In the bleak midwinter

It's horse time once again. It hasn't been terribly cold since I got back from the west coast (earwormed almost fatally by the Magnetic Fields' "Come Back from San Francisco"), though compared with the city by the Bay DC is all asphalt and gloom, but the relative warmth means not having horses wired up and popping around.

OR SO YOU WOULD THINK.

Lear decided that going into the ring in full kit meant that I was dying to play tug-of-war, nip-tag, and chasing games. Most of that I handled by staying still, holding the reins firmly, and tactfully reminding him that trying to bite meant getting stung ("Oh my tender noseparts!"), but not until Pat took him in hand could I get him to stand long enough to get on his back. At which point, one small spook notwithstanding, he directed most of that wacky energy into doing good work. He's not the horse of my heart, but he's hella educational. He also tossed his head at just the wrong moment when I was slipping on his martingale, so the metal ring on the breast section flew out and smacked me under the jaw. Good thing his aim was off, or I'd be all week explaining that no, it isn't a hickey, it's a bruise, and no, I don't need a safe place to stay.

Next week, we'll be riding on Christmas Eve, and as an early present I may get to ride the prettiest horse on the roster, a privately owned seal-point TB named Gobi. His owner events, and Gobi's in wonderful training, but it looks like you've got to have very soft hands to bring him onto the bit. Lear rewards softness sometimes, or maybe it's just that I don't always give him softness (nobody else in the class has ridden him in the last six months, so it's hard to compare how I've done), and fingers crossed that I don't confuse Gobi with good intentions badly performed. Of course, if we do work well together, it'll be tempting to jump the fence and head for the hills with him. You see the dilemma.