It just feels that way. Lieber Gott, this year is packed with worky event.
Many of you have been kind enough to send good wishes to my beloved Doc. Your strength is the strength of ten, and he has done unexpectedly well. He's gained back some weight and isn't spasming much, so after a bit of waffling and many consultations with the vet, the barn has decided he's stable enough to survive the trailering to a farm east of DC, where he will live out his remaining time as a pampered lawnmower. Further credit to the staff: At my lesson last night, no fewer than three employees stopped by to remind me that he would be leaving this weekend. I stopped by his stall, where he was bright-eyed and big with the cupboard-love nickering, and gave him one of the season's first apples. The vet's best guess now is that cold weather will pose a real problem for him, but for now, he's relaxed, comfortable, and probably 90% apples by weight; I could not wish him better.
Showing posts with label four-legged beasts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label four-legged beasts. Show all posts
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Docdate
UpDoc? Anyway. Everyon's favorite redhead is doing well, still inspiring the envy of his neighbors with a stream of treat-bearing visitors and admirers. If he were in normal condition, he'd be gaining weight from all the extras he's getting; instead he's ribbly and a bit bare of hair around the ears and forehead. The few nips he'd gotten during his first spate of turnout have faded, so either the staff have figured out the herd dynamics or the horses have.
In other four-legged news, Manny appears to have dropped weight. He is cribbing worse than ever—I tried to shut the gate to class and couldn't pull it out of his teeth—and has gotten even more sensitive about his girth area. Suspicion falls on an undiagnosed ulcer. He still hasn't quite managed to bite me, though that's partly because I've been careful to have help around for grooming and tacking up. He behaves somewhat better when someone with a dressage whip stands near by to poke him lightly in the chest at the first sign of toothy tendencies.
This weekend will involve forced sociability, as friends and I are hosting a baby shower for the lovely Ginsays. We've told her where and when, but not what sort of festivities there will be, and she's agreed to be surprised by whatever we do. Since this shindig will involve me cooking, traditionally my weakest point, the biggest surprise may be whether anything I bring is edible. Updates if we all survive!
In other four-legged news, Manny appears to have dropped weight. He is cribbing worse than ever—I tried to shut the gate to class and couldn't pull it out of his teeth—and has gotten even more sensitive about his girth area. Suspicion falls on an undiagnosed ulcer. He still hasn't quite managed to bite me, though that's partly because I've been careful to have help around for grooming and tacking up. He behaves somewhat better when someone with a dressage whip stands near by to poke him lightly in the chest at the first sign of toothy tendencies.
This weekend will involve forced sociability, as friends and I are hosting a baby shower for the lovely Ginsays. We've told her where and when, but not what sort of festivities there will be, and she's agreed to be surprised by whatever we do. Since this shindig will involve me cooking, traditionally my weakest point, the biggest surprise may be whether anything I bring is edible. Updates if we all survive!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
An apple a day
...does apparently keep ill health more or less at bay. I've stopped by to see Doc several times in the last few weeks—with the summer camp schedule futzing with dressage, it's been irregular—and indulged his desire to mug me for his favorite addiction. He's still sweet about it; a whicker and the occasional half-step forward, with a look of undisguised eagerness, are as far as his dignity will allow him to venture. I try not to disappoint him, but the finite number of apples that I (a) carry and (b) consider within the bounds of "don't cause him colic" guidelines let him down. Although his appetite seems sound, he's thin and not regaining weight, no doubt due to whatever's gone wrong in his innards. But a merry heart he still hath, except maybe when the deer come too close to his turnout space. He has yet to reconcile himself to their presence; he has never cared more than the idle flick of an ear about dogs or coyotes, and we had great fun doing cutting maneuvers to drive a bold fox out of the ring one autumn night, but deer give him the wiggins.
There's a horse-trading bit of doggerel about white legs:
One white leg, buy him
Two white legs, try him
Three white legs, look well about him
Four white legs, do without him.
Doc, as can be seen, sneaks in under the wire, though at this point most people would probably see his other problems first. Luckily for him, everyone at the barn adores him—he's fast becoming the Mister Chips of the stable, although spotty elder Jackson has seniority and little flash bastard Chia, a pinto pony of malicious intelligence, is a strong favorite among the tweens. My biases in this case are well known, but I'm impressed by how many other adult riders of all skill levels have had fond stories to tell about him. These days, Doc's hope that all bags will contain apples are rarely disappointed.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Ticky Doc
I stopped by the barn this weekend to check on my favorite redhead, and he's doing surprisingly well, which goes to show what I know about horse health. His bloodwork shows that he hasn't had a miraculous remission, but he's cheerful and active, thoroughly investigating bags even after it has been established that they no longer contain apples, that said apples have joined the orchard invisible, that they are in fact ex-apples. (He also, scuttlebutt says, yoinked a Mott's juicebox from an unsuspecting moppet last week and chewed on the cardboard until all the fruity goodness was gone. Bad Doc! Hee hee hee.) The barn staff are in no hurry to see him go, so they're taking a wait-and-see approach: As long as he's comfortable, they're content to keep him as a companion rather than a working mount.
Doc's also getting some T-Touch biofeedback work, which doesn't seem to hurt and may even help. I used to be adamantly anti-alternative medicine, but the years are softening me to the idea that treatments aimed at improving quality of life are not incompatible with those extending life. If Doc doesn't object to massage or having his Reiki fields realigned, and the person doing the work is happy in it, mazel tov.
The barn went through a brief span a few years ago where there was a leetle too much personal drama—some intramural adolescent-type dating, with Divers Alarums and Scenes to go with it—but it is now on a really solid footing, at least from my perspective, with a focus on managing the animals and the business rather than anyone's hurt feelings. At least, that's how it seems to me as a student; there isn't much turnover among the boarders either, though since it's the only barn within the city limits, their options may be more limited.
Here's to Doc's continued good health! Bumpers, gentlefolk, and no heel taps.
Doc's also getting some T-Touch biofeedback work, which doesn't seem to hurt and may even help. I used to be adamantly anti-alternative medicine, but the years are softening me to the idea that treatments aimed at improving quality of life are not incompatible with those extending life. If Doc doesn't object to massage or having his Reiki fields realigned, and the person doing the work is happy in it, mazel tov.
The barn went through a brief span a few years ago where there was a leetle too much personal drama—some intramural adolescent-type dating, with Divers Alarums and Scenes to go with it—but it is now on a really solid footing, at least from my perspective, with a focus on managing the animals and the business rather than anyone's hurt feelings. At least, that's how it seems to me as a student; there isn't much turnover among the boarders either, though since it's the only barn within the city limits, their options may be more limited.
Here's to Doc's continued good health! Bumpers, gentlefolk, and no heel taps.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
What a rough beast
I leave the office for one measly extended weekend of eating marathon meals and drinking mighty wines in Chicago, and everything goes to hell, such that by the time I get home o'nights all I want to do is kerflop into bed. Stories about the weekend of feasty goodness and watching TheVoice marry her feller are on their way.
Manny has now been visited by an acupuncturist-cum-chiropractor, who did many woo-type things and left him with a batch of Chinese herbs. The barn staff find this a tremendous source of amusement, particularly the one labeled "for weakness of the hind end." When it comes to horses, I have set aside my usual cynicism about alternate therapies, because some animals genuinely do seem to benefit from them, and the placebo effect isn't the probable cause. Still, I agree with one staffer, who summarized Manny's current regimen succinctly: "He needs to chill the hell out and gain some weight. Dude, the herb he needs is not Chinese." (Except that it maybe is, who knew?)
We had fun, though, with only me and Small Woman, on Grayson, in the class. Pat set us doing mirrored exercises, circles at each end of the ring and then swapping off, which we managed with elan and even panache. Then she had each of us do a Preliminary-level dressage test that she made up on the fly, reading us the moves as we went. I was startled by how hard it was and how well Manny did, and speaking for myself it was also engaging to focus on a variety of moves in sequence, rather than the usual routine of doing one maneuver repeatedly before switching to another.
Manny has now been visited by an acupuncturist-cum-chiropractor, who did many woo-type things and left him with a batch of Chinese herbs. The barn staff find this a tremendous source of amusement, particularly the one labeled "for weakness of the hind end." When it comes to horses, I have set aside my usual cynicism about alternate therapies, because some animals genuinely do seem to benefit from them, and the placebo effect isn't the probable cause. Still, I agree with one staffer, who summarized Manny's current regimen succinctly: "He needs to chill the hell out and gain some weight. Dude, the herb he needs is not Chinese." (Except that it maybe is, who knew?)
We had fun, though, with only me and Small Woman, on Grayson, in the class. Pat set us doing mirrored exercises, circles at each end of the ring and then swapping off, which we managed with elan and even panache. Then she had each of us do a Preliminary-level dressage test that she made up on the fly, reading us the moves as we went. I was startled by how hard it was and how well Manny did, and speaking for myself it was also engaging to focus on a variety of moves in sequence, rather than the usual routine of doing one maneuver repeatedly before switching to another.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
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!
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!
Friday, June 5, 2009
I should not use a brother thus
Update from a stormy night: Manny has stopped rooting and is now trying to figure out how to go on the bit. You can tell, because when he's cued he grinds his teeth on the snaffle until it sounds like someone's trying to start a mower in the ring. Our conversation Wednesday night went grangh grangh grangh YOU'RE ON THE BIT YAY HERE'S A BIG RELEASE GOOD BOY grangh grangh. It's as though he spends the days after each lesson thinking about what he was asked to do, then the next time, eureka, what's next. [ETA: D'oh. I need to check into this a little more.]
Unfortunately, his mouthiness continues to be a problem; he bit the ever-living shit out of one of the instructors while she was standing in his stall (she didn't have him on a lead rope, and she wasn't looking at him, two big mistakes with this particular horse and, really, any horse you don't know well). She didn't try to yank her arm away, so instead of a gaping exsanguinating wound she's got a perfect set of teeth marks in her inner forearm. Yikes. The barn is planning to move him away from Sterling, whose stall-proud shenanigans aren't helping Manny's whole "my food mine mine mine MINE biting you now" attitude. In the meantime, they've taken to saddling him before students arrive, always leaving his halter on while he's stalled, and plastering warning labels on his door. For my part, I stay well out of reach until I've poked his haunches away from me with the end of a dressage crop or a longe whip. We also did some of his de-aversion ear-petting therapy during the wait on crossties; 20 seconds of that, and his whole body relaxes, then he sighs deeply, leans his head into your chest, and commences to lick and chew like a Monty Roberts demo vid. Very cute.
Jon Stewart, my other crush boy. No horse connection, just love.
Unfortunately, his mouthiness continues to be a problem; he bit the ever-living shit out of one of the instructors while she was standing in his stall (she didn't have him on a lead rope, and she wasn't looking at him, two big mistakes with this particular horse and, really, any horse you don't know well). She didn't try to yank her arm away, so instead of a gaping exsanguinating wound she's got a perfect set of teeth marks in her inner forearm. Yikes. The barn is planning to move him away from Sterling, whose stall-proud shenanigans aren't helping Manny's whole "my food mine mine mine MINE biting you now" attitude. In the meantime, they've taken to saddling him before students arrive, always leaving his halter on while he's stalled, and plastering warning labels on his door. For my part, I stay well out of reach until I've poked his haunches away from me with the end of a dressage crop or a longe whip. We also did some of his de-aversion ear-petting therapy during the wait on crossties; 20 seconds of that, and his whole body relaxes, then he sighs deeply, leans his head into your chest, and commences to lick and chew like a Monty Roberts demo vid. Very cute.
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | M - Th 11p / 10c | |||
| Dick (Uncut) | ||||
| ||||
Friday, May 29, 2009
But some of them had got the luck
Summer scheduling hurrah! Not content with allowing us the freedom of casual togs during the warm months, my office has added swing-time hours, so half a Friday every other week is available for personal skidding doorwards at 12:30 (work permitting). Wine with lunch? Don't mind if we do.
I took my first afternoon for purely selfish purposes: some catching up on BSG 4.5 (mutiny! Felix, you eedjit!) via Hulu and thence to the gym for off-hour treadmilling, since the DC humidity is in force and so are the regular afternoon gullywashers. My gym is almost abandoned during the workday, permitting freedom from the whiteboard reservations system and the opportunity, in my case, to go spectacularly purple about the neck and face without having many witnesses.
I had only begun to warm up, however, when one of the training staff paused in front of my machine and waited for me to pull out my earbuds. "Hey," quoth'a cheerily, "I'll be setting up a chair in a few minutes and offering free ten-minute massages. If you're interested, let me know and I'll put you first on the list." TANSTAAFL: "What, free? Like, not free-if-I-buy-stuff, but free?" "Yep. Wanna?" "Um. Even if I'm kind of sweaty?" "Even then."
Well hell y'all. Come the chance to live off ill-gotten gains, I would definitely add a masseuse to my retinue, and it's not like I couldn't run afterward. Justification in order to my own satisfaction, I moseyed over casual-like. It's so unbecoming to rush for freebies, my deahs. Had I known, I'd have sprinted, because dear God. "You should spend some time on the table," said my new BFF, working at the knots in my erector spinae. "Let me do some myofascial work. It's all tension along here." First of all, who has sales resistance when you're massaging their aching bits; second, this is a predictable but effective way to make your case; third, no kidding: riding and a tweaky hip take a toll. "You're riding? Girl, in a saddle, all that shock goes straight into your back; make sure you get some core work in." Turns out that he rode as a kid, mostly hunters, so we neeped about horses as 10 minutes turned into 20. Bliss. BLISS. I'm sold on the idea that this guy could make a real difference in my back and my worldview, and if I can also get a biweekly freebie, well, so much the better.
The C25K proceedeth apace. Over drinks at the Gibson last night, Mizerock (who knows I'm neurotically self-conscious about my level of running fail, and who himself runs for the sheer joy of it) pointed out that a friend of his just did her first 5k at a 17-minute-mile pace. My challenge is simply sustaining running; I can walk a 15-minute mile easily, but running that distance is another kettle of fish. Ah well, my foot is on the path and all that. Behind our efforts, let there be found our efforts.
I took my first afternoon for purely selfish purposes: some catching up on BSG 4.5 (mutiny! Felix, you eedjit!) via Hulu and thence to the gym for off-hour treadmilling, since the DC humidity is in force and so are the regular afternoon gullywashers. My gym is almost abandoned during the workday, permitting freedom from the whiteboard reservations system and the opportunity, in my case, to go spectacularly purple about the neck and face without having many witnesses.
I had only begun to warm up, however, when one of the training staff paused in front of my machine and waited for me to pull out my earbuds. "Hey," quoth'a cheerily, "I'll be setting up a chair in a few minutes and offering free ten-minute massages. If you're interested, let me know and I'll put you first on the list." TANSTAAFL: "What, free? Like, not free-if-I-buy-stuff, but free?" "Yep. Wanna?" "Um. Even if I'm kind of sweaty?" "Even then."
Well hell y'all. Come the chance to live off ill-gotten gains, I would definitely add a masseuse to my retinue, and it's not like I couldn't run afterward. Justification in order to my own satisfaction, I moseyed over casual-like. It's so unbecoming to rush for freebies, my deahs. Had I known, I'd have sprinted, because dear God. "You should spend some time on the table," said my new BFF, working at the knots in my erector spinae. "Let me do some myofascial work. It's all tension along here." First of all, who has sales resistance when you're massaging their aching bits; second, this is a predictable but effective way to make your case; third, no kidding: riding and a tweaky hip take a toll. "You're riding? Girl, in a saddle, all that shock goes straight into your back; make sure you get some core work in." Turns out that he rode as a kid, mostly hunters, so we neeped about horses as 10 minutes turned into 20. Bliss. BLISS. I'm sold on the idea that this guy could make a real difference in my back and my worldview, and if I can also get a biweekly freebie, well, so much the better.
The C25K proceedeth apace. Over drinks at the Gibson last night, Mizerock (who knows I'm neurotically self-conscious about my level of running fail, and who himself runs for the sheer joy of it) pointed out that a friend of his just did her first 5k at a 17-minute-mile pace. My challenge is simply sustaining running; I can walk a 15-minute mile easily, but running that distance is another kettle of fish. Ah well, my foot is on the path and all that. Behind our efforts, let there be found our efforts.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Martial arse
Manny hasn't bitten anyone lately, but don't tell him that; boy was a sharky beast last night, with the fangs and the gnashing. His niptiousness is manageable on cross-ties, but when we got down to the ring and I went to check his girth, he tried Grayson-hard to make his opinion known. I knew what was going to happen when I started to tighten the cinch, but I misjudged it a little: Instead of seeing my flat hand right near his eye as he whipped his head around, he came around faster than I could get it out and and smacked cheek first into my outgoing fist. Oops. At least there wasn't a gap between action and consequence, which might've made him think we were playing a game. He seemed to get the message, and tightening the second strap was uneventful.
Once I was in the saddle, all my love for him came back. Not only has Manny almost entirely stopped rooting, between last week and this he figured out that I'll give him breaks and that he's allowed to reach down during the stretchy trot, so we bumped along comfortable with his nose in the dirt and his back relaxed for a good five minutes. Manny is the first barn horse I've been genuinely tempted to buy: He's young, he's getting fit, he's smart, his conformation is (I'm told) excellent, and if he can get past his worries on the ground he'll be entirely swoon-worthy. Pat and I are trying to schedule round-pen sessions to teach him that people are the boss of him all the time, every time; if we can get that into his head, he'll turn into one of the most popular horses in the school. Hm. On second thought, maybe we should leave him troublesome.
Once I was in the saddle, all my love for him came back. Not only has Manny almost entirely stopped rooting, between last week and this he figured out that I'll give him breaks and that he's allowed to reach down during the stretchy trot, so we bumped along comfortable with his nose in the dirt and his back relaxed for a good five minutes. Manny is the first barn horse I've been genuinely tempted to buy: He's young, he's getting fit, he's smart, his conformation is (I'm told) excellent, and if he can get past his worries on the ground he'll be entirely swoon-worthy. Pat and I are trying to schedule round-pen sessions to teach him that people are the boss of him all the time, every time; if we can get that into his head, he'll turn into one of the most popular horses in the school. Hm. On second thought, maybe we should leave him troublesome.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Side effects may include Barry Manilow
Back to the barn after a week off, hurrah. I was one of only two students who showed up, so I smothered a flicker of guilt and picked Manny out of the line-up. He's been nasty this week, and probably due to his starveling history is very defensive about his food, so getting him out of his stall took two alfalfa cubes and a gentle poke with a spare longe whip to get his haunches pointing away from my various vital parts. Almost the literal carrot and stick there.
He made such horrible faces and threatening gestures while he was cross-tied that Pat came to help out, using her powerful horse-fu to get him to stand calmly, eyes half-closed, with his forehead firmly buried in her chest as she stroked his ears and told him what a handsome boy he is. That put the kibosh on his fussing; he bloated a bit for the girth, and he still takes a minute to relax about having his hind feet lifted, but he didn't try for mayhem.
And oh do I love riding him. We took advantage of the two-person class to do a lot of cantering, both in circles and around the entire ring, because both El Bandito and I need to get our legs under us better when things speed up. This morning my lower back is all hinked up from working hard at keeping my seat down in the saddle, doing lengths of sitting trot, and coping with Manny's intermittent attempts to yank his rider into the pommel groin-first; time for further abs work y/y? Y.
Manny is starting to figure out that his violent head-ducks are not acceptable, so when we did the stretchy trot, where you try to get the horse to reach down for the bit and stretch out its topline, he would do it for about two strides and then jerk his head up guiltily. Oh Manny. (See? SEE? Manilow everywhere. Ghastly. My boy's full name is Downtown Man, and as long as I can hum "Downtown Train" while thinking of the Tom Waits original, we're borderline okay. Barry M. is beyond the pale and into the infrablack.) You poor confused beautiful little creature. Stop trying to bite everyone and your life can be so much better.
There was one bit of Lear news that gave me an illicit frisson of glee. The newest student in our class, a German girl who puts me eeeever so slightly on edge with her attitude about the standard of riding in our class and in America overall, tried out the big galoot while I was off tucking into crab salad and caramel/chocolate decadence last week. Oh sweet angel of revenge: Although she's a strong rider, she found him difficult to handle. Ahem. Excuse me. Hee. Not to gank the quote from Elizabeth Bear or anything, but Philo of Alexandria put it well: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is engaged in a great struggle." And that goes double for anyone on Lear.
He made such horrible faces and threatening gestures while he was cross-tied that Pat came to help out, using her powerful horse-fu to get him to stand calmly, eyes half-closed, with his forehead firmly buried in her chest as she stroked his ears and told him what a handsome boy he is. That put the kibosh on his fussing; he bloated a bit for the girth, and he still takes a minute to relax about having his hind feet lifted, but he didn't try for mayhem.
And oh do I love riding him. We took advantage of the two-person class to do a lot of cantering, both in circles and around the entire ring, because both El Bandito and I need to get our legs under us better when things speed up. This morning my lower back is all hinked up from working hard at keeping my seat down in the saddle, doing lengths of sitting trot, and coping with Manny's intermittent attempts to yank his rider into the pommel groin-first; time for further abs work y/y? Y.
Manny is starting to figure out that his violent head-ducks are not acceptable, so when we did the stretchy trot, where you try to get the horse to reach down for the bit and stretch out its topline, he would do it for about two strides and then jerk his head up guiltily. Oh Manny. (See? SEE? Manilow everywhere. Ghastly. My boy's full name is Downtown Man, and as long as I can hum "Downtown Train" while thinking of the Tom Waits original, we're borderline okay. Barry M. is beyond the pale and into the infrablack.) You poor confused beautiful little creature. Stop trying to bite everyone and your life can be so much better.
There was one bit of Lear news that gave me an illicit frisson of glee. The newest student in our class, a German girl who puts me eeeever so slightly on edge with her attitude about the standard of riding in our class and in America overall, tried out the big galoot while I was off tucking into crab salad and caramel/chocolate decadence last week. Oh sweet angel of revenge: Although she's a strong rider, she found him difficult to handle. Ahem. Excuse me. Hee. Not to gank the quote from Elizabeth Bear or anything, but Philo of Alexandria put it well: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is engaged in a great struggle." And that goes double for anyone on Lear.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Oh do I have a new sweetie
Lear is back from vacation! He celebrated by promptly tossing a shoe. The perversity that surrounds that horse's every move approaches fractal levels.
After a little meebling over the Learless horse list, I decided to take a new chance, which paid off. I rode Manny, the barn's newish still-too-skinny TB, and now that there's all this stuff about Manny Rodriguez in the news talking about how bad he is, I keep thinking, "No! It turns out that his ground manners are getting better and he's lovely under saddle!" Which is all sorts of entertainingly wrong as soon as the "oooh, riiiight" moment sets in a picosecond later.
Nobody else showed up for class, so Pat (riding the pinto pony) worked with me and Manny until I was sweating profusely and Manny spontaneously shed half his coat. He's got the willingness of a good TB without having any of Lear's squirreliness; we did canters and circles with no objection, and he even bends and yields pretty well, if without Lear's bouncy esprit or strength, which'll maybe come when he's got some more muscle on. His one bad habit, probably born of his lack of fitness, is to lunge down for the bit, pulling me out of the saddle (how have the boys been managing to ride him? he yanks his rider right into the pommel), so today I am a mass of achy pains due to the Venning of that and my own lack of fitness. Bridging the reins helped somewhat, because it limited how far he could pull, as did pushing him forward whenever he rooted, but it was exhausting work. Still, I was surprised and pleased at how much fun he was, and Pat's emphasis on teaching him proper ground manners so that he can stay in the barn has paid off.
Simply because Lear isn't a push-button pony, I'm likely to keep riding him; he needs to work, and there aren't many students in our class who would feel comfortable with him. But I told Pat that I'd happy to work with Manny in the future, toaster-rack ribs or no, my sore bits or no. Here's to a time when we can work together without one of us feeling pummeled the next day.
After a little meebling over the Learless horse list, I decided to take a new chance, which paid off. I rode Manny, the barn's newish still-too-skinny TB, and now that there's all this stuff about Manny Rodriguez in the news talking about how bad he is, I keep thinking, "No! It turns out that his ground manners are getting better and he's lovely under saddle!" Which is all sorts of entertainingly wrong as soon as the "oooh, riiiight" moment sets in a picosecond later.
Nobody else showed up for class, so Pat (riding the pinto pony) worked with me and Manny until I was sweating profusely and Manny spontaneously shed half his coat. He's got the willingness of a good TB without having any of Lear's squirreliness; we did canters and circles with no objection, and he even bends and yields pretty well, if without Lear's bouncy esprit or strength, which'll maybe come when he's got some more muscle on. His one bad habit, probably born of his lack of fitness, is to lunge down for the bit, pulling me out of the saddle (how have the boys been managing to ride him? he yanks his rider right into the pommel), so today I am a mass of achy pains due to the Venning of that and my own lack of fitness. Bridging the reins helped somewhat, because it limited how far he could pull, as did pushing him forward whenever he rooted, but it was exhausting work. Still, I was surprised and pleased at how much fun he was, and Pat's emphasis on teaching him proper ground manners so that he can stay in the barn has paid off.
Simply because Lear isn't a push-button pony, I'm likely to keep riding him; he needs to work, and there aren't many students in our class who would feel comfortable with him. But I told Pat that I'd happy to work with Manny in the future, toaster-rack ribs or no, my sore bits or no. Here's to a time when we can work together without one of us feeling pummeled the next day.
Friday, May 1, 2009
But the red mare played with the snaffle bars as a lady plays with a glove
"So is that Zeus you're on?"
"Nope, this is Bill."
"It's not Zeus?"
"Er, no. It's Bill."
"But you rode Zeus last week. Isn't that Zeus?"
OH MY WANING PATIENCE. "No, it is not Zeus. It is still Bill."
"Oh. Well, I thought it was Zeus."
As may be surmisable, Teddy Bear Bill, my partner for the week, and Zeus, from last week, are both smallish copper horses, but they are by no means twins, and also I was not in the most patient mood. Bill and I got off to a zippy start: I got on carrying my crop, at which point he started running swiftly along the walls, refusing to stop or even slow down until I dropped it. He stayed quick for most of the hour, and, as usual with school horses who are new to dressage under a beginning rider, any leg pressure translated to fast-go-fast, as did the presence of another horse's butt in front of him or any insecurity in my seat. Riding horses like this has the virtue of showing me how much progress Lear has made in the last year. We did better at the sitting trot, though my erector spinae muscles went plink a few times (aging sucks), and it turns out that Bill's got a fantastic canter, an easy fast rocking gait that's both exhilirating and relaxing. "Too much fun!" yelled Pat. "You are having too much fun!" Guilty, guilty, guilty. Bill's another pony who could do with less grain, but while his small barrel makes him a challenge for the long-legged among us, he's not a chore as a partner.
Pat contributed to the gaiety of nations by riding the entire class on a boarder's paint pony, who careful study shows is short in the legs and chubby in the body. Her flash colors and perfectly trimmed mane and tail (there is no equivalent to the love a thirteen-year-old girl will lavish on a horse of her very own, even if sometimes that means a horse has to wear a pink halter with green Izod gators on it) hide the disproportion pretty well until you see her in motion. Having Pat on horseback meant keeping track of another set of hooves and personalities, but it's always instructive to watch a good rider, even when she's on an undertrained horse.
Lear continues to be de vacaciones, and with luck he'll come back next week without further disorder to his his tendons. Life caught me up and I didn't mention it at the time, but during our last session together two weeks ago, he started stumbling in an odd way: We'd be going along smooth as paint, and suddenly his left hind would fail and it would feel as though his rear end had dropped out from under me. It got worse as class went on, especially at the trot; the idea of it happening at the canter brought me out in a fine sweat. Toward the end of class, after a particularly bad slip, we just went into the center and watched everyone else work. I couldn't find heat or swelling in his legs afterward, which is not to say it wasn't there, and we referred it to the front desk for vet follow-up. According to them, some swelling did show up the next day, but they're not sure what the injury was. Yeesh, horses are fragile things.
Speaking of fragile ponies, though, the Post reports that I Want Revenge's trainer is apparently an unrepentant doper. Count down another year when I skip the Crown.
"Nope, this is Bill."
"It's not Zeus?"
"Er, no. It's Bill."
"But you rode Zeus last week. Isn't that Zeus?"
OH MY WANING PATIENCE. "No, it is not Zeus. It is still Bill."
"Oh. Well, I thought it was Zeus."
As may be surmisable, Teddy Bear Bill, my partner for the week, and Zeus, from last week, are both smallish copper horses, but they are by no means twins, and also I was not in the most patient mood. Bill and I got off to a zippy start: I got on carrying my crop, at which point he started running swiftly along the walls, refusing to stop or even slow down until I dropped it. He stayed quick for most of the hour, and, as usual with school horses who are new to dressage under a beginning rider, any leg pressure translated to fast-go-fast, as did the presence of another horse's butt in front of him or any insecurity in my seat. Riding horses like this has the virtue of showing me how much progress Lear has made in the last year. We did better at the sitting trot, though my erector spinae muscles went plink a few times (aging sucks), and it turns out that Bill's got a fantastic canter, an easy fast rocking gait that's both exhilirating and relaxing. "Too much fun!" yelled Pat. "You are having too much fun!" Guilty, guilty, guilty. Bill's another pony who could do with less grain, but while his small barrel makes him a challenge for the long-legged among us, he's not a chore as a partner.
Pat contributed to the gaiety of nations by riding the entire class on a boarder's paint pony, who careful study shows is short in the legs and chubby in the body. Her flash colors and perfectly trimmed mane and tail (there is no equivalent to the love a thirteen-year-old girl will lavish on a horse of her very own, even if sometimes that means a horse has to wear a pink halter with green Izod gators on it) hide the disproportion pretty well until you see her in motion. Having Pat on horseback meant keeping track of another set of hooves and personalities, but it's always instructive to watch a good rider, even when she's on an undertrained horse.
Lear continues to be de vacaciones, and with luck he'll come back next week without further disorder to his his tendons. Life caught me up and I didn't mention it at the time, but during our last session together two weeks ago, he started stumbling in an odd way: We'd be going along smooth as paint, and suddenly his left hind would fail and it would feel as though his rear end had dropped out from under me. It got worse as class went on, especially at the trot; the idea of it happening at the canter brought me out in a fine sweat. Toward the end of class, after a particularly bad slip, we just went into the center and watched everyone else work. I couldn't find heat or swelling in his legs afterward, which is not to say it wasn't there, and we referred it to the front desk for vet follow-up. According to them, some swelling did show up the next day, but they're not sure what the injury was. Yeesh, horses are fragile things.
Speaking of fragile ponies, though, the Post reports that I Want Revenge's trainer is apparently an unrepentant doper. Count down another year when I skip the Crown.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
I will put the bite on this one
Lear has been so mannerly of late that I have stopped wearing my tacked cheap gloves and switched to a spendier microsuede-and-mesh pair. Too much too soon; Lear nipped my index finger right at the first knuckle last night as I was taking him out, and had it not been for luck I might be typing with a stump (or, more likely, slamming painkillers and whining dictation). They may be vegetarians, but horses have significant dentition.
For this resurgence in nippage, I unfairly blame the influence of Manny, the barn's newest rescue project. He has a JC tat and shows some signs of understanding dressage, but his last owners must've left him in an astroturf paddock; paint him white and he'd be Death's toast-rack of a mount. The barn is working on feeding him up, though it's beyond me why they thought he should be doing any work at all, rather than eating his head off in a decent field for a few months. And someone put the pain on this horse at some point, because never was such a schoolie for biting and kicking. He works fine under saddle and has an adorable muley face, so it's a shock when he tries to knock the crap out of anyone near him on the ground. It takes two people to get him groomed, one wielding the brushes (gently, what with all his ribs right there for everyone to see) and one holding his halter or a crop to distract him. His rider had trouble with him after class, so I left Lear for a few minutes and stood at Manny's head while she went over him with the soft brush and picked out his feet. He didn't try to bite me, and he stopped trying to kick her; maybe in the past he got smacked around by someone who couldn't get away with it in front of other people. Pat is considering spending a few hours just grooming him so that he learns that the brushes don't mean bad things—if he can hang in there, he'll soon find that grooming time in a barn full of city girls is his ticket to fat city.
Lear continues to be my problem child with a work ethic. He managed a few strides of half-pass to the left; going to the right, Pat thinks he twists a hind leg oddly and worries that he's got an undiagnosed conformation hiccup. It might be that, or it might be that he's still not 100% sure of what I'm asking (as is only fair, since I'm still sorting out the signals) and is woggly on trying to keep his balance. We had him back in his old saddle—one of these days I'll get stick for using his standard girth but not his marked saddle—and that seemed to make him calmer. He still frolics a little when asked for the canter, so depart work is in order, but the spooking and stargazing were much reduced.
The most shocking thing about this week's mini-med lecture on emergency departments and the "golden hour" following trauma was not that the segment on ED structure, program, assets, and challenges was the most interesting section, or that there was a minimum of gooooore, or even that the size of a janitorial service can affect an ED's ability to process patients efficiently. No, it was that the presenter, who is in charge of the university's thriving collaboration with MedStar, admitted that he had never seen an episode of "ER." How scandalous! How will he ever know to learn Life Lessons from his patients?
For this resurgence in nippage, I unfairly blame the influence of Manny, the barn's newest rescue project. He has a JC tat and shows some signs of understanding dressage, but his last owners must've left him in an astroturf paddock; paint him white and he'd be Death's toast-rack of a mount. The barn is working on feeding him up, though it's beyond me why they thought he should be doing any work at all, rather than eating his head off in a decent field for a few months. And someone put the pain on this horse at some point, because never was such a schoolie for biting and kicking. He works fine under saddle and has an adorable muley face, so it's a shock when he tries to knock the crap out of anyone near him on the ground. It takes two people to get him groomed, one wielding the brushes (gently, what with all his ribs right there for everyone to see) and one holding his halter or a crop to distract him. His rider had trouble with him after class, so I left Lear for a few minutes and stood at Manny's head while she went over him with the soft brush and picked out his feet. He didn't try to bite me, and he stopped trying to kick her; maybe in the past he got smacked around by someone who couldn't get away with it in front of other people. Pat is considering spending a few hours just grooming him so that he learns that the brushes don't mean bad things—if he can hang in there, he'll soon find that grooming time in a barn full of city girls is his ticket to fat city.
Lear continues to be my problem child with a work ethic. He managed a few strides of half-pass to the left; going to the right, Pat thinks he twists a hind leg oddly and worries that he's got an undiagnosed conformation hiccup. It might be that, or it might be that he's still not 100% sure of what I'm asking (as is only fair, since I'm still sorting out the signals) and is woggly on trying to keep his balance. We had him back in his old saddle—one of these days I'll get stick for using his standard girth but not his marked saddle—and that seemed to make him calmer. He still frolics a little when asked for the canter, so depart work is in order, but the spooking and stargazing were much reduced.
The most shocking thing about this week's mini-med lecture on emergency departments and the "golden hour" following trauma was not that the segment on ED structure, program, assets, and challenges was the most interesting section, or that there was a minimum of gooooore, or even that the size of a janitorial service can affect an ED's ability to process patients efficiently. No, it was that the presenter, who is in charge of the university's thriving collaboration with MedStar, admitted that he had never seen an episode of "ER." How scandalous! How will he ever know to learn Life Lessons from his patients?
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Head-high, his heels to heaven shown
A brief story: We worked more on canter circles to the left last night. I couldn't keep Lear from breaking gait every time we came off the rail, and in frustration I asked Pat to hop on for a schooling ride. When he slowed as she brought him in toward the center of the ring, just as he did with me, she tapped him lightly with the crop, and my hand to God his back hooves went well above the level of his haunches as he bucked. She stayed on him ("This saddle is horrible!" "What are you talking about? Finest naugahyde Wintec POS, that saddle.") and got him to understand what we were asking, but he remains, as MkII put it, the horse with three left feet.
But at least we know that if the barn runs low on money, we can rent Pat out for bronc-riding displays.
But at least we know that if the barn runs low on money, we can rent Pat out for bronc-riding displays.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Where is the horse and the rider?
Really. Where are they? (Where is they?) Because life is conspiring against me lately, mes amis, and I dun like it.
A friend with whom I used to take Western classes e-mailed today to let me know about the dates for this year's roundup. Danny is a tolerant man and apparently is willing to let me continue to hassle his cows from the back of one of his horses, despite his obvious amusement at the sight of a rider wearing a helmet instead of the cowboy hat God intended. Or maybe because of it. I don't mind being visual amusement for ranchers, as long as they buy me breakfast, lunch, and beerth, loan me a horse, and keep up the pretense that I've helped rather than hindered.
But this year, it's the weekend of Orthodox Easter. COME. ON. If I ran religion, we'd long ago have straightened out this ridiculous mess about the different calculations. Date of Passover, add one weekend, done. Just reorganize the spiritual world so I can ride, is that so much to ask?
The other sorrow is that my forthcoming work trip to Mexico won't be long enough, nor my wallet quite deep enough, to support another visit to Finca Enyhe. There are other riding options in central Mexico, but at this distance it is difficult to tell which ones are legit and which ones involve saddles and horses of equal decrepitude. Pepe and Lucia's outfit is what you really want: The horses are kept in excellent trim, they're scheduled carefully so that the weight a horse loses on one ride can be put back on before the next ride gets going, there are chances for long canters as well as impromptu jumping (reason number 24,297 I'm glad I'm not a guy: what happened when I took a three-foot log while using a Western saddle), the food is aces, and you get to go back to the house every night for a hot shower and a three-course supper. I fell flat-out in love with my horse, a glum-faced buckskin of unflappable calm and balance. At the time, I didn't realize how little I knew (a classic new-rider scenario, and check out my stirrups here for proof), so having a horse who took steep paths, rain-swollen creeks, slick footing, and the occasional crumbling path literally in stride was a tremendous asset.
Oh well. These are high-class problems to have, I know. But if anyone has tips about short rides in Michoacan, please share. Please please please!
A friend with whom I used to take Western classes e-mailed today to let me know about the dates for this year's roundup. Danny is a tolerant man and apparently is willing to let me continue to hassle his cows from the back of one of his horses, despite his obvious amusement at the sight of a rider wearing a helmet instead of the cowboy hat God intended. Or maybe because of it. I don't mind being visual amusement for ranchers, as long as they buy me breakfast, lunch, and beerth, loan me a horse, and keep up the pretense that I've helped rather than hindered.
But this year, it's the weekend of Orthodox Easter. COME. ON. If I ran religion, we'd long ago have straightened out this ridiculous mess about the different calculations. Date of Passover, add one weekend, done. Just reorganize the spiritual world so I can ride, is that so much to ask?
The other sorrow is that my forthcoming work trip to Mexico won't be long enough, nor my wallet quite deep enough, to support another visit to Finca Enyhe. There are other riding options in central Mexico, but at this distance it is difficult to tell which ones are legit and which ones involve saddles and horses of equal decrepitude. Pepe and Lucia's outfit is what you really want: The horses are kept in excellent trim, they're scheduled carefully so that the weight a horse loses on one ride can be put back on before the next ride gets going, there are chances for long canters as well as impromptu jumping (reason number 24,297 I'm glad I'm not a guy: what happened when I took a three-foot log while using a Western saddle), the food is aces, and you get to go back to the house every night for a hot shower and a three-course supper. I fell flat-out in love with my horse, a glum-faced buckskin of unflappable calm and balance. At the time, I didn't realize how little I knew (a classic new-rider scenario, and check out my stirrups here for proof), so having a horse who took steep paths, rain-swollen creeks, slick footing, and the occasional crumbling path literally in stride was a tremendous asset.
Oh well. These are high-class problems to have, I know. But if anyone has tips about short rides in Michoacan, please share. Please please please!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Oh d'Lear
Barn people can be all kinds of amazing about horses, but the communication with people end sometimes breaks down. Vide last night, when the saddle marked for Lear was an old saddle retrofitted with new padding and finest brown syntho-nauga. We later found out that the fitter had been through and decided Lear's regular saddle was too wide in the withers, so she got him a narrower one instead. Thing one, there's never been any sign of soreness from him, and thing two, somehow she decided to fit him with a single pad instead of the standard (at our barn, anyway) two, which information never got handed along.
So all unaware of these machinations, I saddled him and clambered up, and we started to work. Lear tends to carry his head high at first and to relax after a few minutes, but this whole lesson was marked by stargazing, extra spooking, and, when we tried to canter circles, kicking out. All the warning signs of a horse in pain, basically, though not so severe that I put them together right off. Pat later found out about the saddle backstory and agrees that next time we'll try him with a single pad, but if that still makes him uncomfortable, fitter be damned, the wider withers it is.
Despite his ouches, Lear did a few things extremely well. We worked on leg-yielding away from the wall and toward it (the horse travels forward and sideways, stepping across itself as it goes). Most school horses tend to hug the rail, because they're used to following along the edge of the ring, so getting them off the track is no mean feat. Lear, however, slid right over and right back at the touch of a leg, switching his tail as he changed direction and looking verreh handsome. He also did smashingly with going from a collected halt to a trot, switching between a short- and a long-strided trot, and not dumping me on my ass during any of his spooks, though we had to do an intervention to get him to go past the gate after a cat startled him. He even managed to walk whilst pooping, something the average schoolie will try to convince you is immmmpossible, as they've all learned that they can sneak in a break that way. But the prey animal that can't fling fewmets and flee simultaneously is usually weeded out of the gene pool in a blur of claws and teeth and gore.
One of the other students and I sat around after we'd put the ponies to bed and talked about horse/rider chemistry, and it all got meta because of the amount of projection we do. I think of Doc as an honest hard-working creature who will work hard to figure out what I'm asking, and whose mistakes are easy to forgive. Tell that to the little kid who is suddenly cantering, though; she'll tell you he's unpredictable and scary (and she's been warned that he bites). Lear, who some girls think is all big action and flash, strikes me as a juvenile twerp with significant technical potential but who will never really move me. The other student loves how how Heza bumps her gently with his nose when she's tacking him up: "It's like he's saying, 'Hey. I'm here. Don't start taking me for granted.' And it's funny, so it's like he has a sense of humor, and that makes me happier to be with him. But how much of that is him, and how much of it is me?" That's a question.
So all unaware of these machinations, I saddled him and clambered up, and we started to work. Lear tends to carry his head high at first and to relax after a few minutes, but this whole lesson was marked by stargazing, extra spooking, and, when we tried to canter circles, kicking out. All the warning signs of a horse in pain, basically, though not so severe that I put them together right off. Pat later found out about the saddle backstory and agrees that next time we'll try him with a single pad, but if that still makes him uncomfortable, fitter be damned, the wider withers it is.
Despite his ouches, Lear did a few things extremely well. We worked on leg-yielding away from the wall and toward it (the horse travels forward and sideways, stepping across itself as it goes). Most school horses tend to hug the rail, because they're used to following along the edge of the ring, so getting them off the track is no mean feat. Lear, however, slid right over and right back at the touch of a leg, switching his tail as he changed direction and looking verreh handsome. He also did smashingly with going from a collected halt to a trot, switching between a short- and a long-strided trot, and not dumping me on my ass during any of his spooks, though we had to do an intervention to get him to go past the gate after a cat startled him. He even managed to walk whilst pooping, something the average schoolie will try to convince you is immmmpossible, as they've all learned that they can sneak in a break that way. But the prey animal that can't fling fewmets and flee simultaneously is usually weeded out of the gene pool in a blur of claws and teeth and gore.
One of the other students and I sat around after we'd put the ponies to bed and talked about horse/rider chemistry, and it all got meta because of the amount of projection we do. I think of Doc as an honest hard-working creature who will work hard to figure out what I'm asking, and whose mistakes are easy to forgive. Tell that to the little kid who is suddenly cantering, though; she'll tell you he's unpredictable and scary (and she's been warned that he bites). Lear, who some girls think is all big action and flash, strikes me as a juvenile twerp with significant technical potential but who will never really move me. The other student loves how how Heza bumps her gently with his nose when she's tacking him up: "It's like he's saying, 'Hey. I'm here. Don't start taking me for granted.' And it's funny, so it's like he has a sense of humor, and that makes me happier to be with him. But how much of that is him, and how much of it is me?" That's a question.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Structuring the week
Monday: The painful yoga class. I've now gone to four in a row, enough to see what bits remain consistent from week to week (the 20-minute sun salutations warmup; the agony of abs work just when I start to think it's quittin' time) and what changes (the lunges, the balances, the perverse forms the abs stuff takes). I don't participate in the oms that start and end the class, but if I did I'd be hard-pressed not to faff around singing in thirds just to be perverse. Better to stand in silence.
Tuesday: Mini-med! It's back! Aaand Georgetown fail: every single presenter on the roster is a guy. Bring back the goddess of the shiny knife! The first lecture, on obesity and whether it is or should be considered a disease, was full of neurochemical goodness. Human adenovirus-36, you interest me strangely. The second, on drug development, was a disappointment; the speaker covered maybe 12 of his 40 pages, and noncontinuously at that. The Elder Gods reserve special torments for presenters who flip around in their PowerPoints. He covered some of the development process and discussed a couple of things he's working on, including a bizarre but potentially lucrative product that would fluoresce when it reached target cells, so clearly he knew his stuff, but he didn't do a very good job of presenting it. He also got on my nerves by claiming that Viagra was originally developed as an anti-allergy med; it was in fact an anti-hypertensive (and is still sometimes prescribed as such).
Wednesday: Well, we all know about the standing date with Lear or some four-footed facsimile. Last night I got Lear after he'd been worked in a kids' class, so he was less of a fruitcake than usual. We worked on cantering large circles, rather than the full ring, an exercise that forces the horses to balance themselves more precisely; Lear promptly lost track of all his feet. He did, however, do a perfect haunches-in, good turns on the fore, and stretches down for the bit, and he's getting more consistent about collecting himself, so we had progress. Pat has decided to spring for a blood test to find out whether he's incompletely gelded; I await the findings with interest.
Thursday: Pilates, or possibly Chisel, if I can get up the nerve to spend an hour doing what I'm told are many squats. This is followed by going out with Teal for crepes, because balance is very important, and because the thought of Nutella may sustain me through the fitnessing process.
Friday: Watching Dollhouse. Cooking. Passing out.
This whole structured-schedule thing is all very well and good, but how the hell does anyone fit in basic chores, let alone extemporaneous fun, during the week?
Tuesday: Mini-med! It's back! Aaand Georgetown fail: every single presenter on the roster is a guy. Bring back the goddess of the shiny knife! The first lecture, on obesity and whether it is or should be considered a disease, was full of neurochemical goodness. Human adenovirus-36, you interest me strangely. The second, on drug development, was a disappointment; the speaker covered maybe 12 of his 40 pages, and noncontinuously at that. The Elder Gods reserve special torments for presenters who flip around in their PowerPoints. He covered some of the development process and discussed a couple of things he's working on, including a bizarre but potentially lucrative product that would fluoresce when it reached target cells, so clearly he knew his stuff, but he didn't do a very good job of presenting it. He also got on my nerves by claiming that Viagra was originally developed as an anti-allergy med; it was in fact an anti-hypertensive (and is still sometimes prescribed as such).
Wednesday: Well, we all know about the standing date with Lear or some four-footed facsimile. Last night I got Lear after he'd been worked in a kids' class, so he was less of a fruitcake than usual. We worked on cantering large circles, rather than the full ring, an exercise that forces the horses to balance themselves more precisely; Lear promptly lost track of all his feet. He did, however, do a perfect haunches-in, good turns on the fore, and stretches down for the bit, and he's getting more consistent about collecting himself, so we had progress. Pat has decided to spring for a blood test to find out whether he's incompletely gelded; I await the findings with interest.
Thursday: Pilates, or possibly Chisel, if I can get up the nerve to spend an hour doing what I'm told are many squats. This is followed by going out with Teal for crepes, because balance is very important, and because the thought of Nutella may sustain me through the fitnessing process.
Friday: Watching Dollhouse. Cooking. Passing out.
This whole structured-schedule thing is all very well and good, but how the hell does anyone fit in basic chores, let alone extemporaneous fun, during the week?
Thursday, March 5, 2009
When you expect whistles, it's flutes
It having been a while since Lear and I got to work together, I whinged until the barn staff put him on the horse list last night. They were a little dubious, because it was extremely cold and he hadn't been worked all day, a combination practically guaranteed to mean crazy spooking fun times. Hah, sez I to that, Am I not the person who was terrified to ride him not six months ago? What care I for his freakful fits?
By rights I should've changed my mind when it took five solid minutes to get him to stop periscoping his head and bring it down far enough that we could strap on the second cross-tie, which based on his shimmying and snorting must've insulted his momma. But we got it onto him eventually, and he wasn't egregious for the rest of the grooming and tacking up. As we walked to the ring, though, he grabbed for the rein, and once inside he tried several times to nip me ("Ptui!" "Yeah, you nitwit, it's a down vest") and otherwise made it clear that he wanted to frolic. No frolicking! Let merriment be bounded! We used the lunge line to remind him that the ring is for working and people are for respecting, and as I climbed on Pat reminded people to give him extra room.
We did have several small spooks, two of which turned into rather pretty dancing canters, but after I remembered that I've got an inside leg, it was as though someone had turned a switch. He yielded, he bent, he trotted calmly, he gathered into a frame, he played polo and waited at table. It was unbelievable. Even for our canter work, which given his sparky beginning had the potential to become disastrous (well, it always does), he held himself neatly, did perfect polite transitions, and cantered gently without once trying for a surreptitious hand gallop. I spent the final ten minutes of class stretching his neck on circles and composing mental thank-you letters to his trainer.
By rights I should've changed my mind when it took five solid minutes to get him to stop periscoping his head and bring it down far enough that we could strap on the second cross-tie, which based on his shimmying and snorting must've insulted his momma. But we got it onto him eventually, and he wasn't egregious for the rest of the grooming and tacking up. As we walked to the ring, though, he grabbed for the rein, and once inside he tried several times to nip me ("Ptui!" "Yeah, you nitwit, it's a down vest") and otherwise made it clear that he wanted to frolic. No frolicking! Let merriment be bounded! We used the lunge line to remind him that the ring is for working and people are for respecting, and as I climbed on Pat reminded people to give him extra room.
We did have several small spooks, two of which turned into rather pretty dancing canters, but after I remembered that I've got an inside leg, it was as though someone had turned a switch. He yielded, he bent, he trotted calmly, he gathered into a frame, he played polo and waited at table. It was unbelievable. Even for our canter work, which given his sparky beginning had the potential to become disastrous (well, it always does), he held himself neatly, did perfect polite transitions, and cantered gently without once trying for a surreptitious hand gallop. I spent the final ten minutes of class stretching his neck on circles and composing mental thank-you letters to his trainer.
Friday, February 27, 2009
"Doth any here know me?"
Lear's trainer took him down to the park field to run out some of his beans, and she got some pretty shots of him that she's been kind enough to let me post. Check out those lovely TB legs, the glossy haunches, the big head, and his neck, which is still a bit scraggly. Note also that in neither photo are any of his feet touching the ground; when he's balanced, he can catch quite a bit of air. His canter (above) is a big steady rocking gait, and his suspended trot (below), which costs me pains to establish without cavaletti, is so springy that I squeaked the first time I got it.
What appear to be dapples on his dark sides are actually patches of dirt, from where he rolled ecstatically around after his first round of leaping about and farting with gleeful freedom. Our barn doesn't have enough turnout space, so the horses make the most of the time they've got in the big open areas. The joggers and cyclists who use the paths past this field often pull up a bench to watch, and lots of children want to get close, but the horses are so taken with the chance to run around that they don't make a beeline for the fence to beg for treats.I briefly tried working with Doc in this field, but he associated it so strongly with playtime and the full gallop (not something I was comfortable indulging without a saddle under me) that I made it into a reward after trail work: We'd walk through the park to it, doing various maneuvers around trees and rocks, then I would let him graze and play silly buggers for a while. Then I'd rebridle him and scramble onto his back, and we'd return to the barn, with a thrilling bareback canter up the one real slope between the two. On summer evenings with the moon rising early and the bats flickering overhead, you couldn't believe you were in a city.
Friday, February 20, 2009
As promised: horsie updates
Lear continues to be sidelined, mostly so that his Grand Prix-bound trainer can get in some intensive work before she leaves him behind forever, sniff sniff. So I was back with Grayson and, for once, the only girl in the class, with El Bandito and Mr. Polo for company. El Bandito is an okay rider and fairly quiet; Mr. Polo is a better rider but is more vocal about his questions. Lately he's been trying to figure out the mysteries of what aids you have to combine—inside leg, inside rein, outside leg, outside rein, weight, hips, and shoulders—to get the various moves done. Part of me sympathizes, because croiky, guvnah, you've got to keep a lot of aids in mind, and all of them have to be independent of one another. The other part says, c'mon, do what you can and eventually you'll realize that you're an effective rider and that your body has figured out what the teacher kept repeating, and that oh, right, it does work if you keep the inside leg on, outside rein firm, shift weight on your sits bones but don't torque your upper body, and look between the horse's ears. And don't forget to relaaaaaax, maaaaan, you can't ride well if you're all tennnnnse.
Some tension, of course, is appropriate in certain circumstances. Pat announced that she wanted us to canter past one another, which is fun when your ring is small and one of your horses will go out of his way to be nasty to the others (*cough*Grayson*cough*). It's a measure of the trust she's earned that we did not back slowly away from her and make for the parking lot. I kept Grayson a healthy distance from the other two, which made for some excitingly banked turns, and I neither caused the harm of any rider or horse nor caused harm to come by my inaction. It was even sort of fun, in a clearing-out-the-adrenal-system way. Grayson has become more respectful; I, unlike his regular rider, don't bother trying to sweeten him with treats during class, but I use the whip mostly as a visual aid rather than hassling him with it. He's still got terrible ground manners, and you have to keep a weather eye out when you're in kicking range, but when he's on he's great.
After class, I stopped by Doc's stall with an apple, his favorite treat. We've got a set routine: If I come bearing one, he waits until I bite off a piece and offer it to him (if he gets the whole thing, he slobbers too much of it into his bedding). He stands politely, though he nickers when he hears the crunch, and he knows that if he steps into my space he'll hear a firm, "Baaaack. Back up," which he obeys...while, it must be said, keeping his eyes on the fruity prize. He doesn't much care about getting scratched on the withers, so this is the only way I can really show my appreciation for him. Some horse authorities point out that treats aren't the way to a horse's heart, that the horse just learns to view you as a walking larder, but since Doc never importunes, I'll ignore them on this one.
Some tension, of course, is appropriate in certain circumstances. Pat announced that she wanted us to canter past one another, which is fun when your ring is small and one of your horses will go out of his way to be nasty to the others (*cough*Grayson*cough*). It's a measure of the trust she's earned that we did not back slowly away from her and make for the parking lot. I kept Grayson a healthy distance from the other two, which made for some excitingly banked turns, and I neither caused the harm of any rider or horse nor caused harm to come by my inaction. It was even sort of fun, in a clearing-out-the-adrenal-system way. Grayson has become more respectful; I, unlike his regular rider, don't bother trying to sweeten him with treats during class, but I use the whip mostly as a visual aid rather than hassling him with it. He's still got terrible ground manners, and you have to keep a weather eye out when you're in kicking range, but when he's on he's great.
After class, I stopped by Doc's stall with an apple, his favorite treat. We've got a set routine: If I come bearing one, he waits until I bite off a piece and offer it to him (if he gets the whole thing, he slobbers too much of it into his bedding). He stands politely, though he nickers when he hears the crunch, and he knows that if he steps into my space he'll hear a firm, "Baaaack. Back up," which he obeys...while, it must be said, keeping his eyes on the fruity prize. He doesn't much care about getting scratched on the withers, so this is the only way I can really show my appreciation for him. Some horse authorities point out that treats aren't the way to a horse's heart, that the horse just learns to view you as a walking larder, but since Doc never importunes, I'll ignore them on this one.
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