Thursday, July 1, 2010


Today I felt unusually fat and pudgy (which unfortunately is now a regular sensation for me). So I was determined to go that extra mile, do some additional exercise, get my heart-rate up, burn off that extra slice of pizza last night, etc.

[ Sidebar here - does I come across as bragging when I talk about my horses? To me, they are 1,200 lb. pets that live outside and eat a lot. It isn't as if they are housed in fine stalls, coddled by grooms and exercised regularly - they are just my big pets animals - XXL in size... which kinda fits the whole subject here ]
On certain calm summers evenings, my husband is willing to walk the quiet old mare while I wrestle the colt over to the nearest vacant land, and both horses to graze for a half hour or so - and I use "graze" in the most open possible meaning of the word - we don't have much grass, let alone GREEN grass, in southern Arizona at this particular time of year.. or any other time of the year, to be truthful.

But tonight with my quest to use up a few extra calories, I went out early to vigorously brush both horses.

Which, in my case anyway, requires much more than simply using grooming tools.

Sally, the mare, is convinced that anytime she is brushed and made in any manner to be socially-presentable and/or clean, she is 1) going to be sold and taken away or. even worse, 2) the colt, her baby in every way possible except for physically, is going to be sold and taken away.

Yes, major separation anxieties here - there is no telling how many of her babies were taken away from her, but I am certain quite a few.

So when I come at her with a brush or a comb, she alternates between racing away from me (and she is a former race-horse, she can certainly move fast for an old girl), or getting in between the colt and me and blocking any attempt to groom him.

Therefore, most of my time was spent either trotting after Sally, forcing myself between Sally and Najale, or racing to head off Najale, as he was got into the sport of escape and would take off for the horizon after Sally.

So when Wilt came and I, with sweat dripping off my face, sore feet, and perhaps more than a casual hope for a shorter walk than usual...

Then, of course, right then, Najale determined that his current ambition was to become a performer. And not just a casual artist, but a dominant and debonair dancer, full of gyrating grace.

Yes, it was as disarming as it sounds, to have a pair of hooves whistling by your ears as your horse tries to prove he is worthy of admission to the Royal Academy of Ballet.

When a horse rears, you have an extremely limited amount of choices. He's obviously stronger, bigger and more determined than you can ever be - the best I can do was to keep hold of his lead rope and try to stay out of the way of his enormous feet as he waved them madly in the air in his manner of a pirouette or an elevé.

Najale obviously felt he was only expressing his inner creative self in the most inventive manner open for an equine.

I could only accept his actions as Najale's innovative eloquence of spirit...

... and the inevitable power of Murphy's law...

... because then I spent an additional thirty minutes having to discipline and counsel the horse about removing his application for dance school, learning to keep all four of his hooves firmly on the ground, and a new position for the retiré position.

Remind me next time not to assume there is a need to an additional workout until after the horses are done for the day.