DECEMBER 2013 THE RIDER /27


A Christmas Carrot Continued from Page 26


As my arm reached out I heard a dis- dainful sniff and looked up to see Ms. Equine Universe regarding my (I thought) fairly adequate musculature “You’ll need to be pumping some iron, you feeb: you’ll never hold a decent horse together with those puny arms and legs!” I winced as an electric jolt shot through my arm and down my spine. No smooth transition this time. My head was still abuzz as I slowly grasped the idea that I was once again a spectator in an arena. A clone of my second spirit guide was aboard a big bay. He looked to be over 17hh and a warmblood mix of some kind.


rather different! Rider: “Right then you lazy lump, get going – see how strong my leg aids are; I can crack walnuts between my knees so you’ll damn well have to go for- wards!” Horse: “Well, I suppose so but you know, your saddle flaps are so long I really can’t feel much at all until you – ouch – use the spur” Rider: “Tough luck; don’t you know that really long flaps are FASHION- ABLE so you’ll just have to put up with it.” Horse: “Ooh, I’ll try, but when my shoulder blade comes back as I step forward the front of the saddle pinches and it hurts!” Rider: “Ha! It’s a good job your blood-lines gave you such a cadenced, floating trot or you’d be no bloody use at all. Now get your damned chin back here on your shoulder or you won’t develop enough flexion to get properly through from behind!” Horse: “Ow, help, that really hurts – I can’t do that – I have to open my mouth to relieve some of the pressure.” Rider: “Don’t you dare or I’ll tighten up your crank nose band with pliers. My coach says you’re just being stub- born and she should know ’cos she goes to Germland to train with Herr Hans Jankenschmack – and everyone knows that he trained that brilliant five year old that Annabelle Kost won the World’s with last year.” Horse: wearily, “I know, I know, but we’ve been going non-stop now for over an hour and a half! Can’t I have a break and then I’ll try harder, I promise.” Rider: “Not likely – you’ve got it easy; the best trainers in Germland these days have their horses doing Passage on a


This time the conversation was


game in Modern Dressage dont’cha know?” she continued, “So get your idle old ass out of bed and GET WITH THE PROGRAM!! Grab hold of my spur.” (You guessed it, they were pizza cutters!) I reluctantly did as commanded.


solid muscle, 4 ft dressage whip still vibrating from its assault on my nether regions. Her full seat leather breeches were stained with leather dye from the saddle and in places that I won’t men- tion but you, dear reader, can imagine with sweat from her exertions in the saddle… “Winning is the name of the


doing still in bed when there’s WORK to be done?” And there she stood – 5 ft 8 of


myself back in my cozy bed. So far, so good, I thought to myself. Maybe this ‘Ghosts’ thing wasn’t going to be that bad. So musing I rolled over to catch a few Z’s before the next episode. No sooner had my head settled onto the pillow than something sharp stung me across the behind and a stentorian voice bellowed, “WHAT do you think you’re


ers would punish you for swinging your quarters out, but I appreciate your gen- erosity and agility, my friend”. Horse – “Nooo problemo! You just let me know when you want ‘jump’ and when you want ‘side-ways’ and I’ll be happy to oblige.” Rider – “Great, but it might take me a bit to figure out what I need to do to make the difference.” Horse – “No problem, take the time you need!” The vision faded and I found


light and winked out. I was back in bed again. “Phew!” I thought to myself, “that was a bit brutal”. Could it be that the techniques and methods that we have come to accept as normal were really that hard on the horses? A horse doesn’t yelp or whine like a dog does if it’s in pain, so its difficult to tell what is justified defensiveness and what is lazy or malicious avoidance. Maybe there’s more of the former than I’d thought; or maybe it’s all the former. If that’s so then…Oh


horses moaned and cried in pain and the coaches yelled and screamed. “More leg, stronger seat!!” “Half-halt, harder with the rein!!” “You are so feeble I don’t know why I bother with you!!” “Half-pass is supposed to be sideways, you dolt, kick him over with your spur!!” “If your arms are aching it’s your own fault; I told you to get pumping some iron!!” “I know his mouth is wide open – that doesn’t mat- ter – get his chin back on his shoul- der!!”


could also hear the judges. Judge 1: “Ah, here comes that nice Don Smetana, we’ll give him lots of 7’s and a few 8’s” Scribe: “But isn’t the horse very over bent?” Judge 1: “Never mind that – I always mark him well ‘cos then I get asked to judge at all the big shows” Scribe: “Surely you don’t mean …..” Judge 1: “ Yes, of course; that’s how it works, if the show doesn’t have the right judges, the Big Names won’t come. You really are naïve, aren’t you?” Judge 2: “Oh dear, look how that horse


To my amazement, I found that I


my eyes was astounding and horrific. The enormous, cathedral-like building was festooned with icicles and a thin fog or mist swirled as horses passed by trailing clouds of steam from sweat and blood dripping flanks. All down one long side were arrayed coaches dressed in anything from Bermuda shorts with pink, cardboard cowboy hats to Skidoo suites trimmed with the fur of wolf and ermine. Down the other side judges sat at tables with their scribes. The din was indescribable as the


appeared from the folds of the cloak and indicated its hem. This one, I thought to myself is going to really, really hurt. I’ll admit that the arm that I reached out to was not entirely steady and, yes, it did really, really hurt, but, dear reader, I won’t distress you with a description! The scene that coalesced before


ness of my room. It stepped forward into the dim light of the night-light. Its deeply cowled head brushed the ceiling and below the mud and blood stained hem of its long black cloak there showed filthy boots adorned with razor edged spurs that fizzed and crackled with electric arcs. A fleshless, skeletal hand


by Big Names and their wannabes all the time. Oh no! I was, and still am, genuinely fond of my stu- dents (unlike others I could name who’s only concern was the almighty $ and who had no scruples at all) and to think that I had been unknowingly damaging them was upsetting to me. Maybe I could find kinder ways of doing things, maybe I should…. At this point my thoughts dwindled as I realized that a shadow had been grow- ing at my bedside. A blacker patch against the dark-


my! Could it really be that the desire for professional visibility and ribbons on the tack room wall had seduced me into some forms of abuse to my students human and equine? A flashback of The Old Instructor flickered across my eyes…. draw- reins…. big spurs…. long shanked curb bits…. these were depicted by his shade as instruments of torture in hell! And yet they are used


Ribbons’ and the boy is “Money Talks’. Singly they are dangerous, but together they will maim and devour their estranged kin ‘Well-being of the Horse’.” “Oh Spirit,” I cried, “Are these


visions of what might be, or are they what must come to pass?” Not a further word came but the


skeletal arm lengthened, pointing to a corner of the arena. I squinted and could just make out what appeared to be a gravestone propped against the kick boards. I fell to my knees for I


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toneless voice like the rustle of dead leaves in the Fall, “The girl is named ‘Greed for


beside me, but before I could speak, it drew aside its cloak to reveal two chil- dren, a girl and a boy. The girl was emaciated and filthy; the boy was dressed in a smart, three piece business suit, but when he turned a little I could see that he was simply a hollow bas- relief, completely empty behind the front view. “Beware these children” hissed a


cation system if our certified Bus Driv- er didn’t get good marks in competi- tions ‘cos, after all, everyone knows that the only thing that really matters is the show results, no matter what lip service is paid in toothless statements in print” Scribe 3: “I have to go to the bathroom – I’m going to throw up!” I turned to beseech the Ghost


treadmill for 5 hours every day – so you’ll damned well keep going until you GET IT RIGHT!” WHACK, POKE, YANK. Horse: “Oooo….” The scene shrank to a point of


has its nose stuck out – it must be at least 15 degrees in front of the vertical; give him a 3” Scribe: “But isn’t that a really good Piaffe?” Judge 2: “ Well, kind of I suppose, but it can’t be right if the horse isn’t prop- erly on the bit, now can it?” Judge 3: “Now this rider needs to get a lot of 8’s” Scribe 3: “How can you tell, she hasn’t even started the test yet!” Judge 3: “She has her National Bus Driving Level 3 certificate and it would look really bad on the National certifi-


declared – ‘Here lies The Coach, dead of a broken neck when his horse reared and fell on him after one strong half- halt too many’. I wept uncontrollably and, fling-


ing my arms around the cold bones of the arm, pleaded “Say that these shades need not be so! I can change, I will change – I’ll treat my horses better, I’ll really try to understand what they are doing and be kind to them, only give me a chance, please, please ……” I was kneeling on


What’s today?” The groom looked up with an expression that clearly said, “He’s finally lost his marbles!” “Why Coach, it’s Christmas!” Then I was not too late! Quickly, I rummaged on the dresser and came up with a $50 bill which I balled up and launched groom- ward. “ Oh wonderful groom,” I chor- tled, “ Best of grooms, run down to the corner store and buy that huge bag of carrots that they have in the window and bring it back here. Keep the change and take the rest of the day – hell, the rest of the week off. I will fin- ish the chores. MEEERRY CHRIST-


below a lowly groom trudging toward the muckheap behind a laden barrow. “Hey, down there.” I called, “


my bed with my dressage whip in my arms and my nightshirt was wet with my tears and sweat. Day light peeked through chinks in the bedroom curtains. I knew not how long I had been sequestered in the realm of the Spirits – was I too late – was Christmas over? Fling- ing open the window I spied


not show me mercy?” I begged. In the now quiet building, my ragged breath- ing was the only sound. The arm remained motionless, pointing. Slowly I crawled shaking and terrified of what I should find. The inscription on the stone


guessed what lay there. “Oh Spirit, must I look; will you


up, change and head out to friends’ for an evening of turkey, good cheer and fellowship. As I rounded the end of the barn where the drifting snow hissed around the stone corner, I thought I heard a faint whisper, “Thank you Coach.” But it might have been just the


wind.


barn clothes in the back of the closet and went clattering down the stairs to the Christmas sparkling, horse breath- ing barn. I carted muck; I bedded stalls; I cleaned and filled water buck- ets; I divvied out grain, hay and huge fists full of Christmas carrots; I swept aisles and tack rooms and when all was finally done, I leaned against the wall and stretched out my aching back. Taking a deep breath, I straightened up and, addressing the barn full of com- fortably bedded, well fed friends, teach- ers and fellow artists, I said, “I promise…. - to make sure that your tack allows you the room to use your bodies in a comfortable and natural way, - not to pressure you when you are con- fused or in pain, - to be patient and give you the benefit of the doubt if difficulties arise in train- ing, - to do my level best to increase my awareness and that of my students, so that we can feel more accurately what is happening when we ride, and inter- fere less with your motions, - to remember that you can only be what you are and not to use force or coercion, but adapt our activities to your needs, - not to use you to live out my own ambitions and inadequacies, - to get you help when you need it be it medicine, chiropractic, acupuncture or anything else, - never, ever, to half-halt you again.” Back up the stairs I went to clean


MAS!!! “And off the groom scuttled before the clearly deranged Coach could change his mind! I found my long un-used grubby


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