The Riding Seat Lesson
by Kris Garrett
11-19-09
One of the great things about living where I do, is that I have so many excellent riding instructors close by.
From TJ I have learned to never give up, to accept what I can do in the moment, to sit quietly and not haul my horse around with my reins, how to do (and not over do) a proper shoulder-in, and much more. Without my dear young TJ, I would have given up riding long ago. For the past eight years, she has been there for almost every horse emergency I've had. She has quietly and calmly supported me as a true friend when tragedy struck, handling the more gruesome of details when I was too distraught to take care of the necessary business at hand.
From Melanie I experienced my first western spin. I've learned how to better speak "horse" and recognize that I was already talking equinese without realizing it. I learned how to be a better teacher of young children, maintaining safety and discipline while offering a way to feel good about every success. From Melanie, I've learned how much I value a truly good person who is so congruent with her thoughts, words, and deeds, that I feel totally safe being her friend.
From Frances I learned that I tend to lock my triceps when I am nervous, causing me to bounce on my horse's mouth. Her ability to spot and pin-point the offending muscle group for any given problem, improved my riding with every lesson. It was with Frances that I experienced my first truly collected canter with my gelding, Feldspar. It was a magical experience I will never forget. I was on cloud nine for a week.
From Kari I've learned how a confident person's attitude rubs off on a horse. I watched her take a wild mustang and calmly and gently ride her in less than a week. I could see how safe the horses felt in her presence, and how fair, consistent treatment and clear communication made a horse feel more confident and secure. And I've witnessed amazing courage as this tiny gal patiently masters the biggest, rankest mount with a smile and a chuckle.
This week I finally scheduled a lesson with Eric Zeigler. Eric's classical focus in training begins as it has for centuries, with the rider's seat.
Here's my story:
Nov. 16, 2009
I tossed and turned, the ache in my hip's stretched-out sockets keeping me from sleep. My little dog grunted as I pushed her away from my side, allowing me to turn over without accidentally squashing her flat. I felt her snuggle tight into my warm back with a sigh. Finally the mega dose of Ibuprofen kicked in and my eyes fluttered closed.
In my repetitive dream I kept seeing the dark-haired midget actor from Fantasy Island running up to me in his little white tux, pointing at my backside shouting "Da Seat! Da Seat!" I had this strange impulse to kick him.
The scene faded and suddenly I found myself in Rhett Butler's arms. He had me bent over backwards and was staring lovingly into my eyes as he growled in a low, sultry voice, "Frankly my dear, you don't have a seat..." My dream-self immediately fainted dead away....
Bright lights flashed and suddenly I was staring down the long barrel of a rather large gun! Dirty Harry sneered through slitted eyes as he muttered, "Do ya feel lucky, punk? Go ahead.. make your seat..." The gun when off, but my dream went black before the slow-motion bullet made it to my forehead.
My dream-self was freefalling through dark clouds until I landed with a thump on a bright road. A long, yellow brick road, to be exact. A smiling scarecrow with hay falling out of his ears danced up to me. He opened his stitched cloth mouth and sang in a lilting voice, "if you only had a seeeeeeeat...." I screamed.
A small Toto-like dog instantly appeared from under the scarecrow's hat, jumped on my stomach and started snapping at my face. "Seat! Seat!" he barked.
My eyes fluttered open and I found my little Schnauzer on the bed next to me, her front feet on my arm, frantically licking my chin. I pulled her close and hugged her to my chest and sighed. "There's no place like home..." I muttered into her soft, fluffy ears.
The nap didn't do it. I was still sore and tired. But I was smiling too.
You see, I had my first seat lesson yesterday. For an hour we walked in circles in the snow and mud of my largely unused round pen. My horse had been put on a lunge line and my stirrups taken away, as I began the task of relearning how to ride a horse. Sure, I've ridden off and on for 41 years now, but there are things that you forget that you don't realize that you've forgotten. It's the subtle things, like how to balance yourself at all speeds and gaits, how to maintain your center, how to recognize when your core is correct as opposed to balancing off the stirrups and/or the reins to keep yourself from falling off.
These things were once as natural to me as breathing. But now that I'm half a century old, they are no longer automatic. My body has learned all kinds of bad habits, and my sense of balance has been slowly fading away, right along with my confidence as a horsewoman.
I once was a natural rider. My first horse was a wild mustang named Lonesome who was found wandering the western slopes of the Rockies. He was two years old when I bought him. I paid $35 for him and an old bridle. Neither myself nor my parents knew anything about horses, including that you are supposed to train them before you rode them. I was nine years old and in a big hurry, so I just got on and rode. Lonesome didn't know he was supposed to buck me off so he didn't. We were both as green as a shallow pond in the middle of summer, and didn't know that we didn't know what we didn't know. I didn't have a saddle either, but my ancient, cracked hackamore that was held together with baling wire was all I needed. I didn't even know what a bit was.
I rarely bothered with shoes on myself or my horse. He had tough mustang feet and I wasn't going to be touching the ground with mine, so why bother? My usual attire was shorts and a tank-top. That's it. For years we explored the world together, galloping as fast as we could up and down the Highline Canal road through Greenwood Village and Littleton, just south of Denver. We swam together in the canal when it was full, and enjoyed running in the deep sand when it was empty. We had two speeds... gallop at full tilt, and stop.
I never thought about balance or collection or if I would fall from my horse. It just didn't occur to me to think about it. And yes, I fell off on occasion but it was rare and I was never seriously hurt. My worst injuries were from bug bites and sunburn.
When I joined Pony Club I was required to wear a helmet and use a saddle. I didn't have or want to use either one, but I did want to join the jumping debutante crowd, so I caved. When in Rome... I bought an inexpensive English saddle and bridle from the Sears Catalogue on my Mom's credit card. Yes... I had permission. I remember feeling so grown up as I filled out the boxes on the order form and mailed it in.
As promised, my saddle and bridle arrived in the mail in a big brown box. I was very excited. I got a neighbor to come over and show me how to put them on. I still have and still use both items, 38 years later. They just don't make 'em like they used to...
At first I had a very hard time keeping my stirrups. Before that I had stayed on my horse by virtue of superb balance and strong grip from my inner thighs. What I discovered was, if I lost my balance I would still grip with my thighs which pulled my feet up and out of the stirrups. I got very frustrated with this and would not use the saddle when I practiced jumping at home. I was much more comfortable bareback. It took me years to learn to keep some weight on the stirrups to keep them on my feet. I remember absolutely hating the stirrups.
Learning contact with the reins was similarly difficult. I had never taken up contact and had never used a bit. Hackamore's worked on a completely different premise. Fortunately my poor horse was very generous with his attitude and accepted all the new tack as easily as he had accepted a totally green, horse crazy nine-year-old. Not bad for a "wild" mustang.
So, why is this history important?
I have discovered that using a saddle with stirrups and riding with contact for the past 30 or so years has slowly and almost imperceptibly taken away the thing that made me so unstoppable as a kid... my ability to be completely in balance with my horse. It doesn't matter how many lessons I take, even with the best of the best in the lessons business, I will never improve (or regain) my riding abilities until I fix my unbalanced seat.
Eric Ziegler is a teacher. It is who and what he is. Eric = Teacher = FACT He is a history teacher by trade, but that teaching ability permeates everything he does. He has a wonderful sense of humor, and a way of adding a touch of historical fact and scientific logic to his instructions. The smile on his face is genuine when he is praising the attempts his students make, even if the results are not yet quite up to par. He is never demeaning or impatient, which is a trait that many of us older women with esteem challenges value beyond anything else.
But, he took away my stirrups!!! That makes him an ogre! Then, he took away my reins!!! That made him a troll! I felt a bead of sweat break out on my lip at the thought of having NO control over my mount. What was going to happen to me? As fond as I am of Eric, or "Zieg" as his friends know him, I was not sure I trusted anyone enough to leave me sitting helpless on my horse. I was thinking how glad I was that I had renewed my insurance policy, as I resigned myself to my fate.
I'll confess, the part of me who remembered that I was once part centaur was certain this type of lesson was beneath my level of horsemanship. After all, I've been riding for more than twice as long as Eric. Heck, I've got boots older than he is! What could he possibly teach an old hand like me?
And so, once again, I am humbled.
Zieg had the great fortune of starting out riding with a Classical Master. His first hours on a horse were carefully choreographed so he never learned the wrong way to do things. His hands are as soft as a conductor's baton guiding a gentle lullaby. His seat is as steady and balanced as a high-wire circus performer on a unicycle.
Zieg's mentor's methods are older than most countries, and are founded in solid equestrian theory handed down from teacher to student throughout the centuries. These methods do NOT include how to get a bigger extended trot or how to push and pull a horse through a series of maneuvers that might result in a scrap of blue satin hanging from your browband. These methods were discovered and developed by the true centaurs of historical mankind... the ancient soldiers who's very lives depended on their ability to ride their horses well.
And so, we began. Eric put a cavasson over my bridle and attached a leadrope to my mare's nose. For my mental security more than practical use, he left my knotted reins on her neck within my grasp, even though I knew he was not going to willingly let me use them. I'll admit, it did make me feel better knowing they were there. He had me flip the stirrup leathers over my horses withers and drop my legs down straight. "You can hold on to the pommel of the saddle if you need to," he assured me. I was horrified to realize that the "tire" around my middle was not going to let my short arms reach that far. I grabbed a piece of stirrup leather instead.
So there I was, a middle aged woman who has had horses for over forty years, being led around like a six year old in a leadline class. "Why am I doing this?" I wondered. Three steps into our lesson, and I knew why.
"Nothing about riding a horse is natural," Zieg began. "Our bodies naturally want to do the exact opposite of what we must do to have a good, solid seat." He asked Lumina to walk with him in a circle . Around and around we walked the muddy round pen as they got to know each other and developed their communication. I was to just sit quietly in the saddle and feel how my body was moving. "The movements in your hips should go with the movement of the horse, like a hula dancer," he shared. The image that popped in my mind of my plump, aging body undulating in a grass hula skirt made me cringe.
Lumina is a very calm quiet horse. I value those traits immeasurably. But every time she stopped, I was pitched forward and I frantically grabbed for the reins as though she was about to bolt. I couldn't understand it! I had not realized that this was happening in my body all the time when I had stirrups to stop my forward pitch. "You must keep your weight behind your hips," Zieg repeated. "Lean back! Lean back!", he shouted over and over as he let me find my balance through the starts and stops. We were just walking and stopping, and I could barely stay on!
My body has changed. A lot. The roll round my middle would be a terrific model for a cartoon tire commercial. That's about the only use I can think of for it. I feel the roll when I ride. It changes my balance and my center of gravity. It bounces separately from the rest of my body if I bounce too hard on the horse. I am humiliated by it. I am ashamed of it. When I'm told I need to "love" my body, I scoff. I hate it. I know it is not healthy to send negative thoughts to the flesh that encases my spirit, but I just can't find it in myself to love this pudgy mess that my physical vessel has become. In fact, just thinking about it bugs me so much that I had better go get the decadent, soothing comfort of a Grande triple vanilla latte.
So, I can wait until I can get on The Biggest Loser show and have the fat beat off of me in Fatties-R-Us boot camp, or I can deal with the hand I've been dealt, and ride anyway. But if I'm going to ride anyway, I owe it to myself and my dear, tolerant horse to ride with balance and softness.
So, there I was, my fingers in a white death grip on the leathers of my stirrups as they laid over my horse's withers, praying I would not fall off into the snow and mud that was rapidly being mashed into just cold mud. Zieg asked me to perform all kinds of movements that my old body thought were insane. I did them anyway. My clumsy attempts at horseback gymnastics were rewarded with positive encouragement and a gentle push for just a little bit more from my very patient and aware teacher. He knew I was afraid and uncomfortable, and also knew that my goal to keep riding into my gray-haired years was absolutely dependant on the securing of my balanced riding seat.
My teacher told me that my new name was, "Lift Your Toe and Bend Your Knee", as he helped me retrain my leg muscles to lay quietly on the horse's sides and not brace in the non-existent stirrups. At first Lumina would jig forward when I gripped with an unfamiliar leg pressure as I bent my knee and laid my leg on her barrel. But, as Zieg demonstrated by having me consciously grip and hug Lumina's broad sides as tightly as I could with both my legs, it was not the pressure of my legs that drove her forward, but rather the on and off changes in that pressure that alerted her to change her gait. If I could just find my center, find my balance, find my SEAT, I would have quiet, relaxed legs independent of my seat, and regain what I had lost over the years; the clear communication with my horse, and most importantly, my confidence in my ability to ride.
So to Eric Zeigler, I bestow my greatest honor. that of "First Class Teacher, Extraordinaire...." I am humbled and absolutely thrilled at this experience, and plan to spend many more hours on the lunge line. I'm going to do all I can to resurrect that internal centaur of my youth. I know she is still in there, somewhere.
I may be getting old, but by golly, I'm not going down without a fight.
-Kris
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Blob
The Blob - from Kris
Saturdays are always busy. My job is in demand most often when folks are not at their own jobs.
Today was no exception. I had floor duty at my real estate office for half a day, first thing in the morning, and an appointment in the afternoon. John had promised to transport home a thoroughbred mare we'd just finished breeding to Teme, and then he had hypnosis clients for the rest of the day. Alex was in limbo, not sure which one of us he was going to be forced to accompany, but made it clear if it was up to him he would just stay home and play video games all day.
We were up early. John got the horses fed and drove off with the truck to get the tank filled with gas and the tires filled with air. Alex helped by feeding Teme and his mini-mare, Ripley. I was in charge of breakfast, which these days consists of "green slime" and protein powder. (Don't ask...)
While the boys were busy outside, I picked out my most professional clothes, polished my shoes, ironed my blouse, and then jumped in the shower. The blow-dryer whined as I carefully styled my hair, fluffing it just-so, adding just the right touch of hairspray so it would hold the delicate lift over my bangs. I noticed I needed a hair cut, but with a flip of the brush and a spritz of spray, I got it to look just right. A little touch of makeup and I was ready to go.
I trotted down the stairs and as I passed the open window in the kitchen, I heard a commotion outside. John was not happy. For such a gentle, quiet guy, he has a real knack for turning the air blue. It doesn't happen often, but when he lets loose it can be pretty impressive. I suppose it comes from a long career in the Army, and then another long career as a cop. Four letter words are part of the common vernacular in both of those professions. I have no idea why.
Anyway, I didn't have to spend much time analyzing to figure out what was going on. John's schedule was even tighter than mine, and a balky horse was not on the agenda. She was NOT going to get into the trailer, and in true thoroughbred fashion, she was galloping tight circles around a very frustrated and angry man.
I grinned. This was my specialty. I've yet to find a horse I could not eventually coax into a trailer. Some take longer than others, but a lifetime of practice and a dozen or so clinics had earned me some confidence in this area.
I was needed. My heart swelled two sizes.
I was dressed for success, not for loading an upset horse. To save my nice clothes, I simply donned my horsehair-covered barn jacket and buttoned it tight. I was pulling on my leather gloves as I marched out to the trailer.
"Take a deep breath, John..." I admonished, trying not to sound as condescending as I felt. "She's obviously frightened. Here, give her to me." John hung his head and gave me a sheepish grin.
"I think she scared me a little," he admitted.
It takes a secure man to admit such a thing. Both of us are pretty level headed people, but both of us tend to demonstrate anger when we are actually afraid. It is a very valuable thing to be aware of. I suspect it is something all cops learn to do...after all, you NEVER show fear on the job. It's just not done. Not to your co-workers and certainly not to the citizenry. Frankly, you don't even show it to yourself. You can't afford to. One of the advantages of marrying someone who has also been on the job is that you understand little things like that.
I took deep breath and let it out in a loud blow. In horse language, that means, "hey..it's okay. You can relax now." She heard me loud and clear. True to her predicable species, she stopped jigging, dropped her head and let me scratch her neck.
We stood there a couple seconds simply breathing together. When I thought she was ready, I asked her to take a step toward the trailer. She complied. Then I turned her and lead her a few steps away, both of our backs to the trailer door. In horse language I just said, "hey... just move toward our goal a little bit, and I will reward you with a release of stress about the whole idea." She immediately relaxed and put her attention on the new spring grass. I continued to blow with my breath, forcing the air out as loud as I could, watching as her upset visibly dissolved. At this point I was feeling quite smug.
Alex was holding the trailer door steady, watching. He looked at John and said, "She really likes grain. How about we get some grain and lead her in with it?"
As the adult, all-knowing parents, we smiled tolerantly at our only offspring and both said, almost simultaneously, "No Alex. That won't work." We'd both witnesses people try for hours to get horses in trailers using the carrot or apple on a stick idea. While it might get them closer, I'd not met a horse yet who's stomach could override their fear of that dark, confined space.
I took my time and inched the mare closer to the trailer. Every willing movement forward was rewarded with a step or two away, as a release. It was taking forever, but we had calm, cooperative progress.
Time was running out. I was getting nervous about being late. I hate being late. I mean, I really hate it. Comes from being publicly humiliated by my high school drama teacher when I was late for a rehearsal. From that day forward, at least up until motherhood changed everything, I was chronically early everywhere I went.
I was not going to be early today.
The mare was happy to munch the new grass, and was pretty calm by this time. I knew we would succeed, but I had no idea how long it was going to take. Alex looked a bit bored and tired of the whole thing. He looked at John and said, "Dad, would you hold the door?"
John took door duty, and Alex marched off toward the barn. The mare, startled at the movement, lifted her dark, lovely head. I quickly stepped forward to pet her neck, cooing reassurance to her.
At that moment, she turned her head and met mine with her fuzzy mouth. Her big horse lips gently brushed my forehead. As she pulled away, a huge blob of green horse spit stayed with me, oozing down my face and my freshly blown and styled doo. Globs of saliva quickly smeared my glasses from the inside. I was completely blinded by freshly masticated grass and mouth slime.
"ACK!" I shouted, startling the mare. One huge thoroughbred leap sideways, and we were both a dozen feet from the trailer. My hands stung through my leather gloves, but I didn't let go.
Alex came back with a bucket full of grain. I was too distracted to pay much attention as I tried desperately to clear my glasses of the frightening sticky-green slug that was trying to eat my eyeballs. Alex climbed into the front of the trailer and began to shake the bucket.
This poor, frightened mare, who, seconds earlier was too scared to get within five feet of the trailer door, marched up to the ramp like she'd done it every day of her life, put a foot on the wood planks, hesitated for about a millisecond, then stepped right in and walked all the way to Alex's outstretched offering. Her head immediately disappeared into the bucket.
John quietly closed the door behind us. I petted her for a bit, but her attention was happily elsewhere. Alex gave me that look... the one that teenagers give their parents when they first suspect that their parents may actually be idiots.
John was still standing guard at the door. I slipped out and he locked it closed behind me. I turned to him to talk about what Alex had just done. He glanced at my face, and suddenly started turning red. He was trying SO hard not to laugh! But seeing a huge blob of green horse slime slowly oozing down your wife's forehead is apparently pretty funny. It was not so funny from where I was standing. Good for him that he was more than an arm's length away.
I was late to the office. Four minutes late to be exact. But it takes a little time to wash lime colored toxic goo from a hairdo. My hair was flat and wet as I drove 80 miles an hour down E470. A rolled down window took care of the wet, but I went from dressed for success, to dressed as a mess.
We won't talk about what I found on my freshly polished shoes when I sat down at my office desk.
I sure am glad my boss has a sense of humor....
-Kris
www.GrandPrixAndalusians.com
Saturdays are always busy. My job is in demand most often when folks are not at their own jobs.
Today was no exception. I had floor duty at my real estate office for half a day, first thing in the morning, and an appointment in the afternoon. John had promised to transport home a thoroughbred mare we'd just finished breeding to Teme, and then he had hypnosis clients for the rest of the day. Alex was in limbo, not sure which one of us he was going to be forced to accompany, but made it clear if it was up to him he would just stay home and play video games all day.
We were up early. John got the horses fed and drove off with the truck to get the tank filled with gas and the tires filled with air. Alex helped by feeding Teme and his mini-mare, Ripley. I was in charge of breakfast, which these days consists of "green slime" and protein powder. (Don't ask...)
While the boys were busy outside, I picked out my most professional clothes, polished my shoes, ironed my blouse, and then jumped in the shower. The blow-dryer whined as I carefully styled my hair, fluffing it just-so, adding just the right touch of hairspray so it would hold the delicate lift over my bangs. I noticed I needed a hair cut, but with a flip of the brush and a spritz of spray, I got it to look just right. A little touch of makeup and I was ready to go.
I trotted down the stairs and as I passed the open window in the kitchen, I heard a commotion outside. John was not happy. For such a gentle, quiet guy, he has a real knack for turning the air blue. It doesn't happen often, but when he lets loose it can be pretty impressive. I suppose it comes from a long career in the Army, and then another long career as a cop. Four letter words are part of the common vernacular in both of those professions. I have no idea why.
Anyway, I didn't have to spend much time analyzing to figure out what was going on. John's schedule was even tighter than mine, and a balky horse was not on the agenda. She was NOT going to get into the trailer, and in true thoroughbred fashion, she was galloping tight circles around a very frustrated and angry man.
I grinned. This was my specialty. I've yet to find a horse I could not eventually coax into a trailer. Some take longer than others, but a lifetime of practice and a dozen or so clinics had earned me some confidence in this area.
I was needed. My heart swelled two sizes.
I was dressed for success, not for loading an upset horse. To save my nice clothes, I simply donned my horsehair-covered barn jacket and buttoned it tight. I was pulling on my leather gloves as I marched out to the trailer.
"Take a deep breath, John..." I admonished, trying not to sound as condescending as I felt. "She's obviously frightened. Here, give her to me." John hung his head and gave me a sheepish grin.
"I think she scared me a little," he admitted.
It takes a secure man to admit such a thing. Both of us are pretty level headed people, but both of us tend to demonstrate anger when we are actually afraid. It is a very valuable thing to be aware of. I suspect it is something all cops learn to do...after all, you NEVER show fear on the job. It's just not done. Not to your co-workers and certainly not to the citizenry. Frankly, you don't even show it to yourself. You can't afford to. One of the advantages of marrying someone who has also been on the job is that you understand little things like that.
I took deep breath and let it out in a loud blow. In horse language, that means, "hey..it's okay. You can relax now." She heard me loud and clear. True to her predicable species, she stopped jigging, dropped her head and let me scratch her neck.
We stood there a couple seconds simply breathing together. When I thought she was ready, I asked her to take a step toward the trailer. She complied. Then I turned her and lead her a few steps away, both of our backs to the trailer door. In horse language I just said, "hey... just move toward our goal a little bit, and I will reward you with a release of stress about the whole idea." She immediately relaxed and put her attention on the new spring grass. I continued to blow with my breath, forcing the air out as loud as I could, watching as her upset visibly dissolved. At this point I was feeling quite smug.
Alex was holding the trailer door steady, watching. He looked at John and said, "She really likes grain. How about we get some grain and lead her in with it?"
As the adult, all-knowing parents, we smiled tolerantly at our only offspring and both said, almost simultaneously, "No Alex. That won't work." We'd both witnesses people try for hours to get horses in trailers using the carrot or apple on a stick idea. While it might get them closer, I'd not met a horse yet who's stomach could override their fear of that dark, confined space.
I took my time and inched the mare closer to the trailer. Every willing movement forward was rewarded with a step or two away, as a release. It was taking forever, but we had calm, cooperative progress.
Time was running out. I was getting nervous about being late. I hate being late. I mean, I really hate it. Comes from being publicly humiliated by my high school drama teacher when I was late for a rehearsal. From that day forward, at least up until motherhood changed everything, I was chronically early everywhere I went.
I was not going to be early today.
The mare was happy to munch the new grass, and was pretty calm by this time. I knew we would succeed, but I had no idea how long it was going to take. Alex looked a bit bored and tired of the whole thing. He looked at John and said, "Dad, would you hold the door?"
John took door duty, and Alex marched off toward the barn. The mare, startled at the movement, lifted her dark, lovely head. I quickly stepped forward to pet her neck, cooing reassurance to her.
At that moment, she turned her head and met mine with her fuzzy mouth. Her big horse lips gently brushed my forehead. As she pulled away, a huge blob of green horse spit stayed with me, oozing down my face and my freshly blown and styled doo. Globs of saliva quickly smeared my glasses from the inside. I was completely blinded by freshly masticated grass and mouth slime.
"ACK!" I shouted, startling the mare. One huge thoroughbred leap sideways, and we were both a dozen feet from the trailer. My hands stung through my leather gloves, but I didn't let go.
Alex came back with a bucket full of grain. I was too distracted to pay much attention as I tried desperately to clear my glasses of the frightening sticky-green slug that was trying to eat my eyeballs. Alex climbed into the front of the trailer and began to shake the bucket.
This poor, frightened mare, who, seconds earlier was too scared to get within five feet of the trailer door, marched up to the ramp like she'd done it every day of her life, put a foot on the wood planks, hesitated for about a millisecond, then stepped right in and walked all the way to Alex's outstretched offering. Her head immediately disappeared into the bucket.
John quietly closed the door behind us. I petted her for a bit, but her attention was happily elsewhere. Alex gave me that look... the one that teenagers give their parents when they first suspect that their parents may actually be idiots.
John was still standing guard at the door. I slipped out and he locked it closed behind me. I turned to him to talk about what Alex had just done. He glanced at my face, and suddenly started turning red. He was trying SO hard not to laugh! But seeing a huge blob of green horse slime slowly oozing down your wife's forehead is apparently pretty funny. It was not so funny from where I was standing. Good for him that he was more than an arm's length away.
I was late to the office. Four minutes late to be exact. But it takes a little time to wash lime colored toxic goo from a hairdo. My hair was flat and wet as I drove 80 miles an hour down E470. A rolled down window took care of the wet, but I went from dressed for success, to dressed as a mess.
We won't talk about what I found on my freshly polished shoes when I sat down at my office desk.
I sure am glad my boss has a sense of humor....
-Kris
www.GrandPrixAndalusians.com
Square Horse in a Round Pen
A Square Horse in a Round Pen
I found that I have a square horse who doesn't care for the round pen.
Some people think the round pen is the magic tool of the horse whisperer. You can train a horse by allowing this flight-response, prey animal to do what it is wired by nature to do, and that is RUN. All the while, the wall of corral panels controls WHERE he runs, specifically, in a never ending circle. Your rope or whip or whatever you had that encouraged the horse to run in the first place, will always be able to reach the panicked animal because the circle is all they have. There is no where else for them to go.
John Lyons was my first round-pen guru. It was the 1980's and the name Parelli had not yet touched my ears. My soon-to-be husband and I went to the National Western Events Center and watched this soft spoken cowboy run a myriad of horses around the round pen, accurately predicting each move the horse was going to make before the horse made it. He was a master, not only of the horses, but of the crowd. I was more than a little impressed. Horse Master Lyons took a totally green, unbroken horse and rode him calmly and quietly in about two hours. Then he took a dangerous, lathered, rogue horse and put him in the scary monster horse trailer in a matter of twenty minutes. Yes, I did come away with an armload of books and videos. "Carrot Sticks" and not been invented yet. Thank goodness or I'd have been out another $32.95.
I saw a whole lot more of round pens, "natural" horse trainers, and orange whips over the next twenty years. I even own a round pen. I nearly tore it down the day I spent 30 minutes being chased by a "natural horsemanship" trainer around and around the pen while he shook his plastic Walmart bag on a stick at my horse. He'd taken away my bridle and left me clinging to my dressage saddle while I tried desperately to stay on my very angry Andalusian mare. He shook his bag in her face and switched her back and forth in cutting horse turns with increasing speed at every switch. I would have killed for a saddle horn. My mare's ears where pinned tight to her head as she faced the crackling bag, ready to stomp the idiot holding it if he was just give her the opening. He was doing this to cure me from my fear of riding. I never have figured out how that was supposed to work. When I shouted that I was scared to death and to please stop, his reply was, "just ride through it!" In short order I jumped off my moving horse, somehow landing on my feet. I left him standing in the round pen as I ran into my house and hid behind the couch. Two boxes of Kleenex later, I told my husband the horses had to go. I was never getting on the back of a horse again. And I meant NEVER, like for the rest my life.
Within a couple of years, the weeds in the round pen were taller than the corral panels. And we
didn't sell the horses. We started breeding more of them. You'd have to be a horse addict to understand how that happens. You see, a horse addict does not
have to RIDE them, but they will whither and die inside if they are not around them. You think
I'm kidding, don't you... I'm not kidding. It is a sickness just as powerful as smoking or
alcohol or a cocaine addiction. Somehow, I was lucky enough to marry a man who either
understands this, or just simply loves me enough to allow me this illness and not throw me out in
the street along with the hay and vet bills.
Oops.. I digress. Let's fast forward to today....
Grandezo... a name that is full of nobility and promise. I love that name. I found it in the Spanish dictionary the same day I found the horse that bears it. It means, "grandeur." He
is a grand fellow, a rare pure Spanish Andalusian. And a stallion. Okay, he's just a yearling, but he is a STALLION yearling! He is bay, with a black sire and a bay mother. His glossy black daddy is the stuff of fairy tales. He makes me swoon just looking at his picture. Thanks to his father's DNA, there is a good chance Grandezo will father babies who are truly black... a rarity in the Andalusian breed. Oh, there are a few around, but finding a real quality black purebred Andalusian is difficult in a breed where 80% are gray, 15% are bay, and only 5% are black. We expect our fellow to up that 5% in short order, and have our fingers crossed that he will throw is exceptional quality along with the color. A breeder's perfect scenario. Have I mentioned crossed fingers yet? I've discovered that it is hard to type with your fingers like that...
Grandezo is a square. I mean that he is pretty boring. He is very calm and sweet, and does pretty much whatever I ask of him, which isn't much considering he is only a year old and not broke to ride yet. We ask things like, go in that pen to eat, and don't step on my foot. That kind of thing. He's the kind of guy who, if he was human, would sit at the front of the class and sharpen pencils for the teacher, just to earn brownie points. Like a said, he is a square.
I have some time on my hands right now. My real estate business is pretty slow. (Any of you want to buy or sell a house??) But I have 14 horses and I need to work with them before they become spoiled brats. Grandezo is supposed to be our new herd stallion in a few years, so he was the obvious candidate to trod down the weeds in the round pen. After all, it would be suicide to wait until he has testosterone poisoning before I tell him that, despite all the coddling and submissive behavior I've inadvertently projected, I am the BOSS MARE, also known as, "SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED!"
Have you ever heard a horse laugh?
As I said, Grandezo is like the good kid at school. He is not into confrontation. He will go along with the flow, happy to have his oats and is looking forward to sewing a few someday. He doesn't ask for much. Just something to eat, water to drink, and a few buddies to play "Wild Stallion of the Cimarron" with. He'll lead, tie, go in the trailer, even stand for a cold hose bath. I think he does it because he respects me. But, like the smart kid in school, he knows he is smart, knows how the play the game quite well, and just chooses to avoid confrontation.
Enter the ROUND PEN!
The round pen is all about confrontation. You see, in horse language, he who makes the other guy move, is the boss horse. It's that simple. A "horse whisperer" uses this knowledge to silently, and generally only with body language or with a simple stick or rope, inform the horse that HE (or SHE), the HUMAN, is the "Boss" because he can make the horse move his feet. Every time a person makes a horse move his feet, the horse is clearly being told, "I'm the boss, and you must submit to me." At least, that's what they say at the clinics.
As a flight animal, it is not hard to make a horse move his feet. You can throw something, you can yell at them, you can chase them with a crackly plastic Walmart bag on a stick, or you can take a whip and make scary sounds by slicing the air and smacking the ground. Or you can even go so far as to hit them with the whip. I've yet to see a horse who would not run if encouraged enough.
I'm generally a gentle person. I don't care to hit my horses. At least, unless I really think I am in danger. And I certainly don't see Grandezo as dangerous. I also don't believe in running a horse around in a circle until they are exhausted. The tight circle it just too hard on their legs, especially the young horses. I prefer to keep it quiet and slow, just asking for forward movement without fear or stress. A walk in the park.
I swing my short variation of a lunge whip (okay, okay, it is a cheap rip-off copy of the Parelli "carrot stick" whip... are you satisfied???) at him and he trots nicely and calmly around and around the pen. No upset, no stress, no running 'till he drops.
I've watched the videos. I've been to the clinics. I've read the books. I watched a very good ground work trainer that very morning work with John's new horse. I know that I'm looking for licking and chewing, and a lowered head carriage. I watch for those silent horse language signs that mean, "please let me stop.... Uncle! Uncle! I give up!" Then I know that my buddy on four feet has accepted me as "BOSS" and he will forever and ever "OBEY" me.
It's taking a long time. It is rather hot outside. I wish I'd thought to put on a hat. My eyes are burning. I've already ridden three horses today, and I'm pretty tired. Geeze... I should have had a Gatorade before I started this. Oh dear, my lips are really cracked! Sunburn. Ya know.. it really IS hot out here! Oh come on, Grandezo, give me a sign! A sign! A sign! PLEASE!
Was that licking? Was that a chew? I'll take that as a yes! I turn my shoulder to him and bend at the waist, "inviting" him to stop and talk to me. He's a very smart horse. He looks at me, then comes right to me and stops a step away. I'm thrilled! I take that step to him and pet his lovely forehead. I'm gloating. Yep....I'm a "Whisperer..." I'm two inches taller now. I step to the left. Yep... just like Master Lyons would have predicted, Grandezo does a perfect turn on the haunches and his front feet follow me two steps to the left. I move to the right. He looks left and walks away, his butt in my face.
Wait a minute! That's not right. Okay, he just blew me off. I really hate that. It is SO disrespectful! He forgot that I am the Boss! I mean THE Boss! Well, (I huff) if he's going to do that, then he has to MOVE HIS FEET! I'll tell him who's Boss! I yell and swing my little lunge whip at his hip. He trots off. That'll teach him!
Around and around. Good god it's hot. My feet are killing me. A lick? Was that a lick I saw? Good enough! I turn my shoulder and bend at the waist. He comes in immediately. Smart horse. I walk to the left two steps. He steps with me. I walk to the right. He's gone, head down, tasting what's left of the smashed up weed stumps. My confidence sags and I shrink two inches.
Again ... around and around.. patience. Patience. Patience. The horse trainer's best friend. I forgot to fill up on patience before I started this. Can you buy it in a bottle? Jack Daniel's, perhaps? I'm getting irritated. We do the same scenario FIVE TIMES! He'll come to me to the left, the side he has always be lead from and haltered from, but to the right? No way. He gives me the horsie equivalent of the middle finger every time.
I need another video. A new book, perhaps. An emergency call to the trainer? Oh my ... what do I do?
One more time. I'm insistent. I push him, still at the slow trot. I don't want to push his young legs hard in the round pen. I could damage him for life if I do this too much. But he is winning, and I can't stop here. If he wins now, what will he be like tomorrow? At three? When he is an adult and starts breeding, and testosterone poisoning has taken over his brain? No.. I can't quit. Just keep it soft and easy. Don't push him hard, just keep his feet moving.
One more time. He steps to the left, Perfect. Then I move to the right. A light bulb goes off! His eyes open a little wider. He looks at me. There it was, flashing in his dialating pupils… "Oh my GOD!" he says! "You're trying to…. DOMINATE ME!"
"Ummmm Yes.. well... uh... yep, that's the idea. You see, I move your feet, and then you're dominated. Didn't you read the Monty Robert's brochure I left under your alfalfa last night?" I reply, hopefully.
"Over my dead body!" his eyes scream! He leaps across the little round pen at a dead run! Around and around as fast as he can go, dust flying, sand spitting in my face, bits of mashed up weeds falling like sticky green rain.
He must escape! Can he jump this fence? He body slams one of the unforgiving mental panels when he chickens out at the last minute. Around and around he runs until his quivering body is glistening with sweat.
I just stand there, my mouth open, catching green rain and dirt. I hardly notice. I'm not swinging my little whip, I'm not asking him to move his feet. I'm just silently praying to the horse goddess Epona that she impress upon him the notion that trying to jump a six foot panel fence is definitely NOT the thing to do right now. I sure wish I had paid up his insurance policy. This could get ugly.
I've never seen this gorgeous boy upset before. My heart hurts. I don't like it. I realize that all that cooperation I saw before was him playing a game with his fellow herd-mate. I'm just part of the herd, and nowhere near Boss Mare. He did what I asked because that's what he does. He didn't need me to "dominate" him to get him to be cooperative, at least up to a point. But once he fully understood what I was doing, it blew his sweet little mind!
And here is where I had to make a decision. If I quit, he won. He would be dominant in our little herd of two and four legged members. If I didn't quit, he could get hurt, or end up dead with a broken leg or something. This colt is to eventually be a breeding stallion as well as a show horse. He MUST respect humans or he could end up very, very dangerous. That is not good for him, and not good for his humans. It was time for tough love. I hated it, but I am sure it was the right decision. I was going to win, or one of us was goin' down.
Grandezo finally got tired. Thank you, Epona! His frantic gallop had slowed to a canter. I followed his progress around the pen but did not push at him until he slowed to a trot. Then I asked him to keep trotting for one full circle around the pen. I wanted him to think it was MY idea that he keep going. When I was sure I had his attention, I turned my shoulder to him and bent over, inviting him to come to me. He had one eye and one ear turned my direction. He was thinking. It took another full circle around the pen for him to make his decision. He slowed to a walk, and with his head nearly to the ground, he came to me. I petted his sweaty head and took two steps to the left. He came with me. I took a deep breath and took two steps to the right. He stayed with me as though glued to my hip. I took two more steps to the right. He stuck with me. I walked in a circle to the right to the center of the pen with my beautiful boy right at my side,
no halter, no lead rope, just his mind attached to mine. I grew back that two inches in height I had lost ten minutes earlier.
He followed me to the gate where his halter was waiting. I put it on. We walked out of the round pen together, both sweaty and tired. A few steps away from the pen I stopped, gave him a big grateful hug, and took off the halter. I turned away and headed for the barn with him still on my tail. It was feeding time.
Boy, that Gatorade tasted good.
Kris
I found that I have a square horse who doesn't care for the round pen.
Some people think the round pen is the magic tool of the horse whisperer. You can train a horse by allowing this flight-response, prey animal to do what it is wired by nature to do, and that is RUN. All the while, the wall of corral panels controls WHERE he runs, specifically, in a never ending circle. Your rope or whip or whatever you had that encouraged the horse to run in the first place, will always be able to reach the panicked animal because the circle is all they have. There is no where else for them to go.
John Lyons was my first round-pen guru. It was the 1980's and the name Parelli had not yet touched my ears. My soon-to-be husband and I went to the National Western Events Center and watched this soft spoken cowboy run a myriad of horses around the round pen, accurately predicting each move the horse was going to make before the horse made it. He was a master, not only of the horses, but of the crowd. I was more than a little impressed. Horse Master Lyons took a totally green, unbroken horse and rode him calmly and quietly in about two hours. Then he took a dangerous, lathered, rogue horse and put him in the scary monster horse trailer in a matter of twenty minutes. Yes, I did come away with an armload of books and videos. "Carrot Sticks" and not been invented yet. Thank goodness or I'd have been out another $32.95.
I saw a whole lot more of round pens, "natural" horse trainers, and orange whips over the next twenty years. I even own a round pen. I nearly tore it down the day I spent 30 minutes being chased by a "natural horsemanship" trainer around and around the pen while he shook his plastic Walmart bag on a stick at my horse. He'd taken away my bridle and left me clinging to my dressage saddle while I tried desperately to stay on my very angry Andalusian mare. He shook his bag in her face and switched her back and forth in cutting horse turns with increasing speed at every switch. I would have killed for a saddle horn. My mare's ears where pinned tight to her head as she faced the crackling bag, ready to stomp the idiot holding it if he was just give her the opening. He was doing this to cure me from my fear of riding. I never have figured out how that was supposed to work. When I shouted that I was scared to death and to please stop, his reply was, "just ride through it!" In short order I jumped off my moving horse, somehow landing on my feet. I left him standing in the round pen as I ran into my house and hid behind the couch. Two boxes of Kleenex later, I told my husband the horses had to go. I was never getting on the back of a horse again. And I meant NEVER, like for the rest my life.
Within a couple of years, the weeds in the round pen were taller than the corral panels. And we
didn't sell the horses. We started breeding more of them. You'd have to be a horse addict to understand how that happens. You see, a horse addict does not
have to RIDE them, but they will whither and die inside if they are not around them. You think
I'm kidding, don't you... I'm not kidding. It is a sickness just as powerful as smoking or
alcohol or a cocaine addiction. Somehow, I was lucky enough to marry a man who either
understands this, or just simply loves me enough to allow me this illness and not throw me out in
the street along with the hay and vet bills.
Oops.. I digress. Let's fast forward to today....
Grandezo... a name that is full of nobility and promise. I love that name. I found it in the Spanish dictionary the same day I found the horse that bears it. It means, "grandeur." He
is a grand fellow, a rare pure Spanish Andalusian. And a stallion. Okay, he's just a yearling, but he is a STALLION yearling! He is bay, with a black sire and a bay mother. His glossy black daddy is the stuff of fairy tales. He makes me swoon just looking at his picture. Thanks to his father's DNA, there is a good chance Grandezo will father babies who are truly black... a rarity in the Andalusian breed. Oh, there are a few around, but finding a real quality black purebred Andalusian is difficult in a breed where 80% are gray, 15% are bay, and only 5% are black. We expect our fellow to up that 5% in short order, and have our fingers crossed that he will throw is exceptional quality along with the color. A breeder's perfect scenario. Have I mentioned crossed fingers yet? I've discovered that it is hard to type with your fingers like that...
Grandezo is a square. I mean that he is pretty boring. He is very calm and sweet, and does pretty much whatever I ask of him, which isn't much considering he is only a year old and not broke to ride yet. We ask things like, go in that pen to eat, and don't step on my foot. That kind of thing. He's the kind of guy who, if he was human, would sit at the front of the class and sharpen pencils for the teacher, just to earn brownie points. Like a said, he is a square.
I have some time on my hands right now. My real estate business is pretty slow. (Any of you want to buy or sell a house??
Have you ever heard a horse laugh?
As I said, Grandezo is like the good kid at school. He is not into confrontation. He will go along with the flow, happy to have his oats and is looking forward to sewing a few someday. He doesn't ask for much. Just something to eat, water to drink, and a few buddies to play "Wild Stallion of the Cimarron" with. He'll lead, tie, go in the trailer, even stand for a cold hose bath. I think he does it because he respects me. But, like the smart kid in school, he knows he is smart, knows how the play the game quite well, and just chooses to avoid confrontation.
Enter
The round pen is all about confrontation. You see, in horse language, he who makes the other guy move, is the boss horse. It's that simple. A "horse whisperer" uses this knowledge to silently, and generally only with body language or with a simple stick or rope, inform the horse that HE (or SHE), the HUMAN, is the "Boss" because he can make the horse move his feet. Every time a person makes a horse move his feet, the horse is clearly being told, "I'm the boss, and you must submit to me." At least, that's what they say at the clinics.
As a flight animal, it is not hard to make a horse move his feet. You can throw something, you can yell at them, you can chase them with a crackly plastic Walmart bag on a stick, or you can take a whip and make scary sounds by slicing the air and smacking the ground. Or you can even go so far as to hit them with the whip. I've yet to see a horse who would not run if encouraged enough.
I'm generally a gentle person. I don't care to hit my horses. At least, unless I really think I am in danger. And I certainly don't see Grandezo as dangerous. I also don't believe in running a horse around in a circle until they are exhausted. The tight circle it just too hard on their legs, especially the young horses. I prefer to keep it quiet and slow, just asking for forward movement without fear or stress. A walk in the park.
I swing my short variation of a lunge whip (okay, okay, it is a cheap rip-off copy of the Parelli "carrot stick" whip... are you satisfied???) at him and he trots nicely and calmly around and around the pen. No upset, no stress, no running 'till he drops.
I've watched the videos. I've been to the clinics. I've read the books. I watched a very good ground work trainer that very morning work with John's new horse. I know that I'm looking for licking and chewing, and a lowered head carriage. I watch for those silent horse language signs that mean, "please let me stop.... Uncle! Uncle! I give up!" Then I know that my buddy on four feet has accepted me as "BOSS" and he will forever and ever "OBEY" me.
It's taking a long time. It is rather hot outside. I wish I'd thought to put on a hat. My eyes are burning. I've already ridden three horses today, and I'm pretty tired. Geeze... I should have had a Gatorade before I started this. Oh dear, my lips are really cracked! Sunburn. Ya know.. it really IS hot out here! Oh come on, Grandezo, give me a sign! A sign! A sign! PLEASE!
Was that licking? Was that a chew? I'll take that as a yes! I turn my shoulder to him and bend at the waist, "inviting" him to stop and talk to me. He's a very smart horse. He looks at me, then comes right to me and stops a step away. I'm thrilled! I take that step to him and pet his lovely forehead. I'm gloating. Yep....I'm a "Whisperer..." I'm two inches taller now. I step to the left. Yep... just like Master Lyons would have predicted, Grandezo does a perfect turn on the haunches and his front feet follow me two steps to the left. I move to the right. He looks left and walks away, his butt in my face.
Wait a minute! That's not right. Okay, he just blew me off. I really hate that. It is SO disrespectful! He forgot that I am the Boss! I mean THE Boss! Well, (I huff) if he's going to do that, then he has to MOVE HIS FEET! I'll tell him who's Boss! I yell and swing my little lunge whip at his hip. He trots off. That'll teach him!
Around and around. Good god it's hot. My feet are killing me. A lick? Was that a lick I saw? Good enough! I turn my shoulder and bend at the waist. He comes in immediately. Smart horse. I walk to the left two steps. He steps with me. I walk to the right. He's gone, head down, tasting what's left of the smashed up weed stumps. My confidence sags and I shrink two inches.
Again ... around and around.. patience. Patience. Patience. The horse trainer's best friend. I forgot to fill up on patience before I started this. Can you buy it in a bottle? Jack Daniel's, perhaps? I'm getting irritated. We do the same scenario FIVE TIMES! He'll come to me to the left, the side he has always be lead from and haltered from, but to the right? No way. He gives me the horsie equivalent of the middle finger every time.
I need another video. A new book, perhaps. An emergency call to the trainer? Oh my ... what do I do?
One more time. I'm insistent. I push him, still at the slow trot. I don't want to push his young legs hard in the round pen. I could damage him for life if I do this too much. But he is winning, and I can't stop here. If he wins now, what will he be like tomorrow? At three? When he is an adult and starts breeding, and testosterone poisoning has taken over his brain? No.. I can't quit. Just keep it soft and easy. Don't push him hard, just keep his feet moving.
One more time. He steps to the left, Perfect. Then I move to the right. A light bulb goes off! His eyes open a little wider. He looks at me. There it was, flashing in his dialating pupils… "Oh my GOD!" he says! "You're trying to…. DOMINATE ME!"
"Ummmm Yes.. well... uh... yep, that's the idea. You see, I move your feet, and then you're dominated. Didn't you read the Monty Robert's brochure I left under your alfalfa last night?" I reply, hopefully.
"Over my dead body!" his eyes scream! He leaps across the little round pen at a dead run! Around and around as fast as he can go, dust flying, sand spitting in my face, bits of mashed up weeds falling like sticky green rain.
He must escape! Can he jump this fence? He body slams one of the unforgiving mental panels when he chickens out at the last minute. Around and around he runs until his quivering body is glistening with sweat.
I just stand there, my mouth open, catching green rain and dirt. I hardly notice. I'm not swinging my little whip, I'm not asking him to move his feet. I'm just silently praying to the horse goddess Epona that she impress upon him the notion that trying to jump a six foot panel fence is definitely NOT the thing to do right now. I sure wish I had paid up his insurance policy. This could get ugly.
I've never seen this gorgeous boy upset before. My heart hurts. I don't like it. I realize that all that cooperation I saw before was him playing a game with his fellow herd-mate. I'm just part of the herd, and nowhere near Boss Mare. He did what I asked because that's what he does. He didn't need me to "dominate" him to get him to be cooperative, at least up to a point. But once he fully understood what I was doing, it blew his sweet little mind!
And here is where I had to make a decision. If I quit, he won. He would be dominant in our little herd of two and four legged members. If I didn't quit, he could get hurt, or end up dead with a broken leg or something. This colt is to eventually be a breeding stallion as well as a show horse. He MUST respect humans or he could end up very, very dangerous. That is not good for him, and not good for his humans. It was time for tough love. I hated it, but I am sure it was the right decision. I was going to win, or one of us was goin' down.
Grandezo finally got tired. Thank you, Epona! His frantic gallop had slowed to a canter. I followed his progress around the pen but did not push at him until he slowed to a trot. Then I asked him to keep trotting for one full circle around the pen. I wanted him to think it was MY idea that he keep going. When I was sure I had his attention, I turned my shoulder to him and bent over, inviting him to come to me. He had one eye and one ear turned my direction. He was thinking. It took another full circle around the pen for him to make his decision. He slowed to a walk, and with his head nearly to the ground, he came to me. I petted his sweaty head and took two steps to the left. He came with me. I took a deep breath and took two steps to the right. He stayed with me as though glued to my hip. I took two more steps to the right. He stuck with me. I walked in a circle to the right to the center of the pen with my beautiful boy right at my side,
no halter, no lead rope, just his mind attached to mine. I grew back that two inches in height I had lost ten minutes earlier.
He followed me to the gate where his halter was waiting. I put it on. We walked out of the round pen together, both sweaty and tired. A few steps away from the pen I stopped, gave him a big grateful hug, and took off the halter. I turned away and headed for the barn with him still on my tail. It was feeding time.
Boy, that Gatorade tasted good.
Kris
I Hung Up My Bridle Today
I Hung up my Bridle Today
by Kris Garrett
11-11-09
Yesterday, for the first time, I was too tired to ride
Yesterday, for the first time, I was afraid I would be hurt if I was thrown
Yesterday, for the first time, I heard someone say my barn was too shabby
Yesterday, for the first time, I let someone tell me I was too pudgy to ride
Yesterday, for the first time, I realized I was old
Yesterday, for the first time, I had to face that I could no longer keep up
Yesterday, for the first time, I had to let go of my dreams
Yesterday, for the first time, I felt my heart break
Yesterday, for the first time, I turned my back on my friend
Yesterday, for the first time, I knew I was done
Today, for the last time, I felt warm, braided leather in my hands.
Today, for the last time, I ran my stirrups up so they wouldn't bang my mare's sides
Today, for the last time, I released the buckles on the girth and watched my girl sigh
Today, for the last time, I slowly dropped the bit so it wouldn't hit her teeth
Today, for the last time, I gave my mare a cookie to thank her for the ride
Today, for the last time, I buried my head in her soft, warm neck
Today, for the last time, I inhaled the sun and the dust in her long winter coat
Today, for the last time, I closed the gate and trudged to the muddy porch
Today, for the last time, I tracked hay and horse hair into my house
Today, for the last time, I pulled off my boots and felt the sting of warm blood returning to my cold toes
Today, for the first time, I cried after my ride
Today, for the first time, I felt my hands shake as I set the saddle on its rack
Today, for the first time, I hugged my young trainer a final goodbye
Today, for the first time, I waited for the new owner's trailer to arrive
Today, for the first time, I set my boots in a box to go to the Goodwill
Today, for the first time, I sighed at the wear on my riding gloves
Today, for the first time, I had no hay in my hair
Today, for the first time, I did not hear nickering when I opened my back door
Today, for the first time, I felt worse leaving the barn that I did when I entered
Today, for the first time, I had no one to check on before going to bed
Tomorrow, for the first time, I won't have to buy hay
Tomorrow, for the first time, I can stay in bed longer
Tomorrow, for the first time, I won't see the poop pile grow
Tomorrow, for the first time, I won't be able to fly on four legs
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will be sorry I listened
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will regret letting her go
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will be angry at God
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will be angry at myself
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will cry the day away
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will be glad to die
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will awaken in tears
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will know I was wrong
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will defy all the judgment
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will ignore my old bones
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will return the buyer's check
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will bring my friend home
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will take my boots out of the box
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will be reborn
For the rest of my life, I will have a horse in my yard
For the rest of my life, I will ignore the ignorant judging
For the rest of my life, I will watch the poop pile grow
For the rest of my life, I will have hay in my hair
For the rest of my life, I will track mud in my house
For the rest of my life, I will bury my face in her soft neck
For the rest of my life, I will let my soul fly
For the rest of my life, I will never be alone
by Kris Garrett
11-11-09
Yesterday, for the first time, I was too tired to ride
Yesterday, for the first time, I was afraid I would be hurt if I was thrown
Yesterday, for the first time, I heard someone say my barn was too shabby
Yesterday, for the first time, I let someone tell me I was too pudgy to ride
Yesterday, for the first time, I realized I was old
Yesterday, for the first time, I had to face that I could no longer keep up
Yesterday, for the first time, I had to let go of my dreams
Yesterday, for the first time, I felt my heart break
Yesterday, for the first time, I turned my back on my friend
Yesterday, for the first time, I knew I was done
Today, for the last time, I felt warm, braided leather in my hands.
Today, for the last time, I ran my stirrups up so they wouldn't bang my mare's sides
Today, for the last time, I released the buckles on the girth and watched my girl sigh
Today, for the last time, I slowly dropped the bit so it wouldn't hit her teeth
Today, for the last time, I gave my mare a cookie to thank her for the ride
Today, for the last time, I buried my head in her soft, warm neck
Today, for the last time, I inhaled the sun and the dust in her long winter coat
Today, for the last time, I closed the gate and trudged to the muddy porch
Today, for the last time, I tracked hay and horse hair into my house
Today, for the last time, I pulled off my boots and felt the sting of warm blood returning to my cold toes
Today, for the first time, I cried after my ride
Today, for the first time, I felt my hands shake as I set the saddle on its rack
Today, for the first time, I hugged my young trainer a final goodbye
Today, for the first time, I waited for the new owner's trailer to arrive
Today, for the first time, I set my boots in a box to go to the Goodwill
Today, for the first time, I sighed at the wear on my riding gloves
Today, for the first time, I had no hay in my hair
Today, for the first time, I did not hear nickering when I opened my back door
Today, for the first time, I felt worse leaving the barn that I did when I entered
Today, for the first time, I had no one to check on before going to bed
Tomorrow, for the first time, I won't have to buy hay
Tomorrow, for the first time, I can stay in bed longer
Tomorrow, for the first time, I won't see the poop pile grow
Tomorrow, for the first time, I won't be able to fly on four legs
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will be sorry I listened
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will regret letting her go
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will be angry at God
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will be angry at myself
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will cry the day away
Tomorrow, for the first time, I will be glad to die
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will awaken in tears
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will know I was wrong
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will defy all the judgment
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will ignore my old bones
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will return the buyer's check
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will bring my friend home
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will take my boots out of the box
Day after tomorrow, for the first time, I will be reborn
For the rest of my life, I will have a horse in my yard
For the rest of my life, I will ignore the ignorant judging
For the rest of my life, I will watch the poop pile grow
For the rest of my life, I will have hay in my hair
For the rest of my life, I will track mud in my house
For the rest of my life, I will bury my face in her soft neck
For the rest of my life, I will let my soul fly
For the rest of my life, I will never be alone
Goats, Flies, and Baby Horses
Flies love fresh milk. They don't care if it is spilt on a straw bale or in a meticulously washed bucket. They simply love fresh, sweet milk. Come to think of it, they like old, sour milk too. Our local flies invited all their friends and neighbors to share in the feast. Every fly within a three mile radius is dining at our house this morning.
I hate flies. I mean I really hate them. I keep wondering what impact it would have on the ecosystem if God would only grant me my one wish and make all the flies on the planet disappear. I'm talking genocide here. I should be ashamed at the thought, but I'm not.
Foals like goat milk. Neblina (Spanish for Mist or Fog as she was born in the rain), my two-week old orphan filly, likes her milk fresh and warm. She will stand next to me and my son, watching us with huge brown eyes glowing with anticipation as we milk Annie the big Nubian goat. She is very polite, and will patiently wait for us to pour it directly into her pail. She will suck it down as fast as we can squeeze it out of the goat. She will drink the powdered Foal-Lac milk too, but not with nearly as much gusto as the goat milk. Oh.. and she knows if it has been previously frozen. The frozen stuff we bought from the goat rancher is not nearly as tasty, she says. She'll drink it, but hesitantly. No, she likes it fresh and warm from the goat. She has class...
Dogs like goat milk too. Our miniature pincher lapped up a spilt puddle of milk (yes, I now know where the phrase "no use crying over spilt milk" came from) and now she, too, waits by the milking stand. You can see it on her face, hoping Annie will kick at the pail and provide her with a fresh liquid breakfast. Annie is happy to oblige, the brat! You'll hear me turning the air blue when that happens. And yes, I've even cried about it, though there is no use in doing so. At least, that's what they say. Makes me feel a little better though....
Goats like people. At least Annie the goat does. She misses her herd, and I guess I'm the closest thing to a buddy she has at the moment. She seems to love me. A lot. She cries "MAAAMAAA" really loud when I leave her. I'm sure our neighbors are just thrilled at the noise. But her cries break my heart. Makes me think of my filly's mama every time, like Annie is verbally channeling Neblina's lonely feelings... I get that heart twinge every time I think of my lost golden girl, but I'm not crying so much anymore. I hope Argo is watching me from the ethers and is approving of how Annie and I are handling her motherly duties. I miss her. A lot.
Milk goats want to be milked. It must be uncomfortable when that udder gets full. We have to do it, rain or shine. There is no putting it off. Having to milk something without fail twice a day pulls the family together. Picture a young boy child, a milk goat, a little buckskin filly, and a small dog, all watching and waiting for the liquid gold as it slowly fills the pail from those amazingly large, squishy squirt guns. The milk is warm, frothy and white, full of butter fat and live enzymes. Nothing at all like the cow milk from the store. And yes, I've tasted it. I've been putting it in my coffee. I run it through a filter in a funnel and store it in an old orange Gatorade bottle. I've got a supply in my 'fridge. After a couple of days I stopped worrying about whether a fly had bathed in it first or not.
I like milk, even if it's goat milk. For five days now I've been tempted to go to the store and buy a box of surgery kid's cereal. It's been a long time since I've had the pleasure of a good bowl of sweet cereal. Cereal is no good when you can't put milk on it. I've got several boxes of stale year-old cereal taking up space in the pantry. Can't bear to throw them away, for some strange reason. We stopped drinking milk last year after finding out how bad commercial cow milk is for your body (full of hormones and pasteurized to the point it is absolutely dead....). But I can drink fresh goat milk without guilt, so maybe I can eat some cereal now. This milk is alive, and Annie is certainly not getting any outside hormones. I'd better hurry... I'm not going to do this milking thing forever.
My hands don't like milking. They are sore, both the skin and the squeezie muscles. I have to wash them over and over. They are dry, chapped, and icky looking. But, I gotta keep the milk as clean as possible, and my hands are part of that process. I would imagine Anne's teats are sore too. I feel like I'm too rough with her, but she doesn't seem to mind. Unless that is why she is kicking the pail over any chance she gets.
Milking is hard work. But the hardest part is the responsibility. I must get up early to milk the darned goat before anything else. Then do it again in the evening when I go out to feed the horses. Annie gives nearly a gallon a day, one squirt at a time. I am getting faster at it.. but it is still a lot of work. Once the baby is on adult food, it is going to seem really easy to take care of the horses. Maybe that is the gift in this. That, and a live, healthy baby filly.
I keep reminding myself that people have done this for centuries. No wonder they use to die in their late forties...
I need a nap. But I'd better go milk the goat first.
-Kris
I hate flies. I mean I really hate them. I keep wondering what impact it would have on the ecosystem if God would only grant me my one wish and make all the flies on the planet disappear. I'm talking genocide here. I should be ashamed at the thought, but I'm not.
Foals like goat milk. Neblina (Spanish for Mist or Fog as she was born in the rain), my two-week old orphan filly, likes her milk fresh and warm. She will stand next to me and my son, watching us with huge brown eyes glowing with anticipation as we milk Annie the big Nubian goat. She is very polite, and will patiently wait for us to pour it directly into her pail. She will suck it down as fast as we can squeeze it out of the goat. She will drink the powdered Foal-Lac milk too, but not with nearly as much gusto as the goat milk. Oh.. and she knows if it has been previously frozen. The frozen stuff we bought from the goat rancher is not nearly as tasty, she says. She'll drink it, but hesitantly. No, she likes it fresh and warm from the goat. She has class...
Dogs like goat milk too. Our miniature pincher lapped up a spilt puddle of milk (yes, I now know where the phrase "no use crying over spilt milk" came from) and now she, too, waits by the milking stand. You can see it on her face, hoping Annie will kick at the pail and provide her with a fresh liquid breakfast. Annie is happy to oblige, the brat! You'll hear me turning the air blue when that happens. And yes, I've even cried about it, though there is no use in doing so. At least, that's what they say. Makes me feel a little better though....
Goats like people. At least Annie the goat does. She misses her herd, and I guess I'm the closest thing to a buddy she has at the moment. She seems to love me. A lot. She cries "MAAAMAAA" really loud when I leave her. I'm sure our neighbors are just thrilled at the noise. But her cries break my heart. Makes me think of my filly's mama every time, like Annie is verbally channeling Neblina's lonely feelings... I get that heart twinge every time I think of my lost golden girl, but I'm not crying so much anymore. I hope Argo is watching me from the ethers and is approving of how Annie and I are handling her motherly duties. I miss her. A lot.
Milk goats want to be milked. It must be uncomfortable when that udder gets full. We have to do it, rain or shine. There is no putting it off. Having to milk something without fail twice a day pulls the family together. Picture a young boy child, a milk goat, a little buckskin filly, and a small dog, all watching and waiting for the liquid gold as it slowly fills the pail from those amazingly large, squishy squirt guns. The milk is warm, frothy and white, full of butter fat and live enzymes. Nothing at all like the cow milk from the store. And yes, I've tasted it. I've been putting it in my coffee. I run it through a filter in a funnel and store it in an old orange Gatorade bottle. I've got a supply in my 'fridge. After a couple of days I stopped worrying about whether a fly had bathed in it first or not.
I like milk, even if it's goat milk. For five days now I've been tempted to go to the store and buy a box of surgery kid's cereal. It's been a long time since I've had the pleasure of a good bowl of sweet cereal. Cereal is no good when you can't put milk on it. I've got several boxes of stale year-old cereal taking up space in the pantry. Can't bear to throw them away, for some strange reason. We stopped drinking milk last year after finding out how bad commercial cow milk is for your body (full of hormones and pasteurized to the point it is absolutely dead....). But I can drink fresh goat milk without guilt, so maybe I can eat some cereal now. This milk is alive, and Annie is certainly not getting any outside hormones. I'd better hurry... I'm not going to do this milking thing forever.
My hands don't like milking. They are sore, both the skin and the squeezie muscles. I have to wash them over and over. They are dry, chapped, and icky looking. But, I gotta keep the milk as clean as possible, and my hands are part of that process. I would imagine Anne's teats are sore too. I feel like I'm too rough with her, but she doesn't seem to mind. Unless that is why she is kicking the pail over any chance she gets.
Milking is hard work. But the hardest part is the responsibility. I must get up early to milk the darned goat before anything else. Then do it again in the evening when I go out to feed the horses. Annie gives nearly a gallon a day, one squirt at a time. I am getting faster at it.. but it is still a lot of work. Once the baby is on adult food, it is going to seem really easy to take care of the horses. Maybe that is the gift in this. That, and a live, healthy baby filly.
I keep reminding myself that people have done this for centuries. No wonder they use to die in their late forties...
I need a nap.
-Kris
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