Day 2: Breezy and Dakota
I love horses.
Breezy and Dakota are the fat lazy horses who live with the cows and the donkey at my parent's farm. Breezy is a tall quarterhorse, she runs the pasture, she's in charge of all the hoofed creatures. Dakota is a chubby gelding.
My cousin brought Breezy from Waxahachie one day, unasked for, she was just left there out of the blue when her owner lost his pasture lease. We didn't have tack for her, we knew nothing about her.
We mentioned this to one of our cowboy relatives and he helped us find a bridle and a big saddle for her. This trip was the first time I had a chance to try them out.
Breezy seemed happy to be haltered and brought in, she stepped high, tossed her head and acted proud.
We saddled her, bridled her and I climbed aboard, standing on a feed bucket so I could reach the stirrups.
She did fine, for awhile. She was happy to walk from the barn to the house and back. When I asked her to go to the back pasture, she balked, but we got through it.
In the back pasture, her ears were back, she was pissed, but we moved along. Then, all of a sudden she cut away, made a sharp turn and refused to go where I asked her to go. I turned her head, and she resisted, but eventually headed moved in the right direction, before turning around again. This time when I turned her head, she bucked.
It was a tiny buck, but it was a buck. Damnit.
When a horse does this, you have two options. 1. You can simply get off, tell them they won, and never ride them again. 2. You proceed, you don't give up, you urge them to what you want, consequences be damned.
I considered both options.
I proceeded. I asked Breezy again to go to the back pasture. Ears back, she went, then she bucked some more. I yelled at her, I cussed at her. She stoppped.
Slowly we made it to the back pasture. I won the battle and we turned back toward the house and barn. She was fine with that.
As we neared the house, I turned her for one more lap to the back pasture. She refused. She stood stock still. Then she reared and bucked. Damn her.
I yelled at her, refused to go where she wanted, stood my ground.
I saw that I had an audience. Dakota, the chubby gelding was watching us, whinnying at Breezy, encouraging her. My daughter and niece watched me from the porch, they were telling me to get off the horse.'
I asked Breezy again to turn and go to the back pasture. She reared again, she bucked.
I asked again. She did it again.
But damn it, I won it again.
I knew if I gave in, she'd never allow anyone on her back again. I think having an injury has made me more hardheaded about things, and it's more terrifying to fall than it is to hold on and ride things out. Falling off is riskier.
So, I'm 42 years old. That's really pretty darn young, but sometimes around all the young people that I seem to know, it can feel old. It's good to know that I can still run three miles and ride a bucky horse. It's good to know that it's still a hell of a lot of fun to do both.
Breezy and Dakota are the fat lazy horses who live with the cows and the donkey at my parent's farm. Breezy is a tall quarterhorse, she runs the pasture, she's in charge of all the hoofed creatures. Dakota is a chubby gelding.
My cousin brought Breezy from Waxahachie one day, unasked for, she was just left there out of the blue when her owner lost his pasture lease. We didn't have tack for her, we knew nothing about her.
We mentioned this to one of our cowboy relatives and he helped us find a bridle and a big saddle for her. This trip was the first time I had a chance to try them out.
Breezy seemed happy to be haltered and brought in, she stepped high, tossed her head and acted proud.
We saddled her, bridled her and I climbed aboard, standing on a feed bucket so I could reach the stirrups.
She did fine, for awhile. She was happy to walk from the barn to the house and back. When I asked her to go to the back pasture, she balked, but we got through it.
In the back pasture, her ears were back, she was pissed, but we moved along. Then, all of a sudden she cut away, made a sharp turn and refused to go where I asked her to go. I turned her head, and she resisted, but eventually headed moved in the right direction, before turning around again. This time when I turned her head, she bucked.
It was a tiny buck, but it was a buck. Damnit.
When a horse does this, you have two options. 1. You can simply get off, tell them they won, and never ride them again. 2. You proceed, you don't give up, you urge them to what you want, consequences be damned.
I considered both options.
I proceeded. I asked Breezy again to go to the back pasture. Ears back, she went, then she bucked some more. I yelled at her, I cussed at her. She stoppped.
Slowly we made it to the back pasture. I won the battle and we turned back toward the house and barn. She was fine with that.
As we neared the house, I turned her for one more lap to the back pasture. She refused. She stood stock still. Then she reared and bucked. Damn her.
I yelled at her, refused to go where she wanted, stood my ground.
I saw that I had an audience. Dakota, the chubby gelding was watching us, whinnying at Breezy, encouraging her. My daughter and niece watched me from the porch, they were telling me to get off the horse.'
I asked Breezy again to turn and go to the back pasture. She reared again, she bucked.
I asked again. She did it again.
But damn it, I won it again.
I knew if I gave in, she'd never allow anyone on her back again. I think having an injury has made me more hardheaded about things, and it's more terrifying to fall than it is to hold on and ride things out. Falling off is riskier.
So, I'm 42 years old. That's really pretty darn young, but sometimes around all the young people that I seem to know, it can feel old. It's good to know that I can still run three miles and ride a bucky horse. It's good to know that it's still a hell of a lot of fun to do both.
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