Tim Sturm Memorial Roping

Note: New posts will appear beneath this post until the event is over.  For now I’m sticking this to the top, to keep it easily accessible for those who are interested.  Look beneath for newer entries.  Thanks!  Jane

The Shetland Trajectory: Part 1

I’ve had to restrain myself from touching the keyboard, to spare you my enchanting company in the last few days.  (My funny bone buried itself.)

Marissa’s horse Tucker may have partly dug it up in this very funny post, and then handed me the trowel.  I laughed out loud, and it joggled loose a memory of my own.  Which I won’t spare you.

Like many horse owners, I had a dream.  Like most dreams, it was romantically blurry and full of sunlight, flowers, and chirping birds.  My horse would live in my backyard.  Together 24/7.  Bliss.

I was 20-something, had a sturdy little Morgan mare (a rescue) named Roz.  She had been treated as a commodity, and could not comprehend the idea of bonding, or even enjoying a good grooming.  Roz tolerated handling by standing rigidly still, determined to obey by enduring.  I was convinced I could use the Teenager Principle to bring her around.  The Teenager Principle: total immersion for the horse: you are either sitting on the horse, touching the horse, doing something for the horse, or standing nearby thinking about the horse.  (I’d use ground work and riding too.)  I felt the T. P. was exactly what she needed.

I was young enough to mistake a thorough day-dreaming for a logical plan of action.

Why Horses Wednesday

This week’s answer to “Why Horses?”: elderly gentlemen.

All Saints Day

The memorial service for my dad was on Sunday.  He had a great sense of humor: it didn’t escape any of us that the only day it worked for everyone to be at his memorial/funeral was All Saints Day. I’m sure it didn’t escape Dad.

My mom said to me on the phone: “Well…they say you elevate your spouse to sainthood after they die.  Your husband dies and suddenly he’s a saint.  I suppose it’s appropriate Dad’s official induction into sainthood is Sunday.”

My dad loved to barbeque.  He loved a block party.  One Saturday morning when I was around 10 or so, I woke up to the sound of him digging a hole in the middle of the backyard.  I immediately looked for the dog: you’re a kid, there’s a hole, you have animals, you worry.  Even at 10, it struck me as odd the grave would be smack in the middle of the grass in the backyard.

The dog was fine.

He was digging a pit for the pig.

We didn’t own a pig.

Yet.

Scary Halloween Post

Daisy sent me this. It is, perhaps, the most frightening jumping video I have ever seen. Right in time for Halloween. Unfortunately, it’s real.

Disclaimer: this is not funny.

Embedding has been disabled (you’ll see why). I had to put it here as a link.  It’s shocking, so be prepared.

The horse is the most golden, willing soul in the world, and deserves new owners, a good massage, chiropractic, and a lot of love.

The Scary Jumping Video

Now.

If you’ve watched it: what should the judges role have been? Should they have stopped the ride? If not, why? Clearly the guy knows how to ride, or he would not have been able to balance enough to regroup: he would have fallen off. (Wouldn’t that have been a relief.  I wanted to take the crop to him – if for no other reason than whacking the horse after he believed it refused and knocked a jump down, when in fact the dude fell on the horse’s neck when he took off, causing the horse to plop into the jump.)

If it’s not the judge’s job to stop a ride like this, wouldn’t the venue (this does not look like a Podunk venue), or even the judges, be able to be held liable if the man got hurt? It’s so blatantly clear he is dangerous to himself, the horse, and others, I suspect everyone involved could be sued to the max for not intervening, despite the usual waivers.

What do you think?

Why Horses Wednesday

This episode of “Why Horses?” Wednesday is brought to you courtesy of every child who believed with all their heart in The Black Stallion, and who remains indebted as an adult to Walter Farley.

If we squint, the hill becomes desert, the horse an Arabian stallion (squint hard), and we are flying across the dunes in the race of our lives.

Not much squinting to see the speed here, but imagine the saddle gone and your fingers tangled in his mane, racing through the breakers.

Why You Should Never Listen to Your Car

It’s true.  Our cars, no matter how much they love us, have their own agendas.

Mine likes to be dirty: it will frequently turn towards the barn the second it feels my mind drift off into how much I hate running errands.

Shaun’s car shudders at dirt, and often veers her into a gas station with a drive through car wash.  Occasionally, it tries to take her to work on the weekends, so it can relax all day in the parking lot with a gorgeous view of San Francisco bay.

I drove Shaun’s car this morning.  It’s not so fond of me: I frequent places that make its tires curl.  A view of the manure pile does not make it feel relaxed and refreshed at the end of the day.  A view of the manure pile and the chance of  dust drifting onto the dashboard leaves it very stressed, and tense.  I try to take it to the barn as little as possible.  You’d think it would appreciate my restraint.

Nope.

It’s big on practical jokes.

The Rose Story

Are we all familiar with this one?

A lady is given a rose.  It’s beautiful.  She goes home, washes a jar, polishes it till it sparkles, fills it with water, and puts the beautiful rose in jar on the center of the table. Stands back.  Admires.

Beautiful rose.

Filthy table.  It would look a lot prettier if she cleaned around the rose.  She cleans.  Stands back.  Admires.

You know, it would look even better if she cleaned the table.  She cleans.  Stands back.  Admires.

Turns to walk out of the room, sees sparkling table with beautiful rose out of the corner of her eye, while walking by a sink full of dirty dishes in her filthy kitchen.  You guessed it.  She cleans the kitchen.  Now the rose looks really good.  How much better would it look if she did the next room?

Yeah yeah.  We all know how it ends: clean house.  Annoying moral: start where you can, and the rest will follow.  All you have to do is start.

(Jane’s take: I want to find this woman, invite her over, and hand her a rose.  At which point I would sit back with the remote,  and make encouraging noises.)

Disclaimer for the following: because I know the rose story, I am not absolved.

Warning for the following: it’s simple, DON’T START.

Free Cake!

It’s Jane’s birthday, so y’all get as much cake as you want, it’s your favorite kind, and it’s all calorie free.

I’ve been wondering what I wanted to say on my birthday (other than FREE CAKE, always wanted to do that).  I’m still wondering.  Which, unfortunately for your boredom level, means free association.

Why Horses Wednesday

Contributions:  Check out Michelle’s response at From The Horse’s Back!

My answer today:

Because six hours earlier, this little guy was still in that belly up there.

And because in dinner conversation with horse friends recently, I was talking about the problem I had in taking care of an infant (human) during an emergency. I said “He hadn’t been weaned yet, and his mom wasn’t able to pump any breast milk because it was an emergency.  Poor little guy was stunned by no mom and the sudden appearance of icky stuff in a bottle.”

I looked up, and realized none of us had caught my use of the term “weaned”:  like you would wean a foal.   We were all just going with the program.

Mental Illness in Horses

Hercules is in some stage of a nervous breakdown.  Given I know his entire history, I believe it’s organic: not human caused.  As he aged, he got more skittish, then abruptly less.  Then he would react to something that only he could see, in a wild and dangerous manner.  Hercules is dead honest, and sweet.  He does not want to spook, he does not want to be afraid, he doesn’t want to unload his rider or engage in bad behavior, he wants to be the best horse in the world for you.  He wants you to be happy.  He has Sunshine, his half brother’s, heart of gold.  I will do anything for you, anything. He is not intellectually challenged.  He’s smart.  You show him something once, he’s knows exactly what you want, and can repeat it easily.

He reacts instantly to perceived danger, yet even the dishonest and spooky horses in the same arena not only don’t spook, they avoid him.  They shrink.  They try to become invisible.  A horse bolting in terror is enough to set off honest horses: it’s herd mentality.  Certainly this should set off every dishonest or spooky horse for miles.  Yet they want to quietly get out-of-the-way, blend into the rail, or ask their rider um, can we leave now?

When Hercules is terrified, not one horse reacts to him with normal herd behavior.

We recognize this in people, when we’re standing in line somewhere, and the emotional temperature changes around us abruptly.  We look to see who walked in.  It’s primal.  We feel it: the new person perceives a world that  tilts a little too far from the reality we recognize.