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.