Today was to have been a deep theory post. The last show may have been a watershed. I want to get it all down in a post a) to help organize my thoughts and b) as a matter of record to see if the understandings are permanent.
Unfortunately, coughing and sniffling are sapping energy from the system.
Fortunately, Ernest Cline‘s new book, Armada, downloaded today. Back tomorrow, or possibly Friday.
I’ve already gone on record as approving his first book, “Snaps to Ernest Cline for making Level Three of Ready Player One almost as relentless as the southern sun.” [Being Happy]
The Literary Horse reappears after many months away. Yeah! Happy dance! Writes five posts. Disappears again. Boo! Recently, I troll past to see if any activity. No sign. Again boo. Reread last few posts, including – hangs head in embarrassment – my own comments.
The post in question, Hello My Name Is…, is about remembering names and the difficulties thereof. My comment:
Met a new barn friend. Same name as my father’s girlfiend. Could NOT remember it. Called her by her horse’s name. Her horse was named Tubs.
Girlfriend. I meant girlFRIEND. Really. I promise.
I’m usually alone (I also carry a charged cell phone).
Most importantly, I’m near the kicky bits.
As compulsive as I am about safety, I have not heretofore used a helmet for groundwork. The mists of time do not reveal whether I had to lunge for my USPC B-test. If so, I wore a boots, helmet, & gloves, as per formal protocol. Otherwise, no. It would not have been a bad idea. Previous Horse was known to aim a flyer at one’s head during lunging.
On the TV coverage of the London Olympics cross-country day, one of the veterinary staff was wearing a helmet. I hadn’t seen this before. I will admit, it looked odd. Then I realized that her position might have required diving in where angels fear to tread. A stuck horse becomes free with the hooves the moment he or she starts to become unstuck. Made sense.
Share a Virtual Bottle. I tried for Rodney’s Saga, but it was rejected by the program, “Though that name may be beautiful, we don’t have it in our database.” I guess they want to prevent all manner of weirdness being written on virtual bottles. Find Your Name in Stores says I am out of luck for Rodney or Milton IRL.
“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone [Scholastic 1998]
They are the best of horses. They are the worst of horses. I don’t know which is which.
Each morning, the mare and I don our Red Hats and go for a stroll around the pasture. Mathilda is my husband’s 27-year-old Quarter Horse cross. Over the last 20 years, she’s had a brief career as a driving horse, a briefer career as an event horse, and long, successful career as a grass converter. She even tried backyard dressage with me. Despite her lack of overall talent, she was better at dressage than I was. She has the mind for it. Our story made USDFConnection as “Square Horses and Round Holes” [November 2008]. Now retired and arthritic, Mathilda benefits from regular walks to loosen her joints, plus it’s good for both sets of bones.
We are not building towards anything. Best case scenario is that she lives for another 10 years and we go for another 3,000+ walks. Far from resenting the chore, I look forward to the time to amble and ponder. I talk to myself. I swat flies. I rewrite troublesome text. Mathilda trundles along behind, snorting, stretching, and occasionally hocking bits of chewed carrot against the backs of my legs. Our only goal is to make it four times around. On days when one or the other of us isn’t up for it, we end early and try again the next day.
On the other hand, I had hoped to ride Rodney in the AEC this month. As I write this, horses are pulling into Chattahoochee Hills. Instead of dwelling, I grit my teeth and focus on our gains:
Rodney stands quietly ground-tied during grooming. Since he adores being fussed over, this was easy. He is getting the message that whichever side I am working on, the feet on that side stay firmly on the ground.
Rodney drops his head below my eye level to have a bridle or halter put on or taken off. He’s better about remembering during the off than the on.
Rodney accepts funny objects. When I rolled our blue exercise ball into the field, he put up his ears and trotted toward it. When I led him up to the ball, he put his nose on it and thought, Big, squishy, rubber thing. So? I kicked it around the field. I rolled it gently against his legs. I rolled it underneath his belly. I finally terminated the exercise as it was having so little impact.
Rodney is starting to jump sedately (in-hand. RS) In his former life, they claim he jumped 5’2″. I do not doubt it. Nor do I doubt that he would fly over anything at which I pointed him. However, he will not walk quietly over a crossrail. I am working on convincing him to use only the amount of energy required for the task at hand. There are times when you want afterburners: a mini-prix jumpoff, a Preliminary cross-country, a Second-level extended trot across the diagonal. Until then, he needs to learn to ration his energy.
In sum, I think Mathilda is a waste of time and space (don’t worry, the feeling is mutual), yet I have a lovely time with her each day. Rodney is everything I was looking for in a horse, yet everything about working with him makes me crazy.
Two steps forward – into my personal space.
Four steps backward – get the hell out of my personal space, done in double-time.
Rodney never needs this. It would be good if he did. He might be happier if he had the confidence to test his boundaries occasionally. On the other hand, I suspect Milton and I will be sharing refresher dances until one of us takes the dirt nap.
Virtual Brush Box 