Horse sense
I had a horse once. He was a dapple grey gelding, the result of the breeding of a Quarter horse mare to a Thoroughbred stallion. He was not my first horse--actually the third, but he was the first I had
selected and purchased on my own and trained myself. He was a big guy-nearly 7 hands (a hand is 4 inches-height measured from ground to top of withers). My Grandmother, who lived with us on the farm in Vermont, saw the ad in the local newspaper and told me about it. Grandma loved horses-had grown up with buggy horses. She went with me to see the horse. The owner, a grizzled old man, led Grandma and I out to his barn. The horse was not in the barn. He was out in a near-by field. Pulling a lasso from a hook on the barn wall, the owner ventured into the pasture. The horse threw up his head about to flee. For an old guy, this chap was quick with a rope. His first toss settled the loop around the horse's neck. The horse stood still, knowing either from experience or just plain horse sense that if he pulled he would be choked. He was led, dancing on tiptoe to a post outside the barn. Grandma and I gave him a visual exam as best as we were able without risking a whack from the fidgeting animal. Grandma asked if the horse had been broken to ride. He was three years old thus one would expect that to be the case. "Well I done rode him a time or two but it's been a while", he replied. He brought out a Western saddle which he tossed, without benefit of a saddle blanket, on the animal's back.
Eyes rolling, blowing through his nostrils, the quivering horse allowed the girth to be pulled up snug. Then then man returned to the barn, coming back with a bridle which sported a bit
which looked like something from the Spanish acquisition. Grabbing the horse's nose, he crammed the bit into the opening mouth.
Then turning to my Grandma he said, "The gal can ride, cain't she?"
Grandma, having more faith in my ability than I did, reassured him
that I was an experienced rider. (HARDLY- I had had two very gentle old horses and a few lessons.)
With the man pushing against the horse's shoulder, crowding him against the barn wall, I placed one foot in a stirrup and threw myself into the saddle. The horse pulled backwards from the man's grasp, spun around and took off down the dirt road at a gallop.
I discovered at once that this horse had no idea what a bit was and since it was such a savage bit, and I did not want to put any pressure on it, I decided to just let him run until he was tired. It was a long straight deserted dirt road. Perfect. When he began to slow down I whacked him with the loose end of the rein, making him pick up speed again. Each time he slowed, I repeated this, until I felt he really was tired and ready to listen. I let him stop, sweating and shaking a bit. He stood quietly as I stroked his frothy neck and spoke softly. His ears flicked back and forth, listening. Reaching nearly to the bit, I pulled the rein to the left and he turned, facing home. We walked all the way back. When we arrived at the barn,
he turned in and stopped, head down and no longer sweating. I swung down and stroked his neck. The old man turned to my Grandma and said, "If.n I see that gal ride him agin, I won't sell him". I bought him. Named him Smoke Signal. had a professional
transport bring him home. Turned him out into a pasture and over the summer, made friends with him, taught him to come to me when I called, to stand quietly when being groomed, to lift his hoof for cleaning, to follow me where I led, to load into the trailer calmly.
I never put a saddle on him nor attempted to ride for many months,
and when I did, he seemed glad to be able to run carrying me.
Signal carried me for many years, through many adventures. In several instances he showed a good deal of what we term horse sense.
Probably much more than I showed the first day I saw him and
climbed up on his back.
selected and purchased on my own and trained myself. He was a big guy-nearly 7 hands (a hand is 4 inches-height measured from ground to top of withers). My Grandmother, who lived with us on the farm in Vermont, saw the ad in the local newspaper and told me about it. Grandma loved horses-had grown up with buggy horses. She went with me to see the horse. The owner, a grizzled old man, led Grandma and I out to his barn. The horse was not in the barn. He was out in a near-by field. Pulling a lasso from a hook on the barn wall, the owner ventured into the pasture. The horse threw up his head about to flee. For an old guy, this chap was quick with a rope. His first toss settled the loop around the horse's neck. The horse stood still, knowing either from experience or just plain horse sense that if he pulled he would be choked. He was led, dancing on tiptoe to a post outside the barn. Grandma and I gave him a visual exam as best as we were able without risking a whack from the fidgeting animal. Grandma asked if the horse had been broken to ride. He was three years old thus one would expect that to be the case. "Well I done rode him a time or two but it's been a while", he replied. He brought out a Western saddle which he tossed, without benefit of a saddle blanket, on the animal's back.
Eyes rolling, blowing through his nostrils, the quivering horse allowed the girth to be pulled up snug. Then then man returned to the barn, coming back with a bridle which sported a bit
which looked like something from the Spanish acquisition. Grabbing the horse's nose, he crammed the bit into the opening mouth.
Then turning to my Grandma he said, "The gal can ride, cain't she?"
Grandma, having more faith in my ability than I did, reassured him
that I was an experienced rider. (HARDLY- I had had two very gentle old horses and a few lessons.)
With the man pushing against the horse's shoulder, crowding him against the barn wall, I placed one foot in a stirrup and threw myself into the saddle. The horse pulled backwards from the man's grasp, spun around and took off down the dirt road at a gallop.
I discovered at once that this horse had no idea what a bit was and since it was such a savage bit, and I did not want to put any pressure on it, I decided to just let him run until he was tired. It was a long straight deserted dirt road. Perfect. When he began to slow down I whacked him with the loose end of the rein, making him pick up speed again. Each time he slowed, I repeated this, until I felt he really was tired and ready to listen. I let him stop, sweating and shaking a bit. He stood quietly as I stroked his frothy neck and spoke softly. His ears flicked back and forth, listening. Reaching nearly to the bit, I pulled the rein to the left and he turned, facing home. We walked all the way back. When we arrived at the barn,
he turned in and stopped, head down and no longer sweating. I swung down and stroked his neck. The old man turned to my Grandma and said, "If.n I see that gal ride him agin, I won't sell him". I bought him. Named him Smoke Signal. had a professional
transport bring him home. Turned him out into a pasture and over the summer, made friends with him, taught him to come to me when I called, to stand quietly when being groomed, to lift his hoof for cleaning, to follow me where I led, to load into the trailer calmly.
I never put a saddle on him nor attempted to ride for many months,
and when I did, he seemed glad to be able to run carrying me.
Signal carried me for many years, through many adventures. In several instances he showed a good deal of what we term horse sense.
Probably much more than I showed the first day I saw him and
climbed up on his back.
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