Bridled Passion: A Horse Trilogy

“Would you be interested in buying my mare?” a neighbor asked. “No,” I replied. My previous encounters with equine females had been disastrous and I wasn’t exactly winning all the ribbons with my gelding, either. But to soften my terse response, I added, “Give me her details, and I’ll ask my friends if they know anyone needing a horse.” “Thanks,” my neighbor replied. “She’s an Irish thoroughbred ex-racehorse. Fifteen three, sixteen years old, chestnut, and going cheap because she cribs and windsucks.” Great! I thought, every horseman’s dream! Cribbing and windsucking—gripping any available surface with the teeth then swallowing air—are two vices which reduce a horse’s value considerably. They wear down the front teeth, allegedly cause colic, and common wisdom has it that stable mates catch the habit. I tried to sound polite. “What’s she done?” “Only trail-riding…and she’s really good in traffic. Oh, but she hasn’t been ridden for two years.” Terrific! A must-have horse. We lived in England at the time. I casually mentioned our neighbor’s ‘desirable’ mare to my husband and a visiting friend, Don. The latter looked at me. “How much does she want?” he asked. Initially baffled at his question, I remembered he was soon to lose his chestnut mare in a pending divorce. Warily, I answered, “Eight hundred pounds, including tack. Why?” “Ring her back. I’ll try the horse tomorrow.” Like McEnroe, I yelled, “You cannot be serious!” I knew where that horse would live if he boarded her at our place. The following morning Glen, my husband, drove our mad friend to see Kelly. She was hastily being shod while windsucking for England. An hour later Don rode her into our field, where the chestnut promptly bucked him off. I had never seen such an ugly horse. Ribs poked through her worm-ridden belly, her lower lip protruded, her tongue hung out, muscles bulged in the wrong places from her vices…the list was endless. But Don had remounted, so I suggested he use our enclosed riding arena. This time he fared better. Kelly behaved sedately. That night our intrepid friend became the owner of a new mare, saddle, bridle, and a saddle blanket which had been used upside down when it became worn, so both sides were now completely threadbare. Our eyebrows rose at the sight and it awoke curiosity about her former life. Meanwhile Kelly was busy cribbing and windsucking in her new home—our stables, so we slammed on a crib collar. She was crazy. When tied up, she’d break free and gallop down our drive. If you moved anything on the ground by her feet, ditto. When being saddled she’d bite, when the bit was put in her mouth, she’d bite, and when Don tightened up her girth before getting on, she’d bite, and cow-kick for good measure. As suspected, a dream horse. Once mounted, she was fairly calm except in front of a fence, where she morphed into an equine dynamo. There was no stopping her. There was also no stopping her from stopping, either. Don fell off a lot. But he was very brave and took her to a cross-country competition. She dumped him at the trakhener—a log suspended over a ditch—then galloped off. When finally caught, she was held by my husband for Don to mount. As our friend’s foot reached the stirrup, Kelly flung herself bodily to the ground, in full view of the entire crowd. I have never seen a horse do that, either before or since. Don was humiliated. His red witch rose from the dirt, shook herself off, and bolted. Anyone interested in a cheap chestnut mare? Don asked me to sell her for him, and I wasn’t happy. I’d have to show that minx off to any prospective buyer, which meant actually sitting on her. Yet, strangely, I felt sorry for the little horse. She looked so pitiful when she came to us that winter, with raw blanket rubs round her chest and between her hind legs. We discovered she’d been in the same field constantly for two years, due to a tendon injury, while her equine companions came and went. Through boredom and frustration she’d developed her bad habits, and hated her blanket because her former owner left it on for months. I imagined her girth had been tightened too much too quickly, hence the cow-kicking. Later I learned that tongue-hanging is typical of a racehorse. But knowing the above didn’t give me the courage to ride her. I attached her next to a haynet, as we don’t use cross-ties in England, then groomed her with deep strokes while she munched away. She seemed to enjoy the attention and dozed off. But when I placed the saddle on her back, her ears flattened menacingly. She wasn’t asleep anymore! I fed her a distracting tidbit while buckling the girth very loosely. No kick. After putting on her bridle, I gave her another treat, which she chewed instead of me. There was also no cow-kick when I offered a last bribe before re-tightening the girth. I then mounted her—really slowly. I knew the stunt she’d pull if she didn’t like her rider! I sat mousy quiet on her, afraid to apply any aids. But she stayed calm throughout walk, trot and canter, so I approached a cross-pole, and hung onto a tuft of mane as Kelly hurled herself over it. I so wanted to get off! But a buyer would want to see her jump and I had to keep going. ‘Let the fence come to you’ I remembered my instructor telling me. I repeated it over and over as I steered the hurdle racer towards an upright fence then a wider one. Boy, could she jump! I looked at Glen and we both thought the same thing: This is a good horse! Completely nuts, but talented. That night, over the phone, Don gave Kelly to me free. He was happy she was going to a good home and I hoped she was. I had a huge challenge ahead of me. I decided to have no agenda with her; no specific shows in mind and therefore no pressure. This was important, as there was much to work on, and I had no pretensions of being a great rider. When annoyed, the mare would jiggle the bit in her teeth and toss her head. She’d unexpectedly lean on my hands to avoid proper contact. Her head swayed from side-to-side in trot. She chucked her head up at every canter strike off, she rushed her fences and her tongue hung out almost all the time. There was indeed much room for improvement. I exercised her daily, gradually increasing the length of our flatwork sessions. My instructor helped, without laughing, for which I was most grateful. Every time Kelly performed one of her little "things’ I would say “We don’t do that anymore,” firmly believing she would stop. I rode her as if she didn’t have those endearing quirks, and over several months they dwindled to nothing, save the hanging tongue. That defeated me. But the horse was moving beautifully and for the first time in my riding career, I didn’t feel like a pathetic amateur. It was time for our first dressage show together. First it took us over an hour to load her into the trailer. Then, at the show, she stomped and whinnied and scared everyone, including me. During the competition, she became a balloon with the air whooshing out of it and whirled violently around the arena. It was indoors, so thankfully she couldn’t escape. The judge was forced to give me the lowest score in history, but kindly commented that I’d ‘ridden with sensitivity’. The next few months were busy. I exposed her to everything, including showjumping, hunter trials and combined training. She systematically jumped out of dressage arenas, ditched me at ditches, and steeplechased everything she did jump at a hundred miles an hour. She would kick me in the thighs when I tightened her girth at shows if I forgot her tidbit. Those were exhilarating times. So why did I, the most average of average horsewomen, persevere? Because, slowly, something good was happening. Her anxiety level at shows decreased. She began to trust me and jump fences she once refused. My confidence as her owner and rider grew; we were becoming a partnership. She showed this one day at a competition. I was walking the course of jumps, while two friends tacked her up for me, and returned to find Kelly piaffing and throwing her head up, preparing to break loose. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “She won’t let us put on her tendon boots,” came the reply. I patted her neck, saying quietly, “It’s Mum, Kelly.” She immediately stopped fretting and let me apply the boots. My friends were astounded and so was I. Six months after my original dressage debacle, I returned to the same venue and rode the same test as before. We gave an outstanding performance. Kelly moved as smoothly as a hot knife through butter and kept her tongue in her mouth! I had to trailer home before the final results, but left a stamped addressed envelope so my ribbon could be sent to me. I was sure we’d earned one. That night I had a phone call to say they wouldn’t be sending me a ribbon. I was bitterly disappointed. “You won the trophy and we can’t fit that into your envelope,” the secretary explained. I felt like a pro! The hard work and patience—from rider and horse—had paid off. Her name was changed for shows after that. She’s still Kelly at home,—it’s considered bad luck to change a horse’s name—but Rubesca in competitions. She needed a posh name, for she was now a posh horse. I’m frequently asked by other riders how come my mount hangs out her tongue during the dressage warm up but sticks it back in for the test? The answer is simple. I believe she won’t, so she doesn’t. That little chestnut makes me look like a competent horsewoman. In England, and now in the States, we’ve won dressage, showjumping and combined training competitions. Last year, at age twenty-four, she won a one-day event. She loves her work and refuses to retire. I haven’t bothered with a crib collar for years. She’s earned the right to indulge her ‘vices’. She’s never got colic from them and my other horses haven’t picked up the habit, including her son, Cruz Bay, born when Kelly was twenty. She gave me the courage to back and train her millennium baby by myself. I’d never have attempted it before she came along. This year, as a four year-old, he placed third in a combined training competition—his third outing. Last week he confidently completed his first one day event, showing talent and boldness inherited from his mum. Cruz also shows me the same affection his mother now exhibits. My best moments are when I go into Kelly’s stable. She turns her chiseled head to look at me with the most beautiful liquid eyes you ever saw, brimming with kindness and contentment. How did I ever consider her ugly? She’s taught me to ride with sensitivity, and I like to think I’ve made a positive difference in her life. I hope she senses my love for her, and understands how grateful I am for the wonderful years she’s given me. * * * * Swollen with pride and happy anticipation after writing the above, I go out to ride Kelly, the mare who makes me look so good. I tie her to the ring in the wall and the cat runs along the hayloft above her. Startled, she pulls on her lead rope, breaks free and gallops down the drive. When I finally catch up with her, I swear that horse is winking at me!