To Blanket or Not to Blanket?

I gave my friends and co-workers a hard time when they complained about the fifty degree cold. I wasn’t sure it even would get cold in the mild climate where I live, until I started scraping ice off my windshield this week. That counted as cold, even by my standards.

I’m a country girl who thinks a ranch horse will be just fine roughing it in the winter with his furry coat, so I was undecided about blanketing. The back and forth in my head went something like this:

Pros:
Ransom can put his energy into keeping weight instead of keeping warm
He’ll be more comfortable and stay dry
He’ll stay cleaner

Cons:
Inconvenience of blanketing and unblanketing when the weather changes
May stunt growth of his winter coat

Cleaning muddy blanket is a chore

With just one horse to care for, I convinced myself that a little pampering was okay. If I could make Ransom’s life a little nicer, why not?

My planning hadn’t included looking at the weather prediction for the week. If I blanketed Ransom and it wasn’t cold or rainy soon, he might sweat uncomfortably. If I didn’t blanket him, and it rained, he might get cold. Then a thought occurred to me. Why don’t you ask the Holy Spirit whether or not to blanket him? The answer was an easy yes, which sent worry and indecision out the door. Thanks for that, Lord.

It rained that night and the temperatures dropped. I was glad I listened.

Merry Christmas!

Under the Weather

 

I like to think I’m an optimist, until I get sick. Turns out “tis the season” is for Christmas and for colds. Something about red noses, I suppose. Anyhow, sneezing and stuffy sinuses have a dampening effect on my ability to be positive. After sneezing through the morning at work, I dragged myself out to the barn for Ransom’s farrier appointment. As soon as I approached the gate, I noticed Ransom wasn’t feeling one hundred percent either. He rested a hind leg that was abnormally swollen. Great, I sighed.

With no sign of external injury, an abscess seemed a possible culprit, but that would have to wait and see. Fortunately Ransom didn’t seem to be in too much discomfort. He could put weight on it and walk okay. Apart from the swelling, he just shifted his weight from leg to leg more often.

I was thankful that he stood for the farrier, puffy leg and all. I raided my pocket full of tissue, dabbing my nose while holding Ransom for his trim. Neither of us felt up to much after that. I sniffled into Ransom’s neck and he cocked his foot again while the rain drizzled off the roof. A fine pair we made.

Horse vs. Horsepower

The barn where Ransom lives affords plenty of exposure to unusual sights and sounds, thanks to the construction operation the owner’s son operates on the property. Tractors rumbling, trucks coming and going, and odd looking stationary equipment are an equine desensitizing playground. Today Ransom bravely tolerated the group of people gathered to watch a car demolition. As we rode around the arena, Ransom eyed the crowd and giant crane with curiosity and uncertainty. I tried to distract him with stops and turns and other cues, but it was a losing battle. When the preliminary bangs of a crowbar rang out, I decided it was time to distance ourselves from the scene.

We wandered out into the parking lot, where my mom and sister sat patiently waiting in the car. This car was intact and caused no loud noises, so Ransom wasted no time in sticking his nose through the window to greet Melody. She was less enthusiastic. I patted Ransom’s neck, because though he may have only one horsepower, he has something even better: self-control.

Silent Night

When I got to the barn, it was deserted. The sun goes down so early in this season that even I had to overcome the temptation to stay in my bright, warm house. The barn lights buzzed and cackled as I flipped the switch and woke them from an early bedtime. I dug my mud boots out of the deep recess of my tack locker and slipped my feet into them for the first time in a long while.

Ransom seemed eager to leave the dark monotony of his pen for the barn below, striding next to me with ears pricked toward the lighted arena. I planned to lunge him, but after I finished grooming, I put my arms around his neck and the plan changed. He was warm and quiet. I stroked his soft, spotted fur and watched his eyelids droop. His lower lip sagged and he cocked a hind hoof.

The minutes passed. And passed. I didn’t want to break the moment. Finally I stepped back and untied his lead rope. The puffs of Ransom’s breath in the cold air as we walked back evoked a bittersweet memory of another time and place – of a herd of frosted horses snorting steam into a night much colder than this. I let my mind go there briefly, but didn’t linger. Instead, I looked out at the stars and the silhouette of the ridge in the crisp, clear night and thought, “I’m glad I came.”

Happy Thanksgiving!

Play Ball

A few weeks ago the San Francisco Giants won the world series. I wouldn’t know this if it weren’t for the fact that where I live, everyone and their neighbor are Giants fans. I’m just proud of the fact that I know that they’re talking about baseball – which is about the extent of my sports knowledge or interest. I’d rather play ball with my horse…

Ummm, it's touching me...do not panic.
DO NOT PANIC!!

What do you mean move?
Clearly I'm stuck!



Well yes, I can be bribed...

I'm fine. What are you looking at?

The Red Barn

 

The first thing that struck me about the stable where I currently board Ransom was the large red sliding doors at the barn entrance. They were nearly identical to the doors of the barn where I grew up riding, even down to the black horse decals on the doors. For a split second, I was thirteen and sliding those big doors open at 7 am in the morning to clean stalls before my lesson. It was there I tossed hay bales down from the loft, rode in the wide barn aisle on rainy days, and watched the resident artist paint those black horses on the wooden slats.

In college, the Red Barn was where I competed against the Stanford University Equestrian Team. Their gleaming, old-style buildings were a far cry from the weathered barn that I loved back home. The Stanford Red Barn was where I won a blue ribbon on Jesse, the smooth paint gelding, and rode a sluggish, crowhopping gray Arab, “Nipper,” to second place. It was where I waited in the parking lot with my teammates for nearly five hours, waiting for a bus to come replace our broken down one.

Ransom now has a new red barn to call home. A few weeks ago, I moved him from his hillside pasture to the flat paddock of the small north barn for the winter. It was here he stood beneath the roof, hanging his head over the tall red divider. Here his eyes fell in its shadow, while his nose glowed golden in the bright afternoon sun. Here he made a new red barn memory.

The Manure Monster

Ransom minded his own business as we trekked down from the North barn, until we got to where the manure truck was usually parked. Right now it was either fertilizing the back pasture or in the repair shop.

Never-mind that we walked past this every day; clearly a new monster had moved into the small left-over manure pile. Ransom pushed his shoulder into my space to skirt away from it, eyes wide and radar ears on high alert.

I sighed. With children I’d call this a teachable moment. I wasn’t about to waste this one. I sent him onto a small circle to traverse a course through the smelly stuff and up over the small ledge of the hill. Ransom snorted and stepped gingerly into the decomposing footing.

How many circles does it take to conquer the manure monster? In this case, about twenty. Around and around he went. Stop, spook, leap. Stop, spook, leap. Hit the end of the leadrope. Balk. Whip swish. Scramble. Stop, look, think. Sniff. Oh. Step up nonchalantly. Repeat on other side.

I patted him on the neck and walked the few remaining steps into the main barn. Such a baby.

Ransom's RV

 

First came the horse, then the truck. Now for the trailer. I was two for three and ready to finish the set. Problem was, for the last month, Craigslist and other sites had been dry of what I was looking for - missing features or located  hours away. Until Sunday evening. That’s when I found the simple, older, two-horse straight load I sought.

I drove forty minutes to see it Monday afternoon, nervous and excited at the same time. It needed a few small repairs – projects with Grandpa – but was in decent shape for its age, even showing a bit of shine under the grime. Momma chatted up the nice lady selling it while I kicked tires. When I made an offer, the woman accepted. In fact, when we sat down to do paperwork, she said, “Why don’t we do $---- instead?” knocking off a hundred dollars. Who does that? I felt favored.

I trotted over to the store to pick up the right size hitch, and was soon on the road with a trailer in tow. The handling on my truck felt unfamiliar with this new heavy caboose. The increased possibility for risk to myself, my vehicles, and eventually my beloved horse, weighed on me. The opinions of others during the last few months had poked holes in my confidence. I didn’t want to be the ignorant girl who got into trouble because of poor decisions or uneducated choices. As much as I had read and researched and practiced, I felt like I was leaping out of my comfort zone.

But we made it home safely, and the trailer has been resting peacefully in the barnyard while I recover and prepare for the next bout. Ransom hasn’t yet travelled on his new wheels – safety repairs first – but come spring the horizon broadens. And the adventures begin…

Appaloosas in Miniature Part 2: The Breyer Years

In my teen years, my Grand Champion herd was joined by their more expensive counterparts, Breyers. Whatever hard earned money didn't go into my horse savings account I saved up for a new model. Although I had an affinity for paint horses, the appaloosas still had a strong showing.


Spangler the “Stablemate” was small but significant – a leopard appaloosa so named for his resemblance to the imaginary horse of my childhood.



One of my other spotted treasures was the gray fighting appaloosa stallion, a relic from the 1960's. I plucked him from obscurity at a street corner yard sale, just a few weeks before Christmas. Though he wasn't in perfect shape, he was worth a lot more than the $20 I paid for him.

 At $30+ for a traditional sized model, there were plenty of Breyers that went on my dream list but never make it to my shelf. One of them was Apropos, second in the exclusive Connoisseur raffle available only to subscribers of Breyer’s magazine, “Just About Horses.” I thought he was the most beautiful model horse I had ever seen, but he was way out of my meager budget.

Apropos never did join my collection, but I got a life size version instead. His name is Ransom. And that was apropos!

Rushing vs. Ransom

I was supposed to be at work. Instead, I sat on the mounting block, eating lunch and watching Ransom wander around the round pen.

Until 8 AM this morning, the plan was to take the mini horses on their monthly trip to visit the elementary school. Instead, the threat of rain led to a flurry of phone calls to volunteers to notify them that we were cancelling the trip. My heart sank every time a call went through to voicemail. What if they didn’t get the message in time? I felt pressured by the time crunch.

Today was the end of a whole week of feeling rushed -- perhaps more than the circumstances warranted -- but rushed all the same. Places to be, details to do, all eating up time so quickly I couldn’t catch up.

Ransom angled his head to slide it between the panels of the fence and stretch his nose towards me. Towards my lunch actually. My mind stopped rushing to all the things I needed to get done at work before the end of the day. Instead I thought, how do animals manage to be so cute when begging for food? I had no apple core to give him, so I offered up a frito corn chip. He lipped up the salty morsel and came back for more, ears pricked in anticipation.

Deep breath. I needed to be back at work in half an hour. But in this moment, with Ransom, I could just be.

Fine Tuning

One of my teaching mantras is "Every horse will teach you something new or different."

After a four year break, I recently started taking riding lessons again - a perk of my job. Though the concepts are familiar, I'm always learning, and in this case, gaining practice on technique and application. Whenever I ride other horses, at other places, I'm more motivated to come back and work with Ransom.

My lesson mount for this week was a big palomino named Sunny. Initially, he pulled against my rein pressure as we trotted a circle, but then he softened and yielded his nose, bending his neck. As I brought him down to a walk, I thought, "I can't wait to work on this with Ransom."

I stopped by my barn on the way home, despite the fading light of the evening. With the lesson still fresh in my head, I hopped on. Ransom responded beautifully. I felt strong and he felt light. He moved off my leg, floated through a canter, and softened to my touch on the reins. The small changes in my technique made a difference. We were more productive in twenty minutes than we'd been all week.

I've gained valuable experience from riding lots of different horses. But sometimes it takes a horse of your own to learn what fine-tuning feels like.

Bronco

My friend stood outside the fence as I led Ransom into the round pen. I had decided it would be a good idea to evaluate his frame of mind before she rode. This turned out to be a wise decision. As I picked up the long whip, Ransom put his head between his legs and launched himself into the air, bouncing around the pen like a rodeo bronco for several laps.

The only time he’d done this in the last year was the day I offered to let my mom take a ride around the arena. After he put on a similar crow-hopping show in the round pen, I vetoed that plan. It was like he knew someone was watching. Why did he only do this when I planned to put a beginner on him?

I knew he’d settle down quickly today, but I wondered what my friend thought about this crazy creature I was going to put her on. When people told me, “He’s not usually like this!” my mental response was usually, “yeah, right.” I wouldn’t blame her if she thought the same.

Fortunately, by the time I positioned Ransom next to the mounting block, he was his sane self again. My friend was brave, and with little comment on Ransom’s previous display of energy, threw a leg over his back. The bronco was gone, leaving only a gelding on his best behavior.

Mr. Clean

“How does he stay so clean?” My friend asked as she walked by where I was grooming Ransom in the barn aisle way. I flicked some specks of dirt off with a soft brush and smiled. She was the third person this week to ask me the same question.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Even after a roll in the sand a few days ago, his coat was sleek. No manure stains marred the white blanket pattern over his rump, and no dust clouded the air when I patted him. Despite his nice hygiene habits, I’d been waiting for a warm day to give him a bath – his first bath since I bought him over a year ago. I’d hosed him off after sweaty rides, but never shampooed and scrubbed.

Finally a hot day arrived. Ransom danced around in the cross ties as the cold stream of water splashed his legs, and he clamped his tail when I soaked his back. The brown suds revealed that he wasn’t as clean as he looked. I used a rag for his face, but he still tossed his nose in the air and scrunched his nostrils in his best attempt to evade the wipe-down. I could feel the water dripping down my arm as I struggled to reach him.

After scraping the excess water out of his coat, I stepped back to admire my handiwork as he dried. His coat shimmered. A spritz of show sheen and he was as soft as a baby. Now he truly deserved the title, “Mr. Clean.”

Happy Birthday, Ransom!

Ransom turned five years old this month. Unfortunately, I don’t know his exact birthday, only that he was born in August of 2007. In the horse world, turning five makes him officially an adult. However, much like an eighteen year old person, he’s physically mature but still has a lot of life lessons to learn.

Earlier this month some of my best friends visited, and I took them to the barn to see Ransom. When their son asked about Ransom, my friend responded, “God designed Ransom for Sarah. He knew exactly what she wanted and made this horse just for her. Isn’t God cool?”

Ransom was entering the world about the same time I was going off to my senior year of college. Who knew that as I was buying textbooks, going to class, and working with colts at the campus horse facility, somewhere there was a spindly, spotted colt exploring his new world and waiting to meet me? I was sure waiting to meet him!

I’m so glad Ransom and I get to share the prime of our life together. God is cool.

Off the Clock

I haven't had as much time for Ransom this summer (that is, if you count going to the barn only four days a week instead of seven). Between starting a second part-time job, going on family vacation, and having my sisters home for a few short weeks, Ransom moved down a few notches on the priority list.

My life has been one big to-do list, and since I work hourly, I'm constantly thinking of the time. Visiting Ransom in the evenings after a day of work, it was difficult to let go of this mentality. I found myself looking at my watch every five minutes. What? I'd only been riding 15 minutes? I should ride at least 25. And that's where the obligation crept in. How did I fall into counting the minutes until I finished? It wasn't that I didn't enjoy being with him. I felt guilty for wanting to go home and unwind instead, and I felt guilty for not putting more time and effort into Ransom.

I decided that, when possible, the barn would be my "watch-free" zone. When I pulled out my grooming box, the watch went in my pocket. I instinctively glanced at my wrist several times, only to find it bare. Free from the constraints of time, Ransom and I puttzed around the arena, doing as we pleased for as long or short as I felt like. My internal feelings of obligation and the to-dos of tomorrow settled in the dust Ransom kicked up at the trot.

After putting him away, I slid into my truck, where the digital clock glowed bright numbers. I was back on the clock.

Matching Manes

Ransom and I both got our hair cut this week. I’d always worn my hair long, and this new summer chop to just below the shoulders was the shortest I’d ever gone. My long, brown ponytail was one of the reasons strangers sometimes commented that I “looked like a horse person.”

The scraggly ends of Ransom’s appaloosa mane were also looking unkempt. Cutting a horse’s mane is an unspoken taboo in the horse world, since the straight-cut look is stark and unnatural. The method of choice is to “pull” the mane by wrapping long hairs around a comb and ripping them out. I doubted Ransom would have any mane left if I pulled it.

A fellow boarder had a solution – a comb-like razor that trimmed the ends without leaving a scissored look. In less than two minutes she tidied up his thin fringe. The manes were tamed.

Fly-mask Fiasco

"Why do you have a blindfold on your horse?"

I can't count the number of times I've been asked that by the curious non-horse public, who have never seen the see-through mesh of a flymask up close. Now that summer is here, so are the flies. And the flymasks.

Since appaloosas are prone to eye problems, partly because of the unique white sclera circling their eyes, I'd been watching Ransom for any sign of irritation. When his eyes started tearing from the dust and flies, I dug last year's fly mask out of my tack locker.

The gold mesh with leopard print edging was still in decent shape. However, Ransom wasted no time in fraying it and grinding it into the paddock dirt. I bought a new one, this time a conservative gray. The next day, a bare-faced Ransom stared innocently at me as I approached with his halter. The fly-mask, though intact, lay at his feet.

No matter how snugly I fastened the velcro, he still managed to pull it over his ears. Finding the flymask in Houdini's pasture became a daily game of hide-and-seek. Until, just a week later, the new flymask met its end, ripped to shreds. Ransom: 7 Fly-mask: 0.

June to June

This June, it's been one year since I bought Ransom.

Last June, he was making friends in the herd and learning to escape the wrath of its alpha members. I watched him buck around the roundpen. We took our first rides in the late afternoon after I got off work. With the voices of campers echoing all the way to the back arena, we worked on moving away from leg pressure, transitions, and picking up the right lead at the lope.

This June? Ransom's put on a few summer pounds. His adult incisor teeth have erupted almost all the way. We venture out on trail rides alone together. He's discovered that cows aren't as scary as he thought. Our arena exercises include starting spins, simple lead changes, and rounding his back. We took our first brief bridleless ride last week.

Here's to many more Junes together.

Tale of Woe

I learned to French braid on a horse’s tail. Ransom became my most recent victim when on a whim, I plaited his tail before riding him. The reddish-black hairs were like tiny wires against my fingers as I tried to separate them with one hand.

When I finished, I looked down to discover a mass of hair at my feet. How had this happened? Had it occurred to me to grab the detangler from my tack locker? No. Brush his tail before I started? No. Sparse manes and tails are characteristic of the Appaloosa breed; this was the sacrifice I made for spots. Ransom’s tail couldn’t afford to lose this much bulk!

If I’d been riding English, Ransom might have been able to pull off the look, but with a Western saddle, the braid was incongruous. Though the braid itself turned out well, it made his meager tail look even thinner. Ransom, too, was less than pleased with the diminished fly-swatting capability of his new adornment. That, or he was embarrassed to be seen by the other geldings. He swished his tail irritably as he trotted around on the lunge line, attempting to make the braid fall out simply from flapping it.

I relented, pulling the strands loose before I mounted. Next time, I decided, I’d save the braiding for shows.

Humble and Handsome



"Rearing up his powerful
body, he pierced the clouds
with his sharp horn."
~ The Unicorn and the Lake

When Ransom and I reached the high point of the ridge on our trail ride, the gray clouds hung so low it seemed as though I could reach up and touch them. It reminded me of one of my favorite children’s books, in which the unicorn climbs the mountain and pierces the clouds with his horn to bring rain to the drought-stricken land below. I, however, prayed that the rain would hold off until we were safely back at the barn.

Ransom stood gazing at the next hill over, listening to the wind rustle the grass in waterless waves. What looked from a distance like a vulture, turned out to be a squirrel perched atop a broken log. I sat and wondered at how amazing it is that Ransom allows me to strap a band tightly around his belly and sit on his back. How he submits and allows me to tell him what to do, especially when it’s something like carrying me up a steep hill. How he ignores his herd instinct to venture out alone with me, and then stands contentedly.

When we returned home, I was thankful for dry skies and for my humble, handsome Ransom.

Fresh Eyes

I’d been out at the barn almost every day for the last three months, so when I came back from a trip to the East Coast, it felt like I’d been away for ages. Even after just a week, things were different. Ransom’s roan coat looked darker and sleeker than before. The weeds in his pasture had sprouted overnight, bursting into yellow blooms. The spring green hills were now almost overtaken by summer’s dry gold.

Time hadn’t waited for me, but it couldn’t hide its subtle changes from my fresh eyes.

Ransom was more interested in eating with nimble lips the purple buds of a prickly bush than in re-enacting a joyous reunion. But he looked at me as if to say, “Where have you been?” I watched him, feeling a bit of that spark of excitement I felt upon first laying eyes on him. When I finally wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my cheek against his silky coat, I knew how much I’d missed him.

Ransom's Film Debut

A few highlights from a recent riding session:

 

Appaloosas In Miniature: The Grand Champion Era

When a horse crazy girl has no horse of her own on which to lavish affection, she naturally directs her energies to the next best thing: collecting models. A few of Ransom’s predecessors still hold a place of honor in my room, though most of them are stalled in cardboard boxes with not-so-distant childhood memories.

I graduated from My Little Ponies to Grand Champions around age six. If I saved up my one dollar weekly allowance for two months, I could buy a new one. The first appaloosa to join my collection was a bay blanket filly named Starfinder. Her mother Running Spring joined soon after, the prize of one of those saving sprees. Her father, Indian Summer was a hand-me-down resulting from the tragic event of my best friend/cousin moving across the country.

Every model horse had a story, and I knew their names by heart. So well, in fact, that I coerced my younger sister into playing the “name game” with me – a twenty questions sort of game that involved knowing every model on the shelf. The shelves filled as I took over Daddy’s eBay account to hunt for the missing models in my collection. The elusive Indian appaloosa horses Walks-On-Snow and Little Bird joined the ranks of my mail-order herd, but the real triumph was nabbing the leopard appaloosa family Renegade, Snow Patch, and Papoose.

In high school, I forayed into the world of customizing. During extra time in art class, I transformed my duplicates into new creatures – appaloosas of course. Phantom, who began life as a beat-up buckskin, transformed into Flekkur, a handsome blue roan appaloosa. He, along with the other spotted steeds in my Grand Champion collection, became a cherished forerunner of one very special gelding.

Walks On Snow

Renegade, Snow Patch, & Papoose



Flekkur

Starfinder

Horseplay

I turned Ransom out in the round pen with his buddy Beau so I could eat lunch. Ransom is not much of an entertainer when he’s aware of my presence, but sitting a short distance away, I could watch the show unobserved. First, the two geldings put on matching sand costumes by rolling in the dirt simultaneously.

There is an old wives' tale that a horse is worth a hundred dollars for every time he can flip side to side while rolling. Despite his prominent spine, Ransom has mastered the art of flailing like a roly-poly bug on its back. According to this rule of thumb, he’s worth an impressive $1300.

Back on his feet, Ransom’s plan to wander the pen, ignoring his herd-mate, was interrupted by Beau’s provoking nudges. Ransom half-heartedly pinned his ears and tried to stay aloof, but eventually got drawn into the horseplay. Soon they were jostling, half rearing, and playfully nipping at the other.

Snapping my lunch pail shut, I finally interrupted them. Ransom immediately lost interest in Beau and walked over to the gate with an innocent expression. The show was over.

 

 

Playing in the Pond

I saw the watering hole pond in the pasture below as Ransom and I rode along the ridge. Ransom had not encountered a body of water since I’d owned him and I wondered what he would think of it, so we took the switchback trail down through the grassy hills. Ransom eyed the water as we approached, but stepped into it without hesitation. He stopped at the first splash, but then eagerly swished the water with his nose. The clumps of plant in its shallow depths looked potentially edible, drawing him in further. “Don’t even think about rolling,” I said aloud as he pawed the water.

No sooner had the words left my mouth before he was on his way down. “Hey,” I yelled. “Hey!” I hauled on the reins and kicked wildly, anticipating for a split second a very wet ride home. Stumbling around, Ransom reversed course and managed to get his feet back underneath himself, though not before dunking my right foot in the water. Looking down, I saw the leather of my boot turning dark and felt the wetness seeping into my sock. Pushing him out of the pond post-haste, I congratulated myself on a narrow escape.

Ransom had to settle for a quick hose off when we got back. “We’ll go and play in the pond sometime when I’m more prepared,” I promised him.

Slow and Go

I stopped by the barn after working horses at another stable. I couldn’t wait to ride Ransom. The horse I’d just ridden was a paint mare with sides of steel and one speed: slow. Oh, she would walk, trot, and canter, but had no “go” in any gait. After twenty minutes of squeezing her around the arena, I was ready to be back on my wonderfully sensitive personal horse.

He may have been a little unmotivated to strike out on his own away from the barn, but we had a magnificent trail ride along the hillcrest overlooking the valley. The wind roared in my ears when we picked up a trot or canter, and every once in a while, a wave of it would splash against Ransom’s tail and send him surging forward. The freeway noise below drifted up as a steady hum, and several large birds hovered just off the edge of the ridge, motionlessly held aloft by facing into the headwind. My arms and face stung when the wind gusted, but I was glowing and he was going and it was glorious.

Hotel Stay

I managed to unhook the electric fence gate just in time for Ransom to slide through, legs splayed like a gangly colt to keep his balance. The hill of his pasture was a muddy slip-n-slide after the rain. The flat paddock he normally stayed in while the pasture dried out was now occupied by new horses. While I preferred pasturing him over stabling him, it was time for a temporary stay in the main barn.

My barn is not an all-services-included facility, so Ransom’s hotel stay landed me with daily housekeeping duties. It’d been nearly four years since I cleaned a stall (though not since I scooped manure, mind you). I had plenty of practice, from working off my lessons to cleaning stalls on the weekends in college to make some pocket change. I didn’t mind the chore; bedding a horse in a clean stall was satisfying.

Ransom had no trouble adjusting to his luxurious lodging. He seemed to enjoy having the automatic waterer at hand instead of trekking up the hill to a water trough. He flirted with the beautiful black mare next door. He napped on his bed of shavings.

That night, as I lay in bed listening to the rain pelt against my window, my mind was at rest knowing that Ransom was tucked away in the shelter of his stall.

Ransom Therapy

The clouds threatened to rain as I drove home from a long day of giving  riding lessons. My feet ached and my mood slumped from eight hours of giving three year-olds glorified pony rides, teaching a girl who wouldn’t take me seriously, and avoiding ungracious boarders who resented sharing the arena. Part of me just wanted to go home and crash. After all, I was tired and hungry and it looked like rain. I could visit my horse tomorrow. But a little voice said that some Ransom therapy was just what I needed.

So when I reached the road leading to the ranch, I turned. I just needed to see him. Brush him. Love on him. Let the day melt away in his warm breath and soft coat. When his head came up and his ears pricked toward me, I smiled. And that’s when I realized it was the first time I’d smiled all day. Really smiled. Not a socially draining, covering up that I’m tired and unhappy kind of smile.

I did go home and crash afterwards. But it was with a spot of gladness.

Hoofprints in the Sand

I love being the first to ride in a freshly groomed arena. Initially, I cringe at marring the smooth expanse of sand lined with symmetrical patterns from the rototiller; it's the same feeling as when I take a chunk out of the perfect surface of a new jar of peanut butter. But then the first few minutes of riding become a work of art, tracking designs with Ransom’s hoof prints on a giant sand canvas.

The tracks help us make a perfect circle, or show how crooked our line down the rail was. Riding straight is more difficult than it seems. We crisscross the arena with serpentines and figure-eights. A turn on the haunches leaves a semi-circle cluster of prints.

The pasture horses stand on the knoll overlooking the arena, observing our performance with interest, while Jake, the big black tomcat, crouches in the tall grass. When we pass nearby, he looks up and joins the audience.

By the time I finish, the arena is muddled with designs. If I’m lucky, it will be only a few days until I have a fresh canvas.

Appaloosa Memories: Wenatchee

Her name was Wenatchee, and she looked just like the horse calendar photo I’d brought with me to summer camp: a blue roan with a blanket, lots of roaning, and a sparse mane and tail. And at nine years old, pretty was all that mattered. I’d lie on my bunk during quiet time, searching for her in the herd of horses I could see out the window. She was the first Appaloosa I loved.

I wanted more than anything to ride her. When the wranglers chose mounts for our horse classes, I’d cross my fingers and silently hope they’d pick me. But they never did. I always got assigned some plain bay or gray.

A painting I did in high school
based off of the calendar photo
that was my Wenatchee "pin-up."

When I came back to work at camp, Wenatchee was still there. Now I was the wrangler making or breaking kids’ dreams based on the horses I assigned. She was older, and being on the small side, I mostly used her for little kids. She was also a vaulting horse. And I came to find out she wasn’t as perfect as my nine-year old self dreamed. She was afraid of spray bottles. And she pulled back often enough to break several halters. After she injured her leg in an accident, she had to be put down.

I never did ride Wenatchee. But it doesn’t matter anymore. What I held onto is that little girl feeling of hope and excitement about an appaloosa.

Cow Commotion

Ransom and I encountered cows on our trail ride. The park land cuts through some pastures which are usually unoccupied. Not today. Judging by his reaction, this was probably the first time in his short life that Ransom has laid eyes on the creatures. His response was an embarrassing disgrace to his ¾ Quarter horse breeding. Despite his normally sedate manner, when the cows came into view, Ransom’s neck shot up, his head landed in my lap, and his whole body quivered. The small cluster of cows that blocked the path stared at us curiously. After preventing Ransom’s attempts to spin and bolt from the black, horse-eating monsters, I convinced him to inch toward them.

When we finally came close enough to cause them to turn and walk away, Ransom had a momentary revelation as to his heritage. I reeled in the reins to keep him from trotting after them. We followed at a walk instead, Ransom’s bravery lasting only as long as the cows moved away from us. Whenever they stopped and turned to look at us, Ransom reverted to a terrified, though interested, wimp.

Finally the cows returned to their herd, and Ransom had something to think about on the way home. Since I plan on cattle being part of our future experiences, our work is cut out for us.

Love and Worth

I love my horse. In high school I used to joke that my boyfriend was a handsome appaloosa gelding. Some things haven’t changed.

But it wasn’t always this way. After struggling to share my beloved lesson horses with dozens of other students during my teenage years, I developed a certain objectivity when it came to working with horses on the job. This distance was how I processed the fact that unsuitable horses were sold, old horses put down, and lesson horses abused by beginners. Though I cared for them and about them, they were ultimately tools in ministry, and had a job to do.

Now I’m unlearning this emotional detachment. Ransom doesn’t earn his keep, in the sense that most other horses I’ve worked with do. Like any other, he’s a money-sucking machine. No, Ransom earns his worth, not his keep. When he nickers at the gate as he sees me walking up the road toward his pasture, I don’t think about the boarding cost. When he tolerantly accepts the kisses planted on his nose, I forget how expensive hay is. When we spend quality time on the trail together, the farrier’s bill seems insignificant.

 It’s finally safe to get emotionally attached. And he’s a keeper.

Candy Carrots

The bag label said, “carrots for juicing.” Well, unless you’re a horse owner and then it reads, “seven dollars for twenty pounds of eternal equine affection.” Surprisingly, it was my mom who insisted we purchase it for Ransom. The man in the grocery store parking lot gave us an incredulous look as I hefted the bag from the cart to the trunk. “That’s a lot of carrots!” 
 

“They’re for her horse,” Momma explained, positively gleeful.

Momma has adopted my spotted charge as a surrogate grandchild, since my sisters and I have yet to provide her with any of the human variety. Carrots are the new candy. I have to carefully mete out portions to keep from spoiling Ransom.

I’m not one of those women who consider their horses as children, but it’s been fun to see Momma enjoy Ransom like that. She gushes about him to friends like any good grandma. “He’s the most sweet-tempered creature, so mellow and laid back!” She enthusiastically volunteered to horse-sit when I go out of town for a week, visiting the barn with me beforehand to learn to halter and lead, groom, and blanket. With a cache of carrots at her disposal, they’re sure to get along splendidly.

Bribery? Perhaps. But the best kind.

Munching Music

Ransom reached eagerly to graze along the side of the road as I led him out of his pasture. I usually let him munch for a few minutes every day. His nose swept back and forth to brush away the weeds, while his lips worked madly to sift the choicest grass and tear it off in quick bites. He was like a greedy child stuffing his mouth. I think he knew his time was at my whim, and he wanted to eat as much as possible before I tugged on the halter and dragged him away. There was a kind of rhythm as he grazed: rip, munch munch, swish, stomp; rip, munch munch, rip munch.

He made me think of a cartoon where the goat with exaggerated teeth plows through a field of tall grass to the sound effect of a mower’s engine, leaving a straight and even lawn. Ransom’s head came up only once when something caught his attention, and I grabbed my chance to pull him away and continue down to the barn.

Saving Up

I didn’t have a horse-print on the seat of my jeans when I slid off Ransom, thanks to his stylish new bareback pad. I’ve been waiting a long time to have my own horse to spend Christmas money on. I used to spend hours scouring horse supply catalogues, picking out all the things I would buy my horse, planning coordinating color schemes, and calculating costs.

When I was thirteen, Momma humored me and let me spend my hard earned allowance on a halter and lead rope from the local tack store. Never mind that I didn’t have a horse to use it on. I just thrilled in having it on hand, in case I needed to catch the lost horse that might wander onto our property.

When I was sixteen, my riding instructor gave me a bucket, sweat scraper, stiff brush, and two red hoofpicks for Christmas. Her favorite refrain was, “Sarah, when are you going to get a horse?” The lunge whip I won at a horseshow sat in my closet untouched, waiting for the day.

Every couple years when I sifted through my stuff, reducing my belongings and filling a donation bag, the horse equipment managed to make the cut, though narrowly. I wasn’t using it and it took up space. But I couldn’t bear to part with it. Somehow getting rid of the tools was like giving up the dream.

Finally I’ve been justified. The lunge whip has left its closet prison for a more useful life, and the hoofpicks are getting dirty like they ought. And I’m scouring horse catalogues, picking out all the things I want to buy for Ransom, planning coordinating color schemes, and calculating costs. And how long it will take to save up.

Unproductive on Purpose

Today’s ride was pleasurably aimless. Ransom and I started in the arena, and we lapped the ring before I even realized what happened. I couldn’t seem to focus. I wasn’t really in the mood to go to work so we headed out on the trail instead. Yet even that lacked purpose. I didn’t have enough time to complete the hour loop or actually go somewhere, so we sauntered halfway up the ridge, paused and enjoyed the scenery for a while, and then backtracked to the barn.

It’s easy for me to feel an obligation to be disciplined; the need to always be productive is a self-imposed burden. Even trail rides normally have a planned distance, route, and time frame. While I sat looking across the canyon, Ransom cocking a leg beneath me, I relished the fact that with my own horse, there’s no agenda. No paid training responsibility. No student to satisfy. I don’t have to have a reason for every action.

So we didn’t do any training today; we didn’t accomplish or improve anything – and it was okay! Even motivation needs a day off every once in a while.

January Cool Down

Ransom was sweating before I even saddled him up. It’s the first week of January and we haven’t seen rain in a month. Ransom’s wearing a winter coat that is confused by this dry spell. Today was so warm I soaked up the sun in a T-shirt as we worked in the arena. Our productive workout left Ransom’s shoulder and chest wet, the long hair curling with sweat.

These days, I spend as much time cooling him out as I do riding him. I’m tempted to clip his coat for this purpose, but I’d rather leave him fuzzy than have to blanket him every day. So instead we went for a long walk, Ransom trying to look dignified with a magenta cooler pulled up to his ears, steam rising through the fleece. But he was only adorable.