The post title is a question, but I have heard this philosophy repeated numerous times as a statement:
"Horses cannot reason."
The first person that I heard make this statement was a local trainer who has been in the business about twice as long as I have been alive. Disagreeing with an individual who has that much experience seems foolish, but this statement always bothers me. I have noticed that people who work with this trainer repeat this statement almost like a mantra. I think I understand the sentiment, but it strikes me as being too black and white.
Horses do not have the ability to think into the future like people do, but horses do understand consequences. If I offer my horse as much food as he wants, he may eat himself sick or at least become obese. He doesn't know that eating too much will hurt him later on. I get that. BUT if my horse steps on his lead rope while he is grazing, he knows that he must raise the foot on the lead rope when he feels the tug on his halter. I know that some horses respond differently to this situation, but I never taught him to pick up his foot, at least not intentionally. He has figured out that he can tether himself and free himself with his foot.
The trainer who makes the blunt assertion that horses cannot reason, would probably justify my horse's response as a "learned pattern", but it wasn't a pattern the first time it happened.
The same trainer likes to explain just about every behavior that horses exhibit as a result of "muscle memory". Muscle memory and habits definitely go hand in hand, and these are definitely barriers when the muscle memory "installed" is not the one you want!
However...
I still feel like this is not indicative of so many horses that I have observed. For example, take the lesson horse who "realizes" that he can get a break during the lesson by stopping to poop and not actually pooping. I have worked with some very smart lesson horses and the smartest ones figure this out. The horse stops, plants his feet, and raises his tail, but nothing happens. The group of volunteers, rider, and instructor wait politely as the horse feigns the call of nature. I am not talking about a horse who is having some type of intestinal distress or physical problem. I am talking about a real life faker. I have seen it, more than once, and the worst offenders save a few gems for each "break", so that you will be even more reluctant to hurry them along.
(I know that many people do not allow their lesson horses to stop for the call of nature, but I gave up on this a long time ago.)
Part of reasoning is judgment. Horses definitely cannot make judgments, right?
Although there was that time, that I rode Harley in his old western saddle and he ran away from me the next time that I went to get him in the paddock (the saddle did not fit). He has never done this before or since. He also pinned his ears at the special shimmed pad that I bought for him when we were between saddles. He loved that pad until I tried using it under his new (used) well-fitting, comfy saddle. Was this just a response to pain/discomfort or was he passing judgment on gear that was not working for him?
Am I going too far? I do not consider myself the equestrian equivalent of a hippie and I am absolutely not one of those people who buys into animal communicators or magic, unless you consider a really great dressage ride "magic", that is.
What is your answer to the question?
Friday, November 30, 2012
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Riding Reflection: Variety Day
Yesterday, I finally got to ride my horse again. Between work, the holiday, the weather and after school commitments, I have only been able to ride him once a week for the past couple of weeks. Of course, moving the clocks back does not help either. We have arena lights, but once the sun goes down, the temperature drops pretty quickly and the horses tend to get fed earlier in anticipation of the setting sun. Harley has learned over the years that he may still have to continue working, even if the rest of the barn is eating. He doesn't like this, but he remains obedient and I usually get some very enthusiastic, expressive movement out of him. Even though I could keep riding, I tend to cut the ride short anyway, because I do not want him too warm before dinner and I have to stay later and feed him myself if I keep riding. Riding in the cold is one thing, standing around waiting for Harley to eat his food in the cold is entirely another. What can you do? That comes with the territory this time of year.
Warm and sunny, the weather was absolutely glorious yesterday. I did not even need to wear my jacket! I tacked Harley up and set out to walk around the arena and past the paddocks. He looked longingly out into the woods, so I opted to warm up through the short trail-loop behind the farm. He marched along with a pep in his step and I took in the colors. Most of the scrub oak have lost their leaves so the trail was padded with a carpet of bright orange, yellow, and red. It was so beautiful that I almost didn't recognize parts of the trail, which we have walked hundreds of times.
Once we returned to the farm, we entered the arena and continued our warm up around barrels, cones, and poles, which are ever-present in our ring for lessons. Sometimes all the "stuff" in the ring annoys me, especially when poles and things are placed inconveniently (like along the track), but on this day nothing was going to dampen my mood. Harley smoothly changed bend as I guided him through figure eights and changes of direction around the arena "junk". Before long, I asked him to trot and was delighted that his first transition was crisp and fluid. Sometimes that first trot is a little choppy.
After trotting some large figures and diagonals on a longer rein, I picked up a little more contact. As long as my legs ask for more energy as I pick up the reins, Harley changes his balance and assumes "dressage-horse-mode". I remember my original dressage trainer teaching me to always use a little leg with the hand to keep everything in balance. A decade later, I still think that this was sound advice.
We tackled the barrels and cones again, this time riding figure-eights in trot. I lifted the inside rein with each change of direction and watched Harley's crest flip from one bend to the other. I pushed my elbows forward a little and kept my balance back, practicing the exercise from our last lesson, then I brought my elbows closer to my body again. This exercise makes me and my horse more responsible in carrying ourselves, which makes it much easier to move together.
After a break, we tackled the trot poles. I had moved them farther apart, becuase they are almost always set too close together for my horse. At 15.1 hands, Harley is not a huge mover by any stretch of the imagination, but he seems to need the poles set farther than any of the lesson horses. Even the draft horses require a shorter pole distance. I have always found this surprising.
Harley enjoys pole work, which he expresses by speeding up. I love the improved impulsion, but I have to remind him the first three times or so that his job will be easier if he slows down and just lengthens his stride. Once he organized himself and put his enthusiasm to more effective use, he powered over the poles with a lovely flow of energy over his back. I could see and feel his withers come up and his strides even had some hang-time. We practiced a few circles in each direction, and then rode some figure-eights with the three trot poles at the center of the eight. Wow, that got his tempo squared away! Harley was floating and he was having fun.
Finally, it was time to canter and this made Harley even happier. Since we had not ridden all week, he was full of spring. He cantered from the trot. He cantered from the walk. He transitioned down to a balanced trot and stretched into my hand. I rested back, pushed my elbows forward and whispered for him to canter again. Off he went, and if felt like heaven. I felt my legs hanging down his sides and my torso tall above his back all at the same time. His neck stretched forward in front of me and I could see his inside shoulder coming up and then reaching forward. It all felt incredible easy. That is what I want in my riding horse. I want it to feel easy. Trust me, I know that it doesn't start that way; Harley's back used to be so tight that I couldn't even sit on him in the canter, but that was almost six years ago. For that hour in the saddle, easy is my goal. I work hard the rest of the week and we have worked hard together for six years to get here.
How did we finish our perfect ride? We revisited the short trail, this time leading the way for two grandchildren riding their respective Grandmother's horses. The Grandmas led each horse and Harley led the group. We stopped often, so the kids could do various activities on the trail, but Harley did not mind. He likes going out with other horses and would frequently snake his long neck around to peek at his gang in tow. We scouted out some deer and walked in parallel with them as the kids whistled to tell the deer that we were not trying to sneak up on them. Prey animals seem to appreciate this. The deer trotted away, halfheartedly showing their white tails, and then turning back to watch the parade as we made our way back to the barn.
Warm and sunny, the weather was absolutely glorious yesterday. I did not even need to wear my jacket! I tacked Harley up and set out to walk around the arena and past the paddocks. He looked longingly out into the woods, so I opted to warm up through the short trail-loop behind the farm. He marched along with a pep in his step and I took in the colors. Most of the scrub oak have lost their leaves so the trail was padded with a carpet of bright orange, yellow, and red. It was so beautiful that I almost didn't recognize parts of the trail, which we have walked hundreds of times.
Once we returned to the farm, we entered the arena and continued our warm up around barrels, cones, and poles, which are ever-present in our ring for lessons. Sometimes all the "stuff" in the ring annoys me, especially when poles and things are placed inconveniently (like along the track), but on this day nothing was going to dampen my mood. Harley smoothly changed bend as I guided him through figure eights and changes of direction around the arena "junk". Before long, I asked him to trot and was delighted that his first transition was crisp and fluid. Sometimes that first trot is a little choppy.
After trotting some large figures and diagonals on a longer rein, I picked up a little more contact. As long as my legs ask for more energy as I pick up the reins, Harley changes his balance and assumes "dressage-horse-mode". I remember my original dressage trainer teaching me to always use a little leg with the hand to keep everything in balance. A decade later, I still think that this was sound advice.
We tackled the barrels and cones again, this time riding figure-eights in trot. I lifted the inside rein with each change of direction and watched Harley's crest flip from one bend to the other. I pushed my elbows forward a little and kept my balance back, practicing the exercise from our last lesson, then I brought my elbows closer to my body again. This exercise makes me and my horse more responsible in carrying ourselves, which makes it much easier to move together.
After a break, we tackled the trot poles. I had moved them farther apart, becuase they are almost always set too close together for my horse. At 15.1 hands, Harley is not a huge mover by any stretch of the imagination, but he seems to need the poles set farther than any of the lesson horses. Even the draft horses require a shorter pole distance. I have always found this surprising.
Harley enjoys pole work, which he expresses by speeding up. I love the improved impulsion, but I have to remind him the first three times or so that his job will be easier if he slows down and just lengthens his stride. Once he organized himself and put his enthusiasm to more effective use, he powered over the poles with a lovely flow of energy over his back. I could see and feel his withers come up and his strides even had some hang-time. We practiced a few circles in each direction, and then rode some figure-eights with the three trot poles at the center of the eight. Wow, that got his tempo squared away! Harley was floating and he was having fun.
Finally, it was time to canter and this made Harley even happier. Since we had not ridden all week, he was full of spring. He cantered from the trot. He cantered from the walk. He transitioned down to a balanced trot and stretched into my hand. I rested back, pushed my elbows forward and whispered for him to canter again. Off he went, and if felt like heaven. I felt my legs hanging down his sides and my torso tall above his back all at the same time. His neck stretched forward in front of me and I could see his inside shoulder coming up and then reaching forward. It all felt incredible easy. That is what I want in my riding horse. I want it to feel easy. Trust me, I know that it doesn't start that way; Harley's back used to be so tight that I couldn't even sit on him in the canter, but that was almost six years ago. For that hour in the saddle, easy is my goal. I work hard the rest of the week and we have worked hard together for six years to get here.
How did we finish our perfect ride? We revisited the short trail, this time leading the way for two grandchildren riding their respective Grandmother's horses. The Grandmas led each horse and Harley led the group. We stopped often, so the kids could do various activities on the trail, but Harley did not mind. He likes going out with other horses and would frequently snake his long neck around to peek at his gang in tow. We scouted out some deer and walked in parallel with them as the kids whistled to tell the deer that we were not trying to sneak up on them. Prey animals seem to appreciate this. The deer trotted away, halfheartedly showing their white tails, and then turning back to watch the parade as we made our way back to the barn.
 |
| A summer picture: Now the trail is covered with the colors of fall. |
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Memoirs: A Therapy Horse for a Horse Girl
As Thanksgiving approaches, I have decided that it is time to publish this memoir; I wrote this story almost one year ago. For those of you who appreciate a disclaimer, this story includes personal loss, but also friendship, love, and gratitude. I hope that you remember the special people and animals in your life during this week of Thanksgiving.
I became a NARHA (North American Riding for the Handicapped Association) certified therapeutic riding instructor in May 2007. This was a national certification which took me about a year and a half to complete. There were two online courses with cumulative tests, a three-day workshop, a minimum of 25 fieldwork hours, a riding test, and a lesson test which included submitted lesson plans and teaching a pair of therapeutic students in front of two evaluators. I found the certification experience to be both challenging and exciting. I take a great deal of pride in this accomplishment.
In 2011, NARHA was changed to PATH International (Professional Association of Therapeutic Horsemanship International), which means that I am now internationally certified. Wow. I cannot help feeling a little unworthy! The organization went global, because there were so many countries interested in joining NARHA.
There were several reasons why I was inspired to pursue this certification and many of them had to do with the amazing people whom I met when I began volunteering at a local therapeutic riding farm. I had always felt that horses were inherently therapeutic and that my desire to be around them so much was, in many ways, my own personal therapy.
Teen angst getting you down? Try horses.
Need to build confidence and feel good about yourself? Try horses.
Want the motivation to work hard at school or work? Try horses.
Seriously. This is no secret.
Horses are amazing creatures and this is not even the tip of the iceberg.
Pursuing a certification that allowed me to work with horses professionally and share in these wonderful animals with my students was a natural progression. I had always wanted a career with horses, but never had the means to "go pro". NARHA was my way of making it happen. Of course, when I watched horses touch the lives of others over and over again, I received much more in return than I ever bargained for and much more than just a part-time job with horses.
This story is about my therapeutic horse. I did not know that I needed one. Or at least, I was not about to admit that I did. I was physically and mentally able, but emotionally damaged. I lost my only sister in March of 2004, just a few days after her 21st birthday. I married my husband in September of the same year and we moved to our new home together. I was eternally grateful for his support in this difficult time, but I was not suffering from a fixable problem. The loss of a sibling is something that one must learn to live with and believe me, more than eight years later, it is never far from my mind.
By January of 2005, I started looking for a place to ride. I was about to enter graduate school and did not have money for a horse or even lessons, but you know how it is. I needed horses. I temporarily picked up a free lease at a nearby farm, which was an experience worthy of its own story, and then discovered the local therapeutic riding stable. My riding experience was immediately noted and I became an official exercise rider for the program. I could not believe my good fortune. I was allowed to ride any horse in the barn, any day or time that I wanted as long as they were not in a lesson, and completely for free. This in and of itself was an amazing gift and I was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Despite my enthusiasm and gratitude, my first ride on a therapeutic horse was disappointing. I was given a dull, brown, 20 year-old quarter horse with a muddied blaze and an uncomfortable, all-purpose saddle. I was also handed a crop with no questions asked. The horse was in good condition and solid at 15.1 hands, but my butt had been spoiled by warmblood mares and expensive dressage saddles. My last ride before I was married and moved away was on Harry, the beautiful Haflinger stallion. Now I was riding an extremely unexciting, untalented, lazy quarter horse that looked more like a mutt than a quarter horse. I tried to banish my prejudgments and enjoy the ride, because any horse is better than no horse, but my positive attitude started to waver as soon as I swung my leg over and legged on my new mount.
Or maybe it would be more accurate to write "mounts". I literally felt like I was riding two horses. One in front of me and one behind me. I was suspended in a sling between them and they did not always feel like they were traveling in the same direction. I knew enough not to try and force this horse on the bit, but I did try to give him some guidance toward straightness. In the back of my mind, I imagined riding half-pass on my trainer's Hanoverian mare and I silently worried that those days were gone forever.
When I moved on to canter, I was happy to see that the brown horse
a) could canter,
b) could pick up the correct lead, and
c) felt less like two horses.
I took advantage of his improved forwardness, and asked him to lengthen his stride. I was surprised to discover that the brown horse had a nice, rocking canter. Was it my imagination, or was this old fellow lifting his back? The director of the program was watching my first ride and became worried that the brown horse was taking off (I guess few people cantered him past an ambling lope), so she rather abruptly asked me to slow him down. The immediacy of her request triggered my dressage lesson reflexes and I engaged my core and half-halted without thinking about who I was riding. The brown horse, whom I clearly had not given enough credit, shortened his canter and then transitioned to a slow, collected lope for the remainder of the long side. I did not think this a big deal, but the feat earned me immediate status as a "good rider" and some kind of barn fame, as people would meet me and ask,
"Are you the one riding Skippy?"
That was his name: Skippy. Apparently, many people avoided exercising him, because he had the strong will of a lazy horse, the gumption to turn buckaroo if a bee was in his bonnet, and the uncanny ability to run completely sideways on the trail. That last one was seriously impressive. I have never seen anything like it before or since. Skippy was also notoriously rigid and stiff, like a board. He never really felt that way to me though. My years of dressage training has served me well. I knew how to encourage with my inside leg while opening the inside rein and supporting with the outside rein. When I did this, Skippy obediently wrapped his body around my inside leg. Before long, we were riding three loop serpentines at the trot and canter with admirable changes of bend and a frame that was almost worthy of a dressage horse. As he learned to reach from his shoulders and shift his weight off his forehand, his weird sideways running on the trail even melted away. Suddenly, Skippy was on everyone's dance card. Who says you cannot teach an old horse new tricks? I certainly enjoyed the opportunity to do so.
I received positive feedback from his handlers and sometimes I passed up a ride to lead him in the therapeutic lessons. Despite the hard time that he could give his able-bodied exercise riders, Skippy was always gentle and slow for his therapeutic students. His gentleness was now accompanied by a greater motivation to move forward (This is even important for therapeutic horses!) and independent riders were able to ride him with less assistance. There was even talk that "Skippy was less nippy." All good news for a therapeutic riding horse and very rewarding for his unofficial trainer. I was humbled by how many people took the time to express their gratitude for my work with Skippy. Here, I thought that I was just riding him, because I wanted to ride. I was ashamed when I remembered how unimpressed I had been with him on our first encounter. I would admit to no one, that I once thought Skippy was anything less than a truly special horse. His dull, brown coat had taken on a glossy, chocolate sheen. Skippy was my chocolate horse, no longer just a brown horse, and now I had to wait in line to ride him, but I did not mind. Every great ride that someone else had on him, felt like a personal accomplishment, and when I passed him in the aisle, I stroked his neck and looked into his big soft eye.
"Are you being a good boy today, Skippy?"
He would nose my hand or blink at me, staring right into me, as if to say, "I am, Friend." Working horses do not always have a special person the way pet horses do. I know physically that Skippy benefited from the training time we shared together, but emotionally, I think that he just needed a new person, someone who did not know him or his wily ways, someone who also needed a friend in him. Did I help Skippy, or was he just doing his job of therapy horse by helping me? I guess that I will never really know and honestly, the truth would not change the outcome. Skippy made me feel better and he gave me a job to do. Skippy was a therapeutic horse who needed fixing and I was horse girl who needed the silent comfort and companionship that only an animal can offer.
Unfortunately, my time was Skippy was very limited. He passed away in the summer of 2005, but like a good friend, he allowed me to say good-bye first. It was a Tuesday, one of our usual riding days, and he was lying in his paddock when I arrived at the barn. Although not in noticeable distress or pain, he was unable to stand and could only prop himself up with his front legs. I hugged his neck and cried into his mane. I thanked him for the many hours we had spent together. I did not want him to go, but on some level, I realized that this was part of his lesson. Skippy showed me that I was strong enough to love and lose and keep on going to love again. He also showed me a whole new aspect of the relationship between horse and man. Riding and working with him was so worthwhile even if he was far from a dressage star, but our partnership was not just about training. In many ways, he taught me how to just sit on a horse again. Just me and the horse. Simple and happy. He went to sleep with my fingers running through his chocolate mane.
Thank you, Skippy. You were one special therapy horse.
______________________________
I became a NARHA (North American Riding for the Handicapped Association) certified therapeutic riding instructor in May 2007. This was a national certification which took me about a year and a half to complete. There were two online courses with cumulative tests, a three-day workshop, a minimum of 25 fieldwork hours, a riding test, and a lesson test which included submitted lesson plans and teaching a pair of therapeutic students in front of two evaluators. I found the certification experience to be both challenging and exciting. I take a great deal of pride in this accomplishment.
In 2011, NARHA was changed to PATH International (Professional Association of Therapeutic Horsemanship International), which means that I am now internationally certified. Wow. I cannot help feeling a little unworthy! The organization went global, because there were so many countries interested in joining NARHA.
There were several reasons why I was inspired to pursue this certification and many of them had to do with the amazing people whom I met when I began volunteering at a local therapeutic riding farm. I had always felt that horses were inherently therapeutic and that my desire to be around them so much was, in many ways, my own personal therapy.
Teen angst getting you down? Try horses.
Need to build confidence and feel good about yourself? Try horses.
Want the motivation to work hard at school or work? Try horses.
Seriously. This is no secret.
Horses are amazing creatures and this is not even the tip of the iceberg.
Pursuing a certification that allowed me to work with horses professionally and share in these wonderful animals with my students was a natural progression. I had always wanted a career with horses, but never had the means to "go pro". NARHA was my way of making it happen. Of course, when I watched horses touch the lives of others over and over again, I received much more in return than I ever bargained for and much more than just a part-time job with horses.
This story is about my therapeutic horse. I did not know that I needed one. Or at least, I was not about to admit that I did. I was physically and mentally able, but emotionally damaged. I lost my only sister in March of 2004, just a few days after her 21st birthday. I married my husband in September of the same year and we moved to our new home together. I was eternally grateful for his support in this difficult time, but I was not suffering from a fixable problem. The loss of a sibling is something that one must learn to live with and believe me, more than eight years later, it is never far from my mind.
By January of 2005, I started looking for a place to ride. I was about to enter graduate school and did not have money for a horse or even lessons, but you know how it is. I needed horses. I temporarily picked up a free lease at a nearby farm, which was an experience worthy of its own story, and then discovered the local therapeutic riding stable. My riding experience was immediately noted and I became an official exercise rider for the program. I could not believe my good fortune. I was allowed to ride any horse in the barn, any day or time that I wanted as long as they were not in a lesson, and completely for free. This in and of itself was an amazing gift and I was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Despite my enthusiasm and gratitude, my first ride on a therapeutic horse was disappointing. I was given a dull, brown, 20 year-old quarter horse with a muddied blaze and an uncomfortable, all-purpose saddle. I was also handed a crop with no questions asked. The horse was in good condition and solid at 15.1 hands, but my butt had been spoiled by warmblood mares and expensive dressage saddles. My last ride before I was married and moved away was on Harry, the beautiful Haflinger stallion. Now I was riding an extremely unexciting, untalented, lazy quarter horse that looked more like a mutt than a quarter horse. I tried to banish my prejudgments and enjoy the ride, because any horse is better than no horse, but my positive attitude started to waver as soon as I swung my leg over and legged on my new mount.
Or maybe it would be more accurate to write "mounts". I literally felt like I was riding two horses. One in front of me and one behind me. I was suspended in a sling between them and they did not always feel like they were traveling in the same direction. I knew enough not to try and force this horse on the bit, but I did try to give him some guidance toward straightness. In the back of my mind, I imagined riding half-pass on my trainer's Hanoverian mare and I silently worried that those days were gone forever.
When I moved on to canter, I was happy to see that the brown horse
a) could canter,
b) could pick up the correct lead, and
c) felt less like two horses.
I took advantage of his improved forwardness, and asked him to lengthen his stride. I was surprised to discover that the brown horse had a nice, rocking canter. Was it my imagination, or was this old fellow lifting his back? The director of the program was watching my first ride and became worried that the brown horse was taking off (I guess few people cantered him past an ambling lope), so she rather abruptly asked me to slow him down. The immediacy of her request triggered my dressage lesson reflexes and I engaged my core and half-halted without thinking about who I was riding. The brown horse, whom I clearly had not given enough credit, shortened his canter and then transitioned to a slow, collected lope for the remainder of the long side. I did not think this a big deal, but the feat earned me immediate status as a "good rider" and some kind of barn fame, as people would meet me and ask,
"Are you the one riding Skippy?"
That was his name: Skippy. Apparently, many people avoided exercising him, because he had the strong will of a lazy horse, the gumption to turn buckaroo if a bee was in his bonnet, and the uncanny ability to run completely sideways on the trail. That last one was seriously impressive. I have never seen anything like it before or since. Skippy was also notoriously rigid and stiff, like a board. He never really felt that way to me though. My years of dressage training has served me well. I knew how to encourage with my inside leg while opening the inside rein and supporting with the outside rein. When I did this, Skippy obediently wrapped his body around my inside leg. Before long, we were riding three loop serpentines at the trot and canter with admirable changes of bend and a frame that was almost worthy of a dressage horse. As he learned to reach from his shoulders and shift his weight off his forehand, his weird sideways running on the trail even melted away. Suddenly, Skippy was on everyone's dance card. Who says you cannot teach an old horse new tricks? I certainly enjoyed the opportunity to do so.
I received positive feedback from his handlers and sometimes I passed up a ride to lead him in the therapeutic lessons. Despite the hard time that he could give his able-bodied exercise riders, Skippy was always gentle and slow for his therapeutic students. His gentleness was now accompanied by a greater motivation to move forward (This is even important for therapeutic horses!) and independent riders were able to ride him with less assistance. There was even talk that "Skippy was less nippy." All good news for a therapeutic riding horse and very rewarding for his unofficial trainer. I was humbled by how many people took the time to express their gratitude for my work with Skippy. Here, I thought that I was just riding him, because I wanted to ride. I was ashamed when I remembered how unimpressed I had been with him on our first encounter. I would admit to no one, that I once thought Skippy was anything less than a truly special horse. His dull, brown coat had taken on a glossy, chocolate sheen. Skippy was my chocolate horse, no longer just a brown horse, and now I had to wait in line to ride him, but I did not mind. Every great ride that someone else had on him, felt like a personal accomplishment, and when I passed him in the aisle, I stroked his neck and looked into his big soft eye.
 |
| Skippy, the chocolate horse |
"Are you being a good boy today, Skippy?"
He would nose my hand or blink at me, staring right into me, as if to say, "I am, Friend." Working horses do not always have a special person the way pet horses do. I know physically that Skippy benefited from the training time we shared together, but emotionally, I think that he just needed a new person, someone who did not know him or his wily ways, someone who also needed a friend in him. Did I help Skippy, or was he just doing his job of therapy horse by helping me? I guess that I will never really know and honestly, the truth would not change the outcome. Skippy made me feel better and he gave me a job to do. Skippy was a therapeutic horse who needed fixing and I was horse girl who needed the silent comfort and companionship that only an animal can offer.
Unfortunately, my time was Skippy was very limited. He passed away in the summer of 2005, but like a good friend, he allowed me to say good-bye first. It was a Tuesday, one of our usual riding days, and he was lying in his paddock when I arrived at the barn. Although not in noticeable distress or pain, he was unable to stand and could only prop himself up with his front legs. I hugged his neck and cried into his mane. I thanked him for the many hours we had spent together. I did not want him to go, but on some level, I realized that this was part of his lesson. Skippy showed me that I was strong enough to love and lose and keep on going to love again. He also showed me a whole new aspect of the relationship between horse and man. Riding and working with him was so worthwhile even if he was far from a dressage star, but our partnership was not just about training. In many ways, he taught me how to just sit on a horse again. Just me and the horse. Simple and happy. He went to sleep with my fingers running through his chocolate mane.
Thank you, Skippy. You were one special therapy horse.
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