Why Horses Wednesday: The Buck

Why horses?  Because each one is unique.

This 3-year-old warmblood is quite a bronc, if you look at that range.  My friend Molly just purchased True, and I went to take future Aw-Remember-When scrapbook photos.

This could be two different horses.  No really.  Try it.  Put your hand over the photo so it covers everything from the girth forward.  You’re looking at some major bronc action. Sign him up for the PRCA!

Now slide your  hand to the left, and cover everything from the girth backwards, you should see…

Hanging Shingle: Gone Riding

A responsible blogger has at least two weeks worth of back up posts in the can.  An irresponsible blogger wakes up and thinks, “GAH.  I have nothing to put up!  I spent the whole weekend doing real-world stuff.  Crap.  (This Real World stuff is annoying.)  I didn’t think of one single thing!

Strike that.  I thought of a billion things.  But I was driving, riding, cooking dinner (read: pouring cereal), attending an awards ceremony, or taking photos when the ideas hit: none of them made it to paper.

I’m going riding.  We’ll put it under the classification of “research and development for the blog”.

It may get interesting (or it may not): with my saddle in the shop, I’ll most likely be riding Hudson bareback.  He’s difficult to fit correctly, and it’s a rare saddle that fits him.  Generally he relaxes when you ride him bareback.  Put a six ton (to me) roping saddle on him and the dude is ready for action.  Since my job is to relax him…

I’ll report back!

Tim Sturm Memorial Roping: A Preview

It was perfect weather, a wonderful group of people, and a good turn out.  The younger end of the actively roping age range: 14-15 years old (and yes, they made their catches), the older end of the age range appeared to be mid 70’s, (and yes, they made their catches too!)  There was the smell of burgers grilling, and a bag of chocolate chip cookies suddenly appeared under my nose.  Bella said. “Want one?  Mom made them.”  Did I want one of Mom’s cookies?  Are you kidding?  They’re to die for.  I thought I made the best chocolate chip cookies.  Wrong.  Bella’s mom, hands down.  I don’t have all the details yet, or all the photos proofed,  but I’ll tease you: winner of high point over both cash pots went home with this:

I got some great photography lessons from Bella’s mom and dad, who are both wonderful photographers.  They were very generous with their time and knowledge.  What do I know about shooting a roping?  Nada. They knew plenty!  I learned.  Neither if them blinked after asking me what kind of lens I was using, and I responded, “Um.  A big one?”  They took me under their wings, and I learned more!

FTF: You Dirty Rat

This espisode of French Toast Friday brought to you by Friday the 13th.

I am not superstitious.  It just happened to be Friday the 13th, and the toilet just happened to break down before I went out to the barn, giving me a lovely afternoon of shopping for toilet parts.

I exasperate Shaun with my lack of superstition,  I can’t seem to get it in my head that saying, “Isn’t this nice…traffic is light today, we might make it in under an hour!” is a jinx.  Now we’ll never make it on time.

This is the first Friday-the-thirteenth I’ve ever had a problem.  I may be a convert to the world in which Jinxes exist.

After buying toilet parts, I go to the barn.

Exihibit A: my clean-it-every-time and keep-it-covered dressage saddle…

Okaaaay…and this is a problem why?

Mr. Chips: Stealth Ninja

Note: I started calling this series The Shetland Trajectory, because that’s how it felt: one day Roz and I are meandering along, the next I’m rocketing, hanging onto a pony for dear life, somewhat disoriented. Now that I know you like Mr. Chips stories, it seems awkward to start titling things: The Shetland Trajectory: Part 1,065.  Thus the name change.   So we can find the one we like again.

Following Dave’s lopsided departure (he wouldn’t let me drive him home), I had a stern talk with Mr. Chips, locked everything up tight, and ran to the hardware store for lengths of chain and bull snaps.  Extra backup on the gates for when I was home.

At that point, I still hoped to keep a few friends.  This was before I realized Dave could regale the Killer Horse story to mutual friends with aplomb.  Especially if libations were involved.

Aw heck.  Can we blame the guy?  How would you feel if you were using your beloved day off to help a friend rototill, and were attacked in the butt by giant incisors attached to an evil, hairy looking My Little Pony?

My Little Pony, Mr. Chips was not.

In addition to his prolific gate and door opening skills, Mr. Chips had other hidden talents.

The day after the Real Estate Agent Tour of my house, I realized the Victorian mesh handbag that had been my Great Grandmother’s, was missing from its decorative place on the wall.  There was the lonely little hook. It must have gotten knocked off and kicked under something in the Jane Drag-By.  I couldn’t find it.  I also didn’t look very hard.  I had a fence to put up.

Dave had offered to help me section off the smaller portion of the pasture into a pony turn out, to prevent founder come spring.

I think we can all guess what happened to that offer: it drove off with Dave, sitting on a bag of rapidly thawing peas.

I was on my own.  Over the next week, I hot wired the area to cordon it off from nosy equines, set the posts, poured the cement, and let it cure.  Not crooked at all, if I was willing to cock my head slightly to the right.  I can work with that.  Mr. Chips and Roz are both standing on the other side of the hot wire, staring at the new fence posts.  I look at them.  Both their heads are also cocked to the right.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence”, I say.  They both turn their heads questioningly in my direction.  ”The fence posts?” I say.  I glance back at the posts.  Cock my head to the right again.  Works.  All better.  I turn around to take down the hot wire, and gather the rest of the materials.  Both Roz and Mr. Chips are staring at the posts again, heads cocked to the right.

Everyone’s a critic.

The Shetland Trajectory: Part 2

note: we’re counting the following as my answer for “Why Horses?” Wednesday!

It did not take long to discover Mr. Chips had many talents.  None of them were related to being an Equine.

There was no door he could not open.  Only keyed locks eluded him. (I’m sure this is because I hid the keys.)  I was thankful I had the foresight to padlock all of the pasture gates.  When I was home, they remained bolted but not padlocked: I was in and out of the pasture too often.  If I left the property it was Lock City.  I was less worried about animal theft, and more worried about a burglar “accidentally” letting Roz and Chips out while trying to see if there was anything worth burgling in my home.  (That would be no.)

Little did I know that Mr. Chips believed he was a ninja.

Dave was coming over to help me rototill my garden.  He arrived early, while I was down in the barn, unloading sacks of feed. Not seeing my truck, he figured he’d unload the tiller, and get it set up while he waited for me to come home.  The padlocks were off the pasture gates, though both were securely latched with sliding horse-proof “drop hook” bolts.  Mr. Chips, who had taken to supervising anything to do with feed, had been imperiously watching me heft bags into stacks.  Really, his name should have been ‘Nero’ or HRH Supreme Dictator.  When I reached for the last bag, Chips was gone.

Odd.

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?