But when the wind is westerly

Manny has been colicking lately, so I took Lear back in hand last night. Turns out that while he helped prepare me for Manny's appalling ground manners, those same nasty habits have made Lear seem practically sweet by comparison. That and, of course, Lear has had more time to learn that trying to bite me is a quick way to hurt himself, muahahaha.

But oh lordy had I forgotten what it was like riding a horse whose brain is 50% Skittles. The gate end of the ring is haunted like whoa horsie whoa, though more on Lear's right side than his left, and the arrival, at the nongate end, of a visitor—who was perfectly behaved, quiet, not prone to wave pompoms or do anything otherwise obnoxious to the equine sense of calm—was further cause for ear-pricking and nervous sidling.

There were only two of us in class, me on Lear and Small Woman on Grayson, so we got a lot of work done, even to the point of trying the half-pass a few times. Lear went on the bit maybe 60% of the time, though it was a struggle to keep him there and not periscoping whenever we approached the gate. I sat through two spooks without much event and counted myself lucky.

And then, 10 minutes before the end of class, one of the barn cats happened to walk past as we were passing the gate, and suddenly Lear lost his marbles, all "JESUS CHRIST IT'S A LION GET IN THE CAR OH SHIT I DON'T FIT IN THE CAR"-style. He went up, sideways, and down all at once (so says my memory); I lost a stirrup and the reins and couldn't even manage to grab his mane. He bolted down the ring and zeroed in on Grayson's ass, which of course is prime "kick me" territory. And Small Woman had stopped him dead, for some reason, oh God we were coming up fast fast fast.

My adrenal glands appear to be connected to my drill-sergeant bossypants synapses. Visions of bloody thrashing catastrophe dancing in my head, I bellowed a voice-of-brass "MOVE!" at the top of my lungs and was distantly amused to notice that while I couldn't get my shit together to control the horse, I was yelling from the diaphragm and not shrieking from the throat.

Through all of this, Pat was calmly chanting, "Sit back, relax, sit back, back, relax, let him have his head, sit, sit deep, reeee-laaaax." In peaceful moments, I can accept that it's probably better to have someone giving you solid advice and not adding to the general panic; at the time, though, it feels a bit condescending, like, would you please validate my freaking out here and reassure me that it's scary?

The whole thing took maybe three seconds, and Lear calmed down, I swallowed my heart and coughed it back into its accustomed place, and we did some steady walking exercises to wrap up. Yes, I took Lear back to the Place of Terrible Horror; he flicked an ear and moseyed by it, and I resisted the temptation to smack him stupid for his new blasé attitude. Scare us both out of a week's life and then act as though it's just so last year? Twerp.

With that, I'm off to Chicago. Y'all be good now!