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.