"Agrarian" by Louis Staebel
The wind blowing through my hair, muscles rippling beneath me, the freedom of riding bareback--the stark terror of hanging onto a runaway horse--and the truck coming head-on wasn't giving us an inch to spare either. What's wrong with people? Do horses go to heaven? It was a moot point anyway; this one would find that barn door closed on arrival.
Katherine. What was it she so fortuitously said one time? Oh yeah, if you're ever on a runaway, pull one rein to the side forcing the horse's head to come around. Cherokee's head coming toward my right boot gradually slowed him down and eventually brought us to a standstill as the pickup whizzed by within a few feet us. Did I really see two adult men grinning?
Cherokee wasn't supposed to be like that, in fact, on our test ride he was exceptionally calm and responsive. With his brown and white patch-work coat and slight Roman nose, he came straight out of a Charles Russell painting and I fell in love immediately. That wild look in his eyes didn't appear until I brought him home--after he recovered from the cold he'd been battling.
But I digress. Before Cherokee, before I understood how little I knew about horses, there was Baron who technically belonged to my husband (let's call him Jim), a man who knew even less about horses. At least I knew shoveling would consume much of our time, well my time at least, since I made the mistake of commenting on how cleaning corrals was good exercise. That was the last time Jim ever touched a rake or shovel. The divorce proceedings should have started then.
Baby Baron
My future ex-husband wanted a horse for the same reason some woman want a baby--all their friends have one, and as it turned out, Baron fit the bill since he was a big baby. Answering an ad in a local newspaper, we found him under fed and relegated to a small area along a back alley. It seems his 16-year-old owner, moving on to her new Appaloosa mare and foal, found it too time consuming and too costly to care for him. His thinning body showed every rib, making him look exceptionally tall and leggy (okay, so anything bigger than a Shetland pony looked tall to me). As we stood there talking, Baron wandered off down the alley prompting the owner to yell at her baby sister "Bring him back here!" The toddler put her chubby legs in motion, grabbed his dragging rein and walked him back to us. One picture truly is worth a thousand words; he was obviously the horse for us. Our friend, Paul, brought his trailer and we took Baron home.
Thankfully, Paul knew one end of a horse from the other which certainly prevented my early demise. Equally fortunate was the fact that Baron was Baron. Calm, unflappable, obedient--and 17-1/2 hands high--he filled out into a red snow-capped mountain with his four white feet and flashy blazed face. Other than cleaning that corral, he made owning a horse one of the easiest things we'd ever done, and before long his extreme gentleness and self confidence lulled us into the belief that horses, unlike humans, could be taken at face value.
The Fem Fatale
Now Gypsy did at least have a beautiful face. She was to be my horse for trail riding with Paul, his wife, my friend Katherine, and my husband. Our former landlord, living two miles up the mountainside above us, owned her and swore by her temperament. Since they were only using her to entertain the grandkids with rides around the yard, they said her one fault was being a little barn sour. And as he was inclined to do, Jim bought her for me sight unseen. He did things like that; you know, like putting retread tires on the front of my car, but never on his truck.
Since I worked full time and was an inexperienced rider, Katherine volunteered to bring Gypsy home for me by riding her down the mountain road leading into our canyon. The mare proved to be a little jittery on the road as we expected, but the ride was uneventful.
I'll have to admit, I did like the way Gypsy looked. Liver colored, solid slender body with a nice round rump, and a white blazed face with a dished nose, she was obviously part Arabian. She'd had one physical injury however, that was so bad she probably should have been put down at the time it happened rather than left to suffer. Every rib on her right side had been broken, with the upper and longer lower portions barely lining up with each other as they healed. Whatever caused the injury left a perfectly arched pattern along that side, and while we never discovered what happened, we soon came to believe it had a profound influence on her personality.
Now experienced friends told us horses won't do anything to hurt themselves. They might try to buck you off or knock you off by going under low tree branches, but they won't deliberately put themselves in harm's way. Gypsy never read that rule. The morning after her arrival, and ignoring the old adage about "pay backs" and a potential relationship to my retread tires, Jim decided to ride her first. Some would later say he was concerned about my safety; knowing him so well however, I prefer to believe he wanted to show Paul he was now an experienced horseman (remember that 3-year-old with Baron?). Under Paul's watchful eye, Jim saddled Gypsy, led her out of the corral, and then rode her up the embankment alongside it which brought them out on our road. Once there, she quietly looked back at her hind feet, then took them both over backward down the embankment and crashing through her corral fence.
Luckily she only landed on one leg (later diagnosed as "mush"--a clean break would have been better) rather than Jim's full body. After assurances Jim and my horse were still in tact, Paul got on her, took her back up to the same spot on the road and worked her back and forth for some time. My husband never got on her again. Katherine occasionally rode her around the local neighborhood. I admired her from my kitchen window.
Then along came Alan, a long-time friend and officer in a local police department. He actually liked Gypsy, insisting he wanted to buy her even though he had witnessed her looking back to see where the trail dropped off into the canyon below them. Given her head, she would position herself to take them both over the edge backwards, yet he had no qualms about trail riding with her. Some people just enjoy life-threatening challenges; must have been the "cop" in him. Anyway, Gypsy and I parted company without causing bodily harm to each other.
The Eight-Second Whistle
It was at this point that wild-eyed Cherokee entered my life. Riding him was a constant battle and I fully expected his headstrong ways to kill both of us in some creative fashion. I recall vicious jolts followed by visions of his ears racing toward my face--er...no, I was lurching toward those ears. At least there was no eight-second whistle to worry about during this rodeo.
Ultimately, Paul decided Cherokee needed to work off excess energy and relearn his manners, so he suggested I work him on a lunge line. A what line? After a quick demonstration, Paul loaned me his line and whip, and I set aside a Sunday afternoon to work Cherokee in his corral. As it turned out, Cherokee worked me instead. At the end of our session, I called my boss to let her know I wouldn't be coming into the office the next day; no matter which body part moved, it hurt. It hurt worse after watching Paul put Cherokee through his paces using only hand and arm motions. No whip, no line.
In an attempt to spread a little of the blame elsewhere, I do have to mention problems with my two riding instructors. For instance, one afternoon as I was perched on Cherokee's bare back and surrounded by these experts, I was given a lesson in bareback riding. Paul, the cowboy, stood to my left telling me to use my thighs when riding, and simultaneously, our next-door neighbor Sam, a Native American horseman and standing on my right, told me to tuck my toes under Cherokee's belly. Sam solved my dilemma when he purchased Cherokee so he could trail ride with our merry little group. The group I still couldn't join.
One Smart Pony
Then I started waking up to tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump as hooves pounded down our paved road in the black of night, night after night. Just as suddenly one night, our ghost rider was silent. Weeks later I found the neighborhood phantom for sale at the local livestock auction. Danny was under 14 hands--I liked seeing blades of grass close up--buckskin colored, pot bellied, and quiet. The auction's owner claimed him for non-payment of a feed bill and was nursing him back to health. It seems Danny's swollen knees were caused by running down paved roads in the dark...
With a beautiful small head, blond and black mixed in with his buckskin coloring, and odd black-striped legs, Danny could only be described as "cute." Nothing else had worked so far, so why not go for cute? We boarded him at the auction while his knees healed, and then I rode him home to wait for the other boot to drop. At least it was a small boot; Danny was manageable as long as I didn't give him his head. Pounding the pavement had caused him a lot of pain in the past, but any slack in his reins still meant the wind in my hair again.
To work off some of his energy, my now almost ex-husband and I started taking Baron and Danny out to pole line roads where Danny could satisfy his inclination to run. It didn't help much; after chugging down his allergy medication and a slurp of Pepsi, he was ready run. Doesn't allergy medication make you drowsy? Hum...must only apply to humans. Well, at least he didn't buck, run away, or look for death-defying heights to fall over.
By this time, at least I had learned a few things, like thighs work great. Out riding one afternoon, I met Katherine along the road as she was driving into town. While we visited, Danny and I relaxed and faced Katherine perpendicular to her truck, that is, we were perpendicular until a goat on the opposite hillside went up on its hind legs. Danny's sideways five-foot jump left my head talking to Katherine while my butt took off with him. All of us, goat included, were amazed I stayed with him. Thanks Paul.
I also understood that eventually some horse would dump me by bucking, running or some other evil act, but I was shocked when it happened with mild mannered Danny! At a slow walk and in slow motion, I smoothly listed to my left, sliding sideways until I was parallel with the ground. Soon I was looking up at his barrel-shaped belly.
Then a brush with fame arrived out of the proverbial clear blue sky one morning when Katherine called about a magazine article. It seems German scientists had genetically recreated the extinct tarpan horse, and the animals were being bred as a novelty. Didn't Danny have stripes around his legs? A few weeks after examining my photographs, the equine experts from the local zoo visited us to draw a blood sample from Danny. It seems another zoo had experimentally crossed tarpans with the Przewalski wild horses a few years ago; however, the experts from our zoo decided that although Danny was indeed part tarpan, there was no Przewalski blood involved. So ended our 15 minutes of fame.
Riding Into The Sunset
Then one day I discovered my closer-than-ever-to-being-an-ex-husband had tired of Baron and traded him for two purebred Hereford heifers to butcher. I wasn't the only one upset about the trade either; Danny didn't like it one bit. From then on, all Jim ever saw of Danny again was his backside. Did I mention Danny was smart? Capping off the whole unsettling incident, I could only save one of the heifers from the dinner table.
Then it finally happened. After nearly ten years of marriage, I found myself calmly waving goodbye to Jim. My friends insisted I'd have a good cry once reality penetrated, but I knew better. In fact, the only tears I shed happened when I sold Danny because I couldn't afford his feed.
And of course, it only took a few days for Jim to decide he wanted to come back home. Poor psychotic Gypsy had a better chance.
The wind blowing through my hair, muscles rippling beneath me, the freedom of riding bareback--the stark terror of hanging onto a runaway horse--and the truck coming head-on wasn't giving us an inch to spare either. What's wrong with people? Do horses go to heaven? It was a moot point anyway; this one would find that barn door closed on arrival.
Katherine. What was it she so fortuitously said one time? Oh yeah, if you're ever on a runaway, pull one rein to the side forcing the horse's head to come around. Cherokee's head coming toward my right boot gradually slowed him down and eventually brought us to a standstill as the pickup whizzed by within a few feet us. Did I really see two adult men grinning?
Cherokee wasn't supposed to be like that, in fact, on our test ride he was exceptionally calm and responsive. With his brown and white patch-work coat and slight Roman nose, he came straight out of a Charles Russell painting and I fell in love immediately. That wild look in his eyes didn't appear until I brought him home--after he recovered from the cold he'd been battling.
But I digress. Before Cherokee, before I understood how little I knew about horses, there was Baron who technically belonged to my husband (let's call him Jim), a man who knew even less about horses. At least I knew shoveling would consume much of our time, well my time at least, since I made the mistake of commenting on how cleaning corrals was good exercise. That was the last time Jim ever touched a rake or shovel. The divorce proceedings should have started then.
Baby Baron
My future ex-husband wanted a horse for the same reason some woman want a baby--all their friends have one, and as it turned out, Baron fit the bill since he was a big baby. Answering an ad in a local newspaper, we found him under fed and relegated to a small area along a back alley. It seems his 16-year-old owner, moving on to her new Appaloosa mare and foal, found it too time consuming and too costly to care for him. His thinning body showed every rib, making him look exceptionally tall and leggy (okay, so anything bigger than a Shetland pony looked tall to me). As we stood there talking, Baron wandered off down the alley prompting the owner to yell at her baby sister "Bring him back here!" The toddler put her chubby legs in motion, grabbed his dragging rein and walked him back to us. One picture truly is worth a thousand words; he was obviously the horse for us. Our friend, Paul, brought his trailer and we took Baron home.
Thankfully, Paul knew one end of a horse from the other which certainly prevented my early demise. Equally fortunate was the fact that Baron was Baron. Calm, unflappable, obedient--and 17-1/2 hands high--he filled out into a red snow-capped mountain with his four white feet and flashy blazed face. Other than cleaning that corral, he made owning a horse one of the easiest things we'd ever done, and before long his extreme gentleness and self confidence lulled us into the belief that horses, unlike humans, could be taken at face value.
The Fem Fatale
Now Gypsy did at least have a beautiful face. She was to be my horse for trail riding with Paul, his wife, my friend Katherine, and my husband. Our former landlord, living two miles up the mountainside above us, owned her and swore by her temperament. Since they were only using her to entertain the grandkids with rides around the yard, they said her one fault was being a little barn sour. And as he was inclined to do, Jim bought her for me sight unseen. He did things like that; you know, like putting retread tires on the front of my car, but never on his truck.
Since I worked full time and was an inexperienced rider, Katherine volunteered to bring Gypsy home for me by riding her down the mountain road leading into our canyon. The mare proved to be a little jittery on the road as we expected, but the ride was uneventful.
I'll have to admit, I did like the way Gypsy looked. Liver colored, solid slender body with a nice round rump, and a white blazed face with a dished nose, she was obviously part Arabian. She'd had one physical injury however, that was so bad she probably should have been put down at the time it happened rather than left to suffer. Every rib on her right side had been broken, with the upper and longer lower portions barely lining up with each other as they healed. Whatever caused the injury left a perfectly arched pattern along that side, and while we never discovered what happened, we soon came to believe it had a profound influence on her personality.
Now experienced friends told us horses won't do anything to hurt themselves. They might try to buck you off or knock you off by going under low tree branches, but they won't deliberately put themselves in harm's way. Gypsy never read that rule. The morning after her arrival, and ignoring the old adage about "pay backs" and a potential relationship to my retread tires, Jim decided to ride her first. Some would later say he was concerned about my safety; knowing him so well however, I prefer to believe he wanted to show Paul he was now an experienced horseman (remember that 3-year-old with Baron?). Under Paul's watchful eye, Jim saddled Gypsy, led her out of the corral, and then rode her up the embankment alongside it which brought them out on our road. Once there, she quietly looked back at her hind feet, then took them both over backward down the embankment and crashing through her corral fence.
Luckily she only landed on one leg (later diagnosed as "mush"--a clean break would have been better) rather than Jim's full body. After assurances Jim and my horse were still in tact, Paul got on her, took her back up to the same spot on the road and worked her back and forth for some time. My husband never got on her again. Katherine occasionally rode her around the local neighborhood. I admired her from my kitchen window.
Then along came Alan, a long-time friend and officer in a local police department. He actually liked Gypsy, insisting he wanted to buy her even though he had witnessed her looking back to see where the trail dropped off into the canyon below them. Given her head, she would position herself to take them both over the edge backwards, yet he had no qualms about trail riding with her. Some people just enjoy life-threatening challenges; must have been the "cop" in him. Anyway, Gypsy and I parted company without causing bodily harm to each other.
The Eight-Second Whistle
It was at this point that wild-eyed Cherokee entered my life. Riding him was a constant battle and I fully expected his headstrong ways to kill both of us in some creative fashion. I recall vicious jolts followed by visions of his ears racing toward my face--er...no, I was lurching toward those ears. At least there was no eight-second whistle to worry about during this rodeo.
Ultimately, Paul decided Cherokee needed to work off excess energy and relearn his manners, so he suggested I work him on a lunge line. A what line? After a quick demonstration, Paul loaned me his line and whip, and I set aside a Sunday afternoon to work Cherokee in his corral. As it turned out, Cherokee worked me instead. At the end of our session, I called my boss to let her know I wouldn't be coming into the office the next day; no matter which body part moved, it hurt. It hurt worse after watching Paul put Cherokee through his paces using only hand and arm motions. No whip, no line.
In an attempt to spread a little of the blame elsewhere, I do have to mention problems with my two riding instructors. For instance, one afternoon as I was perched on Cherokee's bare back and surrounded by these experts, I was given a lesson in bareback riding. Paul, the cowboy, stood to my left telling me to use my thighs when riding, and simultaneously, our next-door neighbor Sam, a Native American horseman and standing on my right, told me to tuck my toes under Cherokee's belly. Sam solved my dilemma when he purchased Cherokee so he could trail ride with our merry little group. The group I still couldn't join.
One Smart Pony
Then I started waking up to tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump as hooves pounded down our paved road in the black of night, night after night. Just as suddenly one night, our ghost rider was silent. Weeks later I found the neighborhood phantom for sale at the local livestock auction. Danny was under 14 hands--I liked seeing blades of grass close up--buckskin colored, pot bellied, and quiet. The auction's owner claimed him for non-payment of a feed bill and was nursing him back to health. It seems Danny's swollen knees were caused by running down paved roads in the dark...
With a beautiful small head, blond and black mixed in with his buckskin coloring, and odd black-striped legs, Danny could only be described as "cute." Nothing else had worked so far, so why not go for cute? We boarded him at the auction while his knees healed, and then I rode him home to wait for the other boot to drop. At least it was a small boot; Danny was manageable as long as I didn't give him his head. Pounding the pavement had caused him a lot of pain in the past, but any slack in his reins still meant the wind in my hair again.
To work off some of his energy, my now almost ex-husband and I started taking Baron and Danny out to pole line roads where Danny could satisfy his inclination to run. It didn't help much; after chugging down his allergy medication and a slurp of Pepsi, he was ready run. Doesn't allergy medication make you drowsy? Hum...must only apply to humans. Well, at least he didn't buck, run away, or look for death-defying heights to fall over.
By this time, at least I had learned a few things, like thighs work great. Out riding one afternoon, I met Katherine along the road as she was driving into town. While we visited, Danny and I relaxed and faced Katherine perpendicular to her truck, that is, we were perpendicular until a goat on the opposite hillside went up on its hind legs. Danny's sideways five-foot jump left my head talking to Katherine while my butt took off with him. All of us, goat included, were amazed I stayed with him. Thanks Paul.
I also understood that eventually some horse would dump me by bucking, running or some other evil act, but I was shocked when it happened with mild mannered Danny! At a slow walk and in slow motion, I smoothly listed to my left, sliding sideways until I was parallel with the ground. Soon I was looking up at his barrel-shaped belly.
Then a brush with fame arrived out of the proverbial clear blue sky one morning when Katherine called about a magazine article. It seems German scientists had genetically recreated the extinct tarpan horse, and the animals were being bred as a novelty. Didn't Danny have stripes around his legs? A few weeks after examining my photographs, the equine experts from the local zoo visited us to draw a blood sample from Danny. It seems another zoo had experimentally crossed tarpans with the Przewalski wild horses a few years ago; however, the experts from our zoo decided that although Danny was indeed part tarpan, there was no Przewalski blood involved. So ended our 15 minutes of fame.
Riding Into The Sunset
Then one day I discovered my closer-than-ever-to-being-an-ex-husband had tired of Baron and traded him for two purebred Hereford heifers to butcher. I wasn't the only one upset about the trade either; Danny didn't like it one bit. From then on, all Jim ever saw of Danny again was his backside. Did I mention Danny was smart? Capping off the whole unsettling incident, I could only save one of the heifers from the dinner table.
Then it finally happened. After nearly ten years of marriage, I found myself calmly waving goodbye to Jim. My friends insisted I'd have a good cry once reality penetrated, but I knew better. In fact, the only tears I shed happened when I sold Danny because I couldn't afford his feed.
And of course, it only took a few days for Jim to decide he wanted to come back home. Poor psychotic Gypsy had a better chance.
