Missing inner door panel & broken automatic window. One of many signs of age.
I love my truck but it is an ’89 that we have had for 18 years. The odometer has turned over so many times that it finally expired. The engine makes noises as if powered by asthmatic hamsters. The windshield leaks to the extent that I have to drive with a towel over my lap in the rain. An untraceable electrical problem kills the battery, makes starting unreliable, and means that if I put the lights on, I have to come straight home without stopping.
All of this is dealable with. I have lots of towels, drive slowly, don’t drive at night, and make sure it is plugged it in whenever I want to drive that day. However, the various small annoyances swarm into a psychological barrier that leaves me feeling trapped out here in the country.
My in-house mechanic says we will be looking at Ford F-250, with low frills (cloth seats over leather, etc.), strong towing package, but not a dually. We are open to used but haven’t found anything under 100,000 miles. He is debating gas vs. diesel. I am desperately hoping that if the new truck takes gas I will remember which fluid to put in what automobile. After pulling up to the same diesel pump for decades, I may forget.
MI-HM thinks this will be my last truck. I am of such an age that if I am still still shipping to shows in 20 years, he says he will gladly buy another. Challenge accepted.
A clear distinction between edible and inedible grass. Back when we had any of the former.
Standard writing advice says write what you know. Lately, I’ve known a lot of grass time.
Since we mowed the field, Mathilda has been a complete PIA about grazing. Nothing seems to please her. The mowed part is too short. The unmowed part is too long. She’s turned into Goldilocks with a mane. The real concern is when she gives up after 20 minutes and stalks 🙂 back to the barn. Trying to keep her out does not work. Once she’s decides she done, she’s done. You can imagine our concern when a disabled, underweight, geriatric mare refuses to eat. Is she colicking? Is she too tired? We have come to accept that she’s being an opinionated cow.
Pastures flourish with regular mowing and regular grazing. When Mathilda & Previous Horse were munching, the whole field was their buffet. Now Mathilda lives indoors a majority of the time and Rodney hangs out next to her during the daylight hours. He goes off to graze at night. Therefore the grass/tooth ratio has fallen out of whack. Mowing doesn’t seem to help.
Other Grassy Bits
In the ongoing debate between ebooks & the codex, grazing comes down firmly on the side of the printed book. While an illuminated ebook allows you to read at night, it attracts midges and dulls your nightsight. Not good for keeping a position lock on your charge. More importantly, you can’t swat flies with an ebook.
Know your role. When coming out of the barn or going back in, Mathilda knows she is on the end of a leadrope and follows obediently. When the two of you are in the grass, you are the one on the end of the rope and you had better behave accordingly.
The barrier outside Mathilda’s pen. The endpoint of all panic attacks.Back in the summer [Salt Mines], I gave vague hints about a new exercise. All will now be explained. The goal is to hand-walk Rodney around the pasture, for companionship, leading to running/trotting around the pasture, for dual exercise, leading to long walks under saddle, for fitness, leading to galloping heedlessly, um, conditioning work. A simple walk around his own field shouldn’t be a problem, right? Pfft [Thing].
The plan was to walk him with a leadrope around his neck (the hint) rather than a halter over his head. When he stressed, I would slip the rope off, let him go, finish the lap on my own, & retry with the next lap. I wanted him to work – to the extent that a stroll around the field is work – but not feel pressured. Forcing him to behave just tightens the tension spiral. If he was upset, I would give him space, thereby diffusing the stress level. It worked a bit. He was going farther from the barn and often grazing where I left him rather than running back.
Unfortunately, the plan had two fatal flaws. The first was identified by Hubby immediately. Rodney needs successes. He needs to know that he has done the right thing and thereby develop confidence in making his own decisions. (So he can save my amateur a** when I freeze mid-course.) Achieving a lap around the field would be a lack of negative (panicking, running) rather than a defined positive (negotiating the cones well [Somewhat]). A subtle but telling distinction.
What I have come to realize is that I need successes also, perhaps more. Rodney is satisfied with the status quo. He could be a fat & happy lawn ornament for the rest of his days. I think he’d be even more content with a job and the spoiling that would follow, but he doesn’t know that. If change is to occur, I must be the one to instigate it. Therefore, I require positive reinforcement to motivate me to haul my sorry self off the couch and out to the barn.
I was able to approach the exercise with utmost calm and patience. Really, if you knew me, you’d hardly recognize me. As we walked, I could observe but not place value judgments on his behavior. Today, he is tense in this spot. Okay. Yesterday, he made twice that distance, or half. Noted. Then I would inevitably push the envelope and he would go tearing back to the barn.
This I could not accept with equanimity. I took it far too personally. Whatever his reasons, barn sour, panic, or lack of training, watching him fly back to the barn was depressing, deflating, & demoralizing. It would take me weeks of wallowing to work up the reserves of Zen-like patience to try again.
I still think my reasoning is sound. If I could have maintained a Budda-level of detachment from the results, he would have gradually desensitized to the idea. Or I would have accumulated data on the parameters of what he will do and what causes him stress. Either way, beneficial. But no, all we accumulated were small steps of progress and gloomy, hair-tearing days of failure.
Enough. Even I can see that I have over-thought this to a standstill.
What non-traditional (but safe & humane) training techniques have worked for you?
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Gratuitous Kitten Pic File under K for kute.
After two years, we are still learning things about Rodney. The newest revelation: he does NOT like liniment. It’s ironic because we were trying to be nice.
Hubby did the same PT/lunging session as last weekend [Vewy, Vewy]. He ended with several runs through a triple cavaletti. Rodney bounced through perfectly the first time and then began whacking the poles as he sped up. At his point, you question whether to try for improvement and risk having it get worse or quit while you’re ahead. Well, we decided, it’s not like we can ruin his jumping career at this point. Hubby brought him in slowly and he hopped over all three as neat as you please. Yeah!
Between the humidity and horse stress, Rodney had gotten quite sweaty. We hosed him off. Hubby wanted to reward Rodney for a reasonably good day. After a jumping school, Previous Horse always got a washdown with warm water and liniment. What’s not to like about warm water?
Rodney danced about for the second half of his liniment bath, but he was still proud of himself for negotiating such difficult obstacles. We put it down to ‘tude. Usually we let him go at the wash area/water trough. When it’s obvious the bath is over he wanders off. Not so much today.
To his credit, he lowered his head and paused long enough to give me a chance to take off his halter. Unfortunately I moved too slowly. Whereupon he wheeled off and headed back to the barn at Mach 10, much to the dismay of Arthur who was headed in the same direction & suddenly found 1300 pounds of thundering hooves on his tail.
We retrieved him, bought him back, and hosed off the nasty gunk. Dunno if it’s the smell or the tingle but something about it blows his fuse.
Liniment. Who knew?
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Gratuitous Kitten Cat Pic Back-up Barn Cat
When I started this blog last December [We begin.], I negotiated with myself that I would blog every day for a one year. Two & a half months to go. Barring miracles, that means less than 100 posts. What would constitute a miracle?
MONEY
By money, I mean a book contract or a call from the New Yorker. A magazine wants to fund my around-the-world tour while I blog about equine hot spots? I’m willing to listen. Monetize my blog for a trickle of pennies that amount to the cost of a bag of feed every six months? No thanks. Not worth the trouble. If I’m going to sell out, I’ll sashay into five-star hotels wearing Manolo Blahniks, not stomp around a street corner waving a polyester boa.
FAME
Who wouldn’t love high hit numbers or double digit Likes & Shares? After the initial egoboo, where does it really get you? What I have enjoyed most is hearing other people’s stories. I’m pleased when the stories are happy. I’m flattered when folks are willing to share their sad stories to commiserate or to make a point. Responses of all sorts make me feel less as if I am yelling down a well.
I appreciate folks who take the time to comment, more than is perhaps healthy. But I know that the Internet is vast and that we all have demands on our time. I can recognize – intellectually at least – that only a small percentage of readers, followers, casual passersby would have the inclination to comment on a given post. So, a readership base big enough that a handful of people are moved to comment most days, that might be enough to keep me going without remuneration.
CONTENT
I would continue if I had a process to document, e.g. getting ready for my first CCI* classic format. That was the original intent of the blog way back when [How I Won]. I was going to be the next Thinking Horseman (an old Practical Horseman column) and record my return to eventing. If I had progress to get excited about, I’d probably keep yapping. I’ve certainly proven that I am enamored of hearing myself write*.
Barring any of the above, or a surprise move from left field, last post will be 12/21/12.
[*Stolen from Whedon. If you’re gonna steal snark, steal from the best.]
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Gratuitous Kitten Pic Creature of the Night
Or at least creature of the late afternoon with flash.
I’m in love. I think I’ve just met a Saddleseat schoolmaster. His name is Sam. I’m told that if his rider gets serious, he’s perfectly capable of putting on the flash, but with beginners is equally capable of imitating a doorstop. Guess which one I chose.
When I arrived at Stepping Stone Farm, I was presented with the following post & video on Horse Nation, about an event rider having a saddleseat lesson. Go ahead and read it. I’ll wait.
Pretty funny, yes? Put me in a small funk. I didn’t want a bottle rocket. If I had been told that my ride was “REAL hot” I would NOT have been unconcerned and “secretly thrilled.” Hyperventilating and headed down the driveway would have been a more likely reaction. My preferred ride at that point would have been a small, narcoleptic pony. Plus I worried that my post would be nowhere near as amusing. Ride better than me or write better than me, I’ll cope. Do both and I’ll start questioning my purpose on the planet.
Enter Sam. Perhaps body language is one reason for the Saddlebred’s hyper reputation among hunter/jumpers and others. Picture a horse with a high head, bulging eyes and ears so alert they almost touch. In a Thoroughbred this means lift-off is immanent. In a Saddlebred, it means hello.
I was less nervous that I had expected, right up until it was time to get on. Then I started wondering who thought this was a good idea. As I slid on, got my stirrups adjusted, and scooted around in this weird new saddle, Sam stood like a rock. If he had jigged or danced or even moved off, I might have dissolved into a small puddle right there.
My discomfort increased as we walked toward the ring. I could tell my body was still braced for the ever-increasing meltdowns I had to deal with the last time I rode regularly [Square One]. Sam gradually jollied me out of my nerves with his willingness to do as little work as I requested. Stand? Sure. Walk quietly? No problem. He was not at all lazy or deadheaded, just conservative. He displayed absolutely no tendency to hear voices or begin aerial acrobatics. When I failed to keep the engine running at the canter, he happily slowed right on down. At this point, I would laugh because he made his intentions so clear. At the end of the trot in the second direction, he suggested that if this was a walk/trot lesson, he was done now and would go to the middle of the ring, thank you very much. After the canter in the second direction, he was sure he was done.
Without further ado, my saddleseat lesson (although I must admit that in my mental movies Sam was far more animated and I was far more elegant):
Film Credits
video: Miranda Shope
editing: Hubby
instructor: Courtney Huguley
horse: Sultan’s Miracle Man courtesy of the Donovan Family
Virtual Brush Box 