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January 2008 • VOLUME 29 • © HORSES For LIFE™ Magazine
Susannah, first of all let me say how much I enjoyed reading this piece - for several reasons! First, because it is gripping, and draws the reader in from the very start, and never lets up in interest, humour, and tension (of the good-story kind!).
At one point you say, 'Our ridden work has taken many twists and turns, many unconventional, though classical dressage remains at the heart of it,' - I'm burning up with curiosity to know what (at least some of) these twists and turns were....??
I think I know - and have experienced - 'But in between those times have been moments of pure exhilaration, of sheer joy, of a love felt purely as it flowed between species. ' but I felt disappointed when you didn't give examples to explain what that is and what it feels like.....???
Nadja, in her infinite wisdom, asked me to look your article over because I have very recently suffered a nerve-shaking near-fall on a similar horse - maybe my Miki didn't get quite so beaten up in his early life, but for a sensitive soul that makes little difference in terms of the net effect it has on their psyche. So much of what you write about your Tom could have been written about my Miki, and I am on a learning curve very, very similar to yours in my own way!!!! So thank you from my heart for this sense of solidarity and comfort - I am not alone, and there is a way forward!
At one point you write:
"Sometimes I am a little thick, and slow to get the message."
You know, I said recently to a friend, while discussing clicker training activities, that my Miki seems to be a bit slow on the uptake with new 'games'. Then the very next day, Nadja commented in a phone call that heck, Miki had 10 years of being told no, don't do this, stop that, stand still and don't use your brain, just obey...and so on, so now heck again, he has learned to be slow - and now I'm giving him freedom and he's understandably very, very wary of it.....so in the end yes, you are so right, sometimes I am a little thick and slow to get the message, dummies unite!?!?!?!
I so agree with the battle against the shrill clamour from all sides for draw reins, side-reins, whips, spurs and pushing the horse through 'disobediences' which to us are cries for help, pleas to just take it more slowly, expressions of total fear (I bet you too could often feel Tom's heart thudding against your leg, feel his body quivering like a leaf in a storm...). I am happy for Tom that he has you, and I hope Miki will be happy he has me, if I can get my nerve back together (which at 60 seems to take longer and longer each time....). This battle can be sooooooooooo wearing though! As if learning patience (in this utterly impatient world) and learning to be open to a horse's mind were not tiring enough in themselves!
I hope my sharing of my own experience will show you how valuable and supportive your article is! As I worked through it, two 'truisms' came into my mind - one, the right teacher presents him/herself at the right moment, and two - we don't find horses, horses find us.....
Your final few lines moved me to tears with the sheer beauty and soulfullness of the image, thank you!
I hope you have found my comments and shared experience helpful, or at the very least not intrusive, and many thanks for reading through this rather long response!
Warmest good wishes,
Susan
Riding by Torchlight, Jan 08 Column
I was looking for a horse. It was finally time. I had been riding and training for others for long enough, toppling over and over again into the usual pitfall of young and passionate horsewomen – the great no-no of falling in love with other peoples’ horses. Working hard, bonding, gaining their trust and confidence, only to lose the owner-client to any number of circumstances – a move out-of-state, a more experienced, ‘bigger name’ trainer, or perhaps the horse was simply sold, owners’ interest lost.
No, it was time for me to have a horse of my own, to train for me, and me alone, to love and develop for years to come. Luckily for me, my understanding and generous boyfriend (though maybe he was just weary enough of my crying over lost horses) put up a decent sum of money and I began the search. It soon led to a neighbouring barn, where two lovely off-the-track thoroughbreds were said to be for sale. I never made it past the door – the sum demanded was exorbitant considering their circumstances, and more than double my actual funds. One overpriced AND recovering from a bowed tendon, the other sound but still hugely overpriced for a horse fresh off the track, possibly in need of serious rehabilitation of every kind. I never even peeked at them.
My search eventually led to a horse of a different kind, but that is another story for another time. He pictures in this story mainly in his role in bringing me back to the same barn, where the two OTTb’s still resided. It was the only barn offering stalls with runs, and that was what I wanted for my new and beloved steed – an oversized Clydesdale/Paint cross we named Banner. He was not at all what I had intended, but he stole my heart on contact, despite his lack of years for which he amply made up in his absurdly and overly generous size. A mere 12 by 12 stall would never do….
Soon after, on a warm and sunny day, I arrived at the barn to find my dream horse standing tensely in the cross ties. I am sorry to say that as his 16.3 hh blood-bay lanky frame shimmered in the sun, his finely shaped head and ears at rapt attention to some distant mirage, he filled my eyes and heart and soul and I forgot all about my own sweet Banner. In comparison to this wonder he was but a clunky, gawky and clumsy teenager.
Waves of regret washed over me when I realized this was one of the horses offered for a sale a few months ago. He was now sold to a sweet, young, and inexperienced woman, of whom I will merely remark that she deemed it necessary to don white cotton gloves to groom her horse. The bay beauty and she seemed on somewhat tenuous terms, he pawed and she pouted, his attention and interest anywhere but here. Still recovering from a bowed tendon, Tommy, as he was known, was confined to his stall 24/7 except for his adventures in misbehaviour when the beleaguered but faithful girl came to handwalk him every evening. This generally involved his levitating in every possible direction, detecting any number of God’s abominations in the bushes and not letting up until he had reduced his mealticket to tears.
I allowed myself a few moments to drink in his beautiful lines, the generous hip and sloping shoulder, short back and well shaped legs. Then I set out to erase him from my mind: obviously he was never meant for me to begin with.
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