumble, "I hope you're better organized." I slog my way to the barn, throwing mean thoughts at her. She rumbles back. We have these kind of conversations often, especially this time of year.

The downpour makes me feel persecuted. I push open the stable doors and scurry inside, filled to the brim with bad humors.

Then, as usual the magic happens. Rain on the metal roof, soft nickers, crunching hay, the sounds of being in a good place, settle me. Scents of soft horse necks, fresh, rinsed air, well-drenched ground, reduce my hunger for sunshine.

I stand for a while in this place I love, soaking in the peace of a stable in bad weather. It is where it all comes together for me, where positive obliterates negative. I think of ill friends, those troubled and in need. My needs are so trivial in comparison. In this place, I realize somewhere there is a peaceful place for them, too, and they will find it. It is no longer an "I hope" thought, it is truth. I feel I've been given a gift of knowledge and make a note to self to write it down.

Kash rattles his bucket. Life hums into my quiet wonder. It is okay. All will be okay. A raincoat of satisfaction slides around me, makes my tasks easy. I toss down hay, clean stalls, freshen water.

Chores finished, I see the horses are restless. I understand, open their stalls and watch them head to the pasture. A little water won't hurt them. I do not rush back to the house, but ease from the barn, wander from puddle to puddle. Rain kisses my face. Perhaps, Mother Nature isn't disorganized, perhaps she is wise? Perhaps, I should apologize to her?

I stop outside my French doors and think about that. She did help me see things from a different angle, but was the rotten weather really necessary? Sharp wind and cold water smack the back of my neck. I look up with a glare and say, "If you bring sunshine tomorrow, I might say sorry, but not today."

Night of Nights

            Night Of Nights

            On this night of nights

            Snow squeaks under my boots

            Sounds like little Christmas mice

            Fighting over cookies and milk

           

            I remove one glove, then the other

            Loosen the girth, slide the saddle off

            Give my chestnut mare a quick brush

            Several pats on her warm thick coated neck

           

            A blue glow from a bright star

            Forges a path across the winter landscape

            Reveals neat hoof prints that mark the way

            From whence we have come

           

            Yes, we

            Though I traveled undetected

            Upon the broad back of my companion

            Could I prove I was there

            Perhaps not

            Take it on faith I will say if challenged

           

            The place journeyed to

            Found several years ago

            When I dropped the reins

            Gave my mare her head

            Feels close to Heaven

           

            Tonight, this night, I left prayers

            She trimmed around the tombstone

            Upon which the light always shines brightest

           

            Infant boy-A child of God- the inscription reads

            Each year it is the same and each year

            I marvel at the sight

            My mare moves so unerringly to

           

            Animals in the stable talk at midnight

            Or so it is said

            In honor of a birth long ago

            Does my mare speak of the wonders we have seen

            I do not know

            Will have to take it on faith

           

            Our yearly trek complete

            I lead my mare into the barn

            Settle her in with sweet feed and carrots

           

            Gloves back on, I give her one last pat

            Pull the heavy wooden door closed

            Shut in the incense of horses, hay and miracles

            Snow squeaks under my boots

            On this night of nights

           

The Cost of Loving a Horse

I spent the morning in the barn watching my horses get new shoes. Custom made, shiny silver rims for their feet that would enhance their way of going, make them more comfortable and cause someone watching them move say, "Nice."


Then I looked down at my mud covered, steel toed work boots and saw my friend Jill's bright new clogs instead. She'd posted pictures of them on Facebook and her excitement over her new acquisitions leapt off the page. What is wrong with me, I thought. I should be writing a check for my own movement enhancing, feel good apparel, not spending all my money on these beasts. Image, my thirty-two year old Thoroughbred snorted. He only got a trim, not a set of shoes.


I glanced at him. Perhaps, I could use his share of the horse budget to buy myself some Jill-like happiness?


Then, I really looked at Image. His hips show his age, his coat, too. His time here is finite. And, I knew my thoughts of clogs making me happier than being in the barn with this old horse were no more than daydreams.


The reality is, if new shoes might keep Image around longer, I'd happily go barefoot.

Image, Bob and Kernan

The Other side of Horse Ownership

Summer Games-One of my horses





I went riding in the rain this morning, trotted across the soft ground in rhythm with the falling moisture. Once in the woods, I lifted my face upwards, glimpsed flashes of a lavender sky through a shifting cover of pale green. Cleansed by fresh air and pristine water, I breathed deeply of the promise of spring and turned toward home. My hand ran through my thoroughbred's mane. He relaxed, stretched long and low. I followed his example and let go of the things I worry about. 

Horses add a wonderful dimension to my life. Sometimes, I forget that when cleaning their stalls.

Good times have no boundaries

Went foxhunting in the "Low Country" of South Carolina yesterday. Saw alligators, cranes, an armadillo, but no foxes! The hunt was on a rice plantation and we rode along the edge of a marsh, under towering oaks draped with Spanish moss. Airey Hall Plantation is beautiful and the hospitality was outstanding.

With riders in scarlet and black coats, horses shined to their brightest, and hounds weaving in and out of tall grass, it felt like stepping back in time. What kept hitting me were thoughts of the people who'd come before, the ones who lived in the big houses and the ones who worked in the fields, the different perspectives they would have of the sight.

Today was for equals. The hunt was led by two gentlemen, professional huntsmen, one a Master of the Green Creek Hounds. They are black men and I never really think of that, but here on this very Southern land, I did. It made me happy to know that everyone there enjoyed following the lead of these two men, in this most Southern area. I consider one of them a dear friend and he was where he deserved to be. Good fellowship and good times had no boundaries. Maybe, just maybe, Americans are realizing we are all created equal.

Hunters in the Mist

Hunters in the Mist

Melissa Myer didn’t give much thought to the new foxhunting fixture, nor listen to the Master’s words of caution, the need to stay with the group. Today, her mind focused instead on her new mount, a young, bright chestnut horse. He floated above the ground when he moved. His gaits felt magical and she relished the promise of being transported into another realm when on his back. The group of fellow riders barely registered on her radar.

This was her first mistake.

They, about thirty horses and riders and twenty couple of hounds, started early from the trailers, and before Melissa had time to get her bearings, what with the new horse and all, she found herself in an old, “trees with roots big enough to hide Hobbits” unfamiliar forest. There was something slightly off center about the area. A spurt of fear ran up her spine like an adrenalin injection. She attributed it to the antics of her inexperienced thoroughbred and the fact that she’d stayed up way to late reading The Lord of The Rings for the umpteenth time. Her horse, Runaway Joe, three months off the track, danced.

As the hounds and the riders trotted deeper into the woods, Runaway Joe developed a sudden talent for spinning in circles.

Out of the corner of her eye Melissa watched the horse in front of her disappear around a bend and then her attention whipped back to the thousand pounds of whirling dervish beneath her.

The horse showed no signs of tiring of his new game and though Melissa was an excellent rider, his antics made her dizzy. The sound of the huntsman’s horn faded in the distance, hardly audible over the blowing and stomping of her mount. She began to worry.

Damn, it would be nice if someone had hung around. A new horse, all alone, in unfamiliar surroundings was asking for trouble. Buck up, she told herself and reached down deep in her muscles for some hidden strength. She needed to stop Joe’s pirouettes, before she threw up.

The horse snorted, slid sideways and then at the persistent urging of her quiet hands and calm voice, came to a trembling halt.

Once she had Joe standing still, though ready to bolt at any moment, Melissa let out and sucked in a deep breath. They moved around the bend. The road forked ahead of her and the hard packed earth gave no clue as to which path the hunt had taken. Last, in the long line of horses when they left the trailers this morning, so that Joe would not be tempted to kick a hound or another horse, she’d been doing the right thing. It was absolutely taboo for a hunt horse to kick, especially kick a hound, and she knew better than to put Joe up front. That thought did little to assuage her feelings of stupidity for not listening to the Master’s warning.

She had no idea where she was or where the rest of the field of hunters had gone. Used to riding up front with those who liked to race and chase, Melissa always had the hounds, huntsman, or at least the sound of the horn in her reach to show her the way, but not today. In front, the sound of pounding hooves and snorting of over-excited horses closing in tried the patience of even the most seasoned hunt horse. Joe had a hard enough time handling the slower paced group of non-jumpers, know as hilltoppers, and would probably have dumped her if she had pressed him to handle the first flight, those that jumped and moved at a sometimes eye-tearing pace.

Running a finger under the chin strap of her velvet-covered helmet, Melissa shook her head. Nothing to do now but pick a trail and hope it was the right one. She’d catch up soon enough. Joe moved forward with a gentle nudge of her calves against his heaving sides.

No runaway now, he took a hesitant step, flicked one pricked ear in her direction as if asking if this was what she wanted. She clucked softly and urged him to move on.

Soon, he picked up his normal long-strided walk, stretched out his neck and lowered his head. A deep rib-widening sigh lifted Melissa in the saddle and she grinned, felt the black woven straps of her helmet bridge the dimples in her cheeks. She echoed the sigh. It signaled to her Joe had decided that this wasn’t so bad after all and she wanted to assure him she agreed. At this pace it would be doubtful they would catch up to the hunt field, but the forest, quiet and enclosing like a deep green comforter, made for a pleasant trail ride.

The belief that most horses, if given their head, will find their way back to the barn or trailer, is well known among riders. Melissa decided to give it a try. Her Timex sports-watch told her she had at least twelve hours before darkness. That should be plenty of time for Runaway Joe to find their way out of here. She looped the reins, or as she told her students, let a horse have a little room between your hands and his mouth.

“Okay, Joe, you pick which way to go.” The horse took the left fork.

They crested a hill and a mountain, vague as a long ago dream, appeared in the far distance. Melissa spied movement in the distance. Hounds in shades of black, tan and white weaving a tapestry through a green canvas of old forest, and a stream of horses, steam rising from their backs, shrouding their riders in capes of gray. She squinted and then rode toward them.

This was her second mistake.

Horse Lover

Horse Lover

“Get out of my way.” I shoved Silver Bullet aside and dumped her grain into the bucket. I held the halter and caressed her neck. Time was at a premium, but one had to be careful around horses.

The next thing I knew I was pinned to the side of the stall.

Dawn would arrive in a quarter hour. People would come. This was not my horse and I couldn’t be here when they arrived. But, I was too weak from not eating in three nights to escape.

The mare munched on sweet feed as I struggled. The thousand pound nightmare was not the least bit concerned that I couldn’t breathe and couldn’t move.

How ironic, my wild craving for horses would be the end of me. The other vampires would laugh, I thought, as the sun rose. My tombstone would read, Killed by a Silver Bullet.

Hunter Pace Award

Yesterday, I took my thoroughbred on a hunter pace. This is a marked trail ride that you try to do at the speed of a hunt. It is timed and the closest to the optimum time, unknown to the riders, wins. Everyone wears a number and there is a start judge and a finish judge. I've yet to do well. This time I was determined to finish in a "feel good" place.

My horse, Rustic, decided about a third of the way through that we were going entirely too slow. When I made him walk, he cantered in place, when I made him trot, he cantered almost in place, when I let him canter he sighed with contentment. "At last," I could feel him thinking, "she's gotten the message. Beautiful day, wonderful trails, it's time to thank God by using all the talent He's given us."

How did we place? In our minds we won the biggest smile and happiest horse award, definitely a "feel good" performance. In the minds of the judges, we were way too fast.

Time For a Sick Horse to Get Well!

This is supposed to be a writing day, or at least 2 weeks ago it was supposed to be, but, one of my horses caught a cold. If you aren't a horse person, you might think, big deal. If you are a horse person, you think, I'm glad that's not my horse!

When a horse gets a runny nose, cough and fever, alarm bells go off. They don't do well. Most virus' with these symptoms are highly contagious, so the horse has to be kept away from other horses, you have to make sure you don't carry the germs from the sick guy to the others, and his exercise has to be limited. That means he stays in a stall, and you get to clean it, at our house I get to clean it, over and over again for as long as the horse is sick. It is not fun.

A horse can hemorrhage his lungs coughing and exercise makes him cough more often. That's the reason for stall rest. He can be hand-grazed, where the others aren't allowed to graze. More time for his owner, me in this case, to spend with her precious animal. Standing in the cold, holding the end of a lead-line so he won't romp about. You hope he doesn't decide to do pirouettes from being stall crazy. A 1200lb animal on his hind legs, steel shoes flashing over your head, while you try to hold on to a rope attached to his halter, makes you sweat, but doesn't do much to warm your heart when it's 30 degrees outside.

Sometimes, the virus causes a secondary bacterial infection in the sinus, etc. Then you, me again, get to dose the stir crazy, stall-bound animal with antibiotics. In the powder form, the medicine is mixed with his grain, which you've reduced to a minute amount to try and cut his energy level. It does not taste good. The half that gets left in the bottom of the feed bucket can be mixed with molasses to make it palatable. Of course, molasses pours as slow as, well, molasses. So your hope that you might have five minutes to do something besides take care of a sick horse ticks on by.

One thing, I always get asked is: HOW DO YOU TAKE HIS TEMPERATURE?
Just like a baby. Stick it up his butt! And, hope he doesn't decide it's time to get rid of that grain and molasses before the four minute incubation period is over.

After almost three weeks, I decided my horse, his name is Bargaining Chip, and I needed to have a talk.

I said, "Get well. NOW!"

His answer?

Bargaining Chip shook his head no, he does not live up to his name, and then, blew snot all over my coat.

I wonder if I'll find time to wash it, after I clean the stall, graze the beast, mix the molasses, take the temp, clean the stall...

February, Sunshine and a Horse, Gotta be a dream, right?

Today was one of those times I'd like to record and be able to play back when I'm thinking life sucks. Up early, I fed the horses, cleaned the stalls, let the cat out of the tackroom and scolded the little dog for chasing the big dog. Bet you thought I was going to say "cat", didn't you?

By eight, I was in my truck and hauling my thoroughbred to a hunt meet. This is his first year to be a foxhuning horse and he's still trying to figure out where the track is. He used to be a racehorse. I ate my Kashi bar, drank a coke, and played finger tag between country music and NPR on the radio. In twenty minutes, I arrived at the meeting spot, the first one there, and nabbed a prime parking space. When you're driving a F350 extended cab truck and hauling a twenty foot trailer, parking moves way up the priority list.

Eventually, others arrived, the hounds were unloaded, and Rustic(that's my horse)and I were ready to roll. The huntsman cast the hounds, sending them into deep, dense woods. Being a whipper-in(helper to the huntsman)I moved off ahead of the pack, but about fifty yards to one side. One hound spoke and then others joined and we were off.

I asked Rustic to pick up the pace and he said, "You betcha."
There is absolutely no feeling in the world like being on the back of a thoroughbred and asking him to run. It is what they are born to do. We streaked up a road, jumped a coop and tore down a wooded trail. He and I were both in a "yee-haw" moment and I almost forgot that my job was to watch for hounds.

The run lasted about ten minutes and then the hounds lost the scent in the wind. The huntsman picked another route, which left me somewhat out of the game. I pouted for a moment and then looked around.

There I sat, on an animal some people only see on television, in the middle of a meadow, the sun warming my back, with a million dollar view of the mountains in front of me, and it was mid-February. A slow smile erased my pout. Just think about it for a minute; February, sunshine and a horse,the makings for a movie, right? No one was there to record the moment,so no movie, but believe me some dreams can come true.

Name A Horse Novel

Bought a horse last week and I need to think of a barn name for him. Perhaps you can help? His registered name is Country Wild. He's a tall, skinny thoroughbred off the track about a year, and totally not what I was looking for. Except for his mind. He has the best attitude and the calmest disposition of any TB I've ever known. He actually stands when I ask him to, goes when I want him to, and whoas when it's my idea. I'd thought I was too old for a ex-race horse, so it's good to know there's at least one more face in the wind, get up and gallop dream chaser in my life.

Maybe I'll quit working on my mystery for awhile and write about an over fifty, bad backed writer finding the one horse on which she can fulfill her dream of riding in the local Hunters Division of the Steeplechase before she turns sixty. She lives in a small town in the country and is experiencing writer's procrastination. Browsing Equine.com instead of working she stumbles upon this horse. The horse's name could be Novel...

MySpace-August on Horseback

August is a month that many people wish would speed by. Minds move on to thoughts of fall, summer is close to its end, and people trudge about like they live in a furnace. Most want to stay inside, while away time on the computer. Not I, to me August is the month that highlights the special parts of a summer day, especially when you include a horse. August is MySpace outdoors and a part of me feels a little sad for those inside tapping away on their keyboards.

For example, on the hottest day last week I went out on my horse, caught the trail behind the barn and slid into the deep woods. The temperature dipped from 90 to 80, or at least it felt like it did. My horse, her name is Summer Games, picked up a brisk trot and we moved along the path until we reached the creek and turned onto the "Waterfall Trail". I listened to the icy stream as it tumbled over a ledge and slid between mountain boulders, and felt the mist on my skin. My mare picked her way through the rocks, stopped in the middle of a quiet pool for a drink and then moved onto the pine needle covered cart path leading to the wildflower meadow. We stopped at the edge and watched a doe and fawn fade into the distant trees. The fine smell of a well-groomed horse, fresh cut grass and moss on wet stones filled the air. I found myself with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.

It doesn't get much better than that; the ride made even more special because of the contrast with the heat in a car, on a sidewalk, or working in the garden, and because I've chosen to be outdoors not in. Without August I would never experience quite this level of pleasure. It might be the hottest of months, but in my mind, August on horseback equals perfect summer days in MySpace and I'll save the computer for midnight rendezvous's.

novel- writing

Working on my novel today between bouts of outdoor sunshine. Painted Black is about a Chicago artist in North Carolina. She goes there to put on an exhibit and to paint and ends up solving a murder. Underground tunnels, secret cellars, horses, and handsome men, figure into the adventure. Her paintings reveal the killer, she almost loses her life and with the help of a fiesty terrier traps the villian.
Today I'm helping her explore her first suspect's movements on the day of the crime. She keeps wanting to go outside and ride horses, but I'm making her stay put and work.