Ten Things You Need to Know About Your Chestnut Thoroughbred Mare

When I was about thirteen, I remember telling my mom with absolute certainty that I would NEVER ever own a chestnut Thoroughbred mare again.

Uh.

Sorry, thirteen year old self.

I've owned three. (Two for the moment, though all three are still on the farm..)

And over time, I've figured out the ten rules for getting along with your chestnut Thoroughbred mare...

1. You are only interesting when you come bearing treats, grain, hay, or some device to rub her with (curry combs, rub rags, long fingernails..)
   
2. Ask nicely and don't mess up her schedule or be prepared to suffer through crankiness for any small thing you ask for afterward.
   
3. NEVER under ANY circumstances forget what a beautiful, glorious creature she is and how incredibly lucky you are to be in her presence.
   
4. If you do happen to break #3 (and you will), you will be bucked off, bitten, stepped on, run over, or otherwise maimed within the next week to remind you of who exactly wears the pants in your relationship (and God help you if you mention she looks fat in them..).
   
5. Once a month, you might want to skip the riding. Unless, of course, you like the taste of dirt. Instead, I recommend massages with rub rags, bathes, and cookies. Lots of cookies.
   
6. Your chestnut Thoroughbred mare wants you to learn and grow.. That's why she balks at the trailer or tests the walls of her stall. Not only will it broaden your inventiveness but also your vocabulary!
   
7. She will paw, and no, it's not out of boredom. She's simply trying to remind you to be time savvy and hurry the hell up.
   
8. When she's ready to go, she's ready to go. So stop screwing around and get to it before you make her even crankier.
   
9. Her preferred pasture mates are other chestnut Thoroughbred mares, but if none are available, she will settle for doting geldings.
   
10. She loves you. No, really, she does. And once in a blue moon, she will look at you with soft eyes and floppy eyes. She'll lick you shoulder or nuzzle your fingers, and you'll know.

Well, it's either love or she needs a new salt block.

-- Girl

from top to bottom: Girl, 11 or 12, and Cow. Girl, 16 or 17, on Chunky and ponying Miss Manners. Girl, 15, and Barbie. Girl, 11 or 12, and Cow.

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How To Mend the World

A great friend on a great horse.

I need a track to feed this addiction
That makes everything blend like fact and fiction.
Stop for a second, here's my prediction.
I'd rather taste wind than feel soft, slow friction.

I need some ground to lay this dying heart,
Forget your quick fix, I need a jump start
To something forever, something apart
From it all. Oh, doll. This is a dying art.

I need to feel his rhythm, catch his beat,
Feel the cold world melt with his heat.
I know he's the only one that I'll ever meet
Who can match my heart with his pounding feet.

I need to explain all my sins away,
I take this confession almost every day,
The wind takes my breath and all I could say,
And only his power and warmth can remain.

I need to feel everything else is fake,
That the only thing real is the pair we make.
The trees could splinter, and the earth could shake.
But only with him do I truly awake.

I know when he lays down, prepared to die,
Some think he won't gallop the fields in the sky,
But here's the truth, they don't look in his eye,
Cause the angel inside can already fly.

-- Girl.

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It's a bird, it's a plane, it's... Barbie?!?!

It was one of those hot summer days where our boarders would show up with coolers of beer and outfits best described as questionable.

We really hadn't been doing much working. The Boss Mare had ridden one or two, and I'd been playing swap-a-pony in our pastures. You know what I mean.. When you have to move one horse, but end up trading around five others to make the move "smoother".

He pulled up in a Tahoe that screamed trashy, a fact punctuated by the loud rap music spilling from his speakers. I felt like I had just stepped into Pretty Woman, if Julia Roberts were bare-chested, beer-bellied, and barefoot and the saleswomen were clad in Spandex pants, tall boots, and grime.

I think it might have been the giant cross tattoo on his chest or the faint aroma of cigarettes and weed that clung to his worn-out sweatpants, but he stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Are you guys missing a horse?"
"No, I don't think so." The Boss Mare chimed from her perch.
"Well, this horse with a mask and cape just came through my front yard."

Every head snapped to stare at me. I stood up. Barbie is allergic to fly bites and wears nose to tail protection almost all the time. "That would be mine."

So began the frantic search for Barbs. Tahoe Boy drove me around our neighborhood, searching for my disappearing horse. He explained that she had just strolled through his yard, past his faux pit bull (I say faux because this sucker was clearly some Mastiff/Boxer variation labeled "pit bull" to sound cool..).

The Boss Mare rang me up. "We found her! She's on the other side of our neighbor!"

In other words? A briar patch.

I thanked Tahoe Boy, climbed out of the SUV, and raced my way past a trailer. I picked my way across a field littered with beer cans, baby diapers, and used fireworks. Amid the remnants of a redneck Fourth of July, Barbie had left her thoughts of how the other side lived.

I have never been so thrilled to find a pile of poop.

Then I saw her, complete with "cape and mask". I started through the patch, stringing words together as fluently as a sailor. By the time I reached her, the blood had already reached my socks. She was bumping against the barbwire fence, and as I slung her halter on, she caught her hoof through the bottom strands.

Luckily, one of our boarders helped keep her calm on the other side of the fence. I got her sorry behind out unscathed, and then we began the real journey.

I'm not sure if the Boss Mare has really been around OTTBs much because when I mentioned bringing the trailer up, she promptly told me I could walk Barbie home. Let's do some math, shall we?

1 very hot Thoroughbred+ stress + more stress + being led away from the most direct route home + 1 faux pit bull + a narrow street + a meth house = GIANT bad idea.

Barbie is not fond of cars or dogs, in particular big ones who think she'd make a nice "natural" alternative. And we all know from the Giant Pasture incident that the idea of walking a horse back gives me chills, especially when we are on a public road.

We made it passed the dog, down the hill, around the meth house, and passed the field of foxtrotters. I have never been more thankful for a lack of cars or a chain across a pony's nose.

Finally home, I assessed the damage. Two little cuts, not a rip in her blanket. Of course, she's dripping in sweat and stress, but that's not long term.

"She must have gone over the back fence." The Boss Mare contemplated. ".....You weren't exagerrating."

Like I've said before, Barbie likes to pasture-hop.
Literally.

-- Girl

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Barbie's Gone Royal and Redheaded!

Barbie, Barbie.

She's one long-legged, hip swinging broad. A daughter of Storm and a Half, a granddaughter of Jetting Along, she's got the bloodlines of a Thoroughbred princess.

15.3 hands, the color of a polished penny..

When she's in good weight and groomed, it's enough to make your heart swoon. You may make an offering to her loveliness, a peppermint or a bit of carrot, but don't hold your breath. She is convinced all people are trying to poison her. (Don't you dare forget her Highness's ancestors faced such possibilities.)

Expect to spend a week convincing her the carrot isn't not cyanide.

If her pasturemates are less than suitable, she will leave and look for more satisfying companionship. She prefers those who are also chestnut and Thoroughbred or pony geldings who actually appreciate her beauty. Like the pop princesses of our day, she will pasture-hop until finding a group that will dote on her accordingly.

Those lucky enough to ride her have to handle her at her worst to get her at her best. Her best is akin to Marilyn Monroe in "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes", light and airy with a vibrant edge. And her worst can make Ozzy Osbourne look like a saint. However, two steps into her swinging Mae West walk will send your head spinning and your heart lusting for more.

As I freewalked her around, one trainer stopped to stare. "She walks like a hooker!"

She is rather indifferent about her humans and could very well do without them unless they want to massage her or rub her down with a rag like a new Camaro.
In which case, she will stand for hours.
Isn't it nice when humans realize their real purpose in life?



-- Girl

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The Day the Barn Stood Still

It was one of my worst days as a young horsewoman.
Not to be confused with the concussion, the broken elbow, the dizzy nauseous sting from being kicked in the aforementioned broken elbow, or the day we put the one of the quietest geldings I've known in the ground. Nor with the moments I've hated the sport, the times spend crying over misunderstood theories, or the night I decided never to ride again. (obviously, that lasted a looong time.)

We feed by running the horses up in their groups, leaving their stalls open. Most dodge into their own; the young and the new are less predictable. On this particular day, I was not feeding. It was a Friday, and our weekend feeder had come in. Because I have the social life of a 70 year old hermit, I was still at the farm, taking up space. Plus Horse had been rather questionable about feeding, and I felt the need to supervise..

In addition to having stalls, we have three feeding stalls. I would say there are the size of a straight-load trailer stall. One is open; the other two house our show equipment (tents, tables, scoreboards, so forth.) They are dark and cob-webbed and cramped.

In other words, they are EXACTLY what any normal horse would avoid.

Horse is not normal. I have lost all hope in her basic sanity.

Horse climbed over the tents and tables, wedging herself into the show equipment stall. Upon completing this task, she discovered not an ounce of grain. We watched her take a bold step back.. And bump into the foray of tents.

Realizing she was stuck, Horse's anxiety skyrocketed. She began rocking back and forth, bumping the front of the stall only to sling back to the tents. I have used the same technique to get my truck unstuck, but (shocker, I know) that was not comforting. We made an attempt to calm her down and move the tents, but the notion the tents were moving only seemed to agitate her more.

Anyone with horses knows: When things go bad, they go bad fast.

She began banging on either side of the stall, and with no way to move the tents or reach her head (we would have had to climb in where she was pawing and stepping), the feeder and I stepped back.

Then she began to rear and twist. I covered my face. I think I may have let out a strangled scream as I listened to four years of my life crash into the sides of the stall. I had the briefest sick thought that she was going to tear down the wall of the stall to get out.

Instead when I looked up, there was Horse -- free and limping. Somehow, she had reared and turned around in the tiny stall. She had very minor slices, nothing like the door incident.

I gave her a week off, but she was still stiff and sore. I rode her once, and she balked more than her typical minor hissy fits. Something was wrong.

I cried after I called my mom to come pick her up. I'll admit it, I hate that one afternoon can change your goals. That fifteen minutes might be the end of everything.

Mom came and picked her up, bringing me Barbie (who you all will hear tons about soon!). Horse's future is in a pasture for a while, until I get home to take her to the vet.

-- Girl

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Prelude to: Girl, Glitter, and One Giant Pasture

Now, I've been getting hate mail from some of you for not posting recently. You know who you are! It is NOT nice to text me each day...
"Still no update."

So what have I been up to, you ask? Where has the oh-so elusive Girl gone?
Walking.
Miles and miles and MILES of walking.

Let me tell you my personal work day horror story..

Mondays are the Boss Mare's day off. You cannot find her dragging the arenas or perching on her stool. You can't even find her if you follow the resident barn Jack Russell (usually a surefire indicator that the Boss is near). She leaves a list on the blackboard of things for me to do and heads into town.

Last Monday was not any different. She wrote a short to-do list - feed, fill water tanks, lunge all our working horses. I finished early and curled up to nap the afternoon away.
It was perfect.
I'm telling you.. I was over the moon about this day and how wonderful it had turned out.

[part 2 coming soon.. must sleep or not survive tomorrow! it is a Monday, afterall...]

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Horse and Girl Go to Flight School!

It's my day off here at More Inside Leg Stables.. I'm proud to say that Clark the camper is all cleaned. He sports a fresh baked batch of cornbread on his counter, red beans and rice tucked into his fridge.

I thought I had lost a ton of weight, and then I realized I had just lost feeling in my thighs. All feeling has returned now. I'll admit it...
I'm a little bummed.

But enough about me, my sweet little girl has become a TEENAGER. Let's face it, three year old horses are about like fifteen year old humans. She's just broke out of her training bra, is hot to trot, believes she knows it all, and resists any kind of authority. I'm like..
PAUSE, pony. I'm the teenager! I'm supposed to be the irrational one! But alas, our days are filled with:
"Biting is NOT nice."
"QUIT IT."
"(insert not nice words), (insert not nice words) !!" (Those of you with teenagers understand..)

I rode her for the first time on Thursday, just a little after I lunged her. She was good, but she might have still been a little dizzy from doing spiral-ins on the lunge. (for you horsey people, GREAT exercise for any level of pony. Gets balance/brain going. I love it!)

Then Friday rolled around.. And Horse and I went head-to-head for the turn-on-the-forehand. For sake of history, call it our Cold War... Had someone actually dropped a bomb.

"Okay, slow her down. Ask her to move off your inside leg.." Boss Mare called. "Tell her to WAIT for you."

Horse blatantly ignored me. She tucked her sweet little nose back and breezed right on. Now, all of you riders out there are probably quivering in your boots because this is a GIANT no-no in the dressage world. For non-horsey people, this is the equivalent of your kid agreeing with you, and then just doing what they want anyway. (Kids, this is very effective if you can make it where your parents don't know you did it... Just saying!)

So, I took her rump over to the wall where she can't walk off as easily and asked again. Now she flat out resisted, wringing her tail as if I'd just asked her to jump the Empire State building. "It's a good thing you're young." Boss Mare said in the midst of giving me several (AKA 100) instructions.

Horse, however, objected worst when my tactics got more effective. I felt her coil up beneath me, and with the wall in front and any sideways or backwards motion blocked, she did what any good military would do.

She went for the skies.
Her front legs reached as if to climb the wall. I brought my right rein to the side, pulling her back from sky to earth. Boss Mare had already uncurled herself from her seat and strode across the ring with this determined glint in her eyes that would make the worst convict pause. I fought my anger down to finish with a decent ride. (no fear, surprisingly. I suppose I'll develop that emotion at 20 years with the rest of my brain..)

"We're both going to be better people because of her." Boss Mare said later, as Horse stood in the cross ties with a rebellious expression still hidden under several layers of sweat.

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