I loved to hate Raymond.

As a wrangler with a string of horses, it’s inevitable to have favorites. Let’s face it—like people, every horse has a different personality and a unique set of quirks, and it may not always mesh well with your personality. For instance, we had a sweet half-draft gelding named Drifter. Drifter was a fantastic all-around horse. Sturdy, solid, deep chestnut with 4 gleaming stockings, a wide blaze and a flaxen mane and tail, he was the kind of horse people dreamed of owning. His half-draft blood gave him feathered legs, an impressively deep chest and hindquarters, sturdy bones and a thick, deeply arched neck. His other half (seriously, what did they breed him with? A pony? How do you make a half-draft horse barely reach 15 hh?) gave him a cute little head, perky ears, and a startlingly nimble agility. For such a stocky horse he was incredibly quick, and if you drew him during one of the gymkhanas you were pretty much guaranteed a win. He knew his job and he performed it admirably. He was responsive and alert, and only needed a light touch on his snaffle bridle to show him where to go. Most of the wranglers would fight over who got to use him during the trail rides.

I hated riding Drifter. He had amazingly large, expressive eyes in a surprisingly petite face, and whenever I would slip on his bridle, they conveyed one emotion: depression. I’ve never met a more depressed horse. Most of the string horses hated their jobs. After all, it doesn’t get much worse for a horse. Day after day, ride after ride, they have beginning riders plopped on their backs— beginning riders who haul at their mouth and kick at their sides in an effort to “show them who’s boss”, shifting their uneven weight around in painfully interesting ways, throwing out an steady stream of unintentional mixed messages as they grip with their heels and haul at the bit in an attempt to ride. It’s not the rider’s fault—most of them were first-time riders. What more could you expect? Still, it’s a hard life for a horse, and most string horses burn out after a couple of years. They develop bucking problems, rearing tendencies, or nasty dispositions.

Drifter was too sweet of a horse to get even. Instead, he got depressed. The only enjoyment he seemed to get out of his rides was the chance to scratch his belly with the mesquite bushes that grew in the area. He would walk along in a steady, even stride the entire trail… right up until the end of the trail, where he would occasionally “drift” solemnly off the path and through a belly-high patch of brush, slowly rubbing back and forth as he went through before returning to his place in the string. It was hard for me to deny him his simple pleasure, mostly because of those big, sad, expressive eyes of him. Every couple of weeks, when he had hit his limit, he would give himself an extra day off. Most of the horses had 2 days off a week. Drifter gave himself a third by refusing to come in for breakfast. Catching the horses was simple—dinner was a light fare, so by the time breakfast rolled around, all we had to do was fill the row of feeders and the horses would come running. We’d close the gates at either end and voila. The horses were caught— except for Drifter. On the days when he needed a break, Drifter would stand up at the top of the hill and refuse to come down, staring down at the rest of the herd eating their breakfast. I figured if he was upset enough to miss a meal, then he probably needed the day off. Like I said, I hated riding Drifter. It felt wrong to force myself on him when he so obviously asked me not to. Who wants to do that?

That’s why I loved to hate Raymond. Raymond was the complete opposite of Drifter. Whereas Drifter was sweet, solemn, and a pleasure to ride, Raymond was troublesome, annoying, and an absolute terror when he felt like it. While Drifter the ranch-favorite was eye-catching and majestic, Raymond looked like a midget Irish cob. He was a beautiful dapple grey, with a slight roman nose and a compact, impressively strong body. He could haul a 200 lb man up and down the mountain for 3 rides in a row and never break a sweat. He had thick bones, and sturdy, straight, absurdly short legs that were capped off by hooves the size of dinner plates. Everything else was well-shaped and normal looking, except for his complete lack of cannon bones and shanks. By all rights he SHOULD have been about 15.1hh. Instead, he was a stubby little 13.3 hh. He was shaped like a wiener dog. I’m sure at 5’9” I looked absolutely ridiculous riding him, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. As the shortest horse in the herd, Raymond somehow managed to end up as second in command. I think that says something about his stubborn wiles. It was like God ran out of lego pieces when he was making Raymond, so when he skimped out on legs he made up for it with a double dose of intelligence.

Raymond was stubborn. Lord, he was stubborn. It wasn’t that he was mean, it was simply that if he didn’t feel like going where you pointed him, well, then you were out of luck. It didn’t matter what kind of bit we put on him— if Raymond felt like wandering off the trail and eating some of the green grass on the other side of the creek, well, then two of you were going to go to the other side of the creek until he felt like rejoining the group. If I as one of the wranglers was barely able to wrest control from the little bugger, then the poor fool who had never been on a horse certainly wasn’t going to be able to. On more than once occasion Raymond held the entire trail ride up as he dragged me to a patch of edible goodies. It didn’t matter that I was thumping the corner of my heels in his sides as hard as I could— although he grunted audibly with each shockingly hard impact, he would cheerfully ignore me, meandering forward despite the fact I’d cranked his chin so far sideways it was almost over his withers. Bit? What bit? Stop? Turn? Huh? Me no speakum English he’d seem to say, ripping the reins out of my hands as he bent down to nibble, laughing up at me beneath the thick fringe of white lashes as he watched me search around for a branch to smack him with. Raymond respected crops, and the second I had found a switch he’d immediately quit grazing and meander over to me, standing complacently by my side, expression still teasing. Huh? The stick? Why do you have a stick? I’m standing by your side, ever-obedient to your wishes, my Mistress. Red-faced and irritated, I’d ignore the teasing of the group I was leading (Isn’t the wrangler supposed to be able to control her horse?) and head back out, Raymond docile and obedient.

I’ve always been a sucker for a horse with a sense of humor.

The only time I ever let anybody else ride him was when one of the guests had irritated me. When people irritated me, I would secretly downgrade their ride. People who were nice got Drifter. People who were irritating got a hard-mouth, trail-sour horse. People who were so annoying they made my teeth hurt got to ride Raymond.

“Do your worst,” I’d whisper at him as I tightened his girth and slipped in the bit. I swear that horse understood me, too. The rest of group would enjoy a peaceful, idyllic ride through the Ponderosa pines. The idiot on top of Raymond would be sweating and frustrated, ping-ponging from delicious grass-patch to interesting tree branch, or whatever else Raymond felt like looking at. “Use your reins,” I’d call out gaily from the front of the trail. “Just tip his nose in the direction you want him to go. You need to be assertive.” Raymond and I would both snicker beneath our breath. Just the tip the nose. Sure.

Like I said, Raymond was short—sturdy, but short. He was actually short enough that I could put my leg up over his back and actually slide on him with only a little hop. Once I got past the embarrassing fact that my legs dangled almost to his knees, I found his size rather enjoyable. After hours I would sneak into the back horse pasture, lure him over with a neck scratch, and then slide on him. The first time I did this, Raymond stiffened and froze. String horses aren’t usually used to anything other than the daily grind of feed, saddle, walk the trails, unsaddle and freedom. It took Raymond a few tense moments for him to decide whether or not he was going to spook and bolt when I hopped up on him bareback. I wasn’t that worried. If he bolted, I’d just slide off. It wasn’t like it was very far to the ground. He paused for a few moments, then decided to meander. I grabbed a handful of coarse, salt and pepper mane and deliberately avoided steering him. I was curious what he would do. Raymond took a few short, choppy strides, then smoothed out into a quick little ground-eating pace. His walk had us drawing near to a spooky little bay named Chip who bounced away at our approach, and I felt Raymond pause. I swear I could hear the wheels turning in his head. He cocked his head slightly, then set off deliberately at another horse. Obviously, horse with a rider trumps a horse, and that horse moved out of Raymond’s path without a fight. I felt Raymond take a short, happy little breath. “Ah-HA!”. You could almost hear him say it out loud. He picked up a steady little trot towards another horse, pinning his ears and shaking his head menacingly. The other horse bolted out of our way, and Raymond turned, honing in on Rock. Rock was a huge, black boulder of a horse. High-ranking and outweighing Raymond by several hundred pounds, the two of them would occasionally break out in furious, squealing kicking wars late at night. Raymond wasn’t about to let this chance pass him by, and while we were still half a pasture away he was pinning his ears at his nemesis. Rock pinned his ears in return, but moved away in a sulky manner from Raymond’s approach. Like Raymond had figured out, a horse with a rider trumps a horse, and he intended to use that to his full advantage. Raymond began to chase Rock across the pasture at a smooth little trot (his smooth trot was the other reason I loved riding him) practically snickering. I wasn’t in danger of falling off but I popped off and slid to the ground anyways. I hadn’t hopped on to give him the chance to terrorize the herd. Raymond faltered, then stopped, looking back at me in sorrowful confusion. “Why’d you go? We made a great team. We were having such fun.”

The problem with Raymond is that his sense of fun was always a little on the mischievous side. Wouldn’t it be fun to open the gates with our lips and wander through the tack room? We could pull saddles out and fling them around with our teeth! C’mon, guys! Let’s go squeeze through a narrow, dark hallway that we would never enter willingly on our own and go chew through the bridles!

It was like having Tom Sawyer in the herd, or maybe a destructive puppy. His worst game was stealing our radios. Each of the wranglers was assigned a hand held radio in case of emergencies, and most of us clipped them to the back of our belts. Now, with four fingers and an opposable thumb it was difficult at best to unclip these radios from our belts.

Not for Raymond.

Like a teenage boy unsnapping bra straps before bolting away, Raymond LIVED to steal these radios from the wranglers. It was hard to understand just how quick the little mongrel of a horse could be. One second you had your radio on your belt loop, and the next second it had been yanked off and was dangling by its antenna from Raymond’s mouth. When he first devised this game he would twirl the radio by the antenna, amusing himself by swinging it in circles until you got close enough to steal it back. Eventually, he learned how to toss it. He’d wait until you got close enough to reach it and then swing it wildly to the side with his head, tossing it a good 8 to 10 feet where it would land in the dust, slobber caking the dirt to a crusty mud. He did this one time, and I left him standing with his reins in a half-hitch over the saddle horn. Stalking angrily over to my radio, I wiped it off on my pants leg and repositioned it on my belt. Unbeknown to me, Raymond had followed me, tiptoeing and oddly silent for a horse. Before I had even completely repositioned the radio, he had snagged it again and was skittering away on his toes, laughing at me as he trotted off with the radio.

“RAYMOND. WHOA!” I said, knowing it was useless.

Raymond slowed, glanced at me, and then glanced at the water trough.

“Don’t you dare,” I warned, feeling myself starting a healthy blush as the rest of the guests began laughing at Raymond’s antics.

As if fueled by my command he stepped sideways, slowly, carefully edging closer to the trough until he was dangling the radio inches above the water. He twirled it from his teeth slowly, watching me with a steady gaze, lowering it threateningly as I slid closer to him.

“Raymond, I swear, if you drop that in the water I’m going to turn you into glue. Kibble. Dog kibble. Your feet will be glue and the rest of you will be Purina,” I hissed out between my teeth, edging closer, slowly. I didn’t want to spook him into dropping the expensive radio into the water— I couldn’t afford for it to come out of my check. “Raymond, please,” I said, ignoring the fact that the rest of the group’s riders were now in hysterics at the stand-off between us. “Please. Please… I’ll do anything. Just don’t do it.”

Raymond gave the radio a couple more experimental twirls, then sighed. Leaving the water trough, he took a few steps to the side, and gently lowered the radio until it was only a couple of inches above the ground before dropping it. I darted forward and snatched it up, staring at him for a moment before running a hand gratefully down his neck. Smart horse—- what a scarily smart horse.

I really did love to hate Raymond. What a personality.

Many years ago I was a Wrangler up on a timeshare.

It was a very hot summer day and I was in charge of the arena rides for the children who were too young to go out on the trail rides. For this particular ranch you had to be at least 12 years old to go on one of the guided trail rides up in the mountains.

Those that were too young often signed up for the arena rides.None of the wranglers wanted to get stuck with the arena rides.

The trail rides consisted of picking your way across whatever trail you felt like blazing, listening to the sound of the wind in the trees, crossing streams and flowery meadows, enjoying the flickering shade of the Ponderosa pines.

The arena rides, on the other hand, were a complete misery. No matter how long you dawdled in the shaded saddling area while loading up about 4-5 hyperactive children onto the ranch’s oldest horses, eventually you had to grab the lead horse by the halter and drag it out into the baking sun.

It was pretty much that appealing.

There really wasn’t that much difference between an arena ride and a pony ride, except for the size of the horse and the size of the riding area. Before leading the children out into the arena the wrangler was supposed to explain the basics of horseback riding (pull left, pull right, pull back, no kicking, no screaming).

It didn’t really matter, though.

The horses knew their jobs better than any of us did, and I’m pretty sure they hated it just as much. Parrot, Limpy, Pointer, Moe, Raymond, Rock, Drifter, Tarzan… the twenty-odd horses that were part of the string may have had individual personalities but the second they stepped foot onto that baking sand they parked their nose behind another horse’s butt and turned off their brains. Regardless of what the children did they would maintain their slow, steady pace. The only time the kids got the chance to be anything more than a complete passenger was near the gate. By the corner of the gate there was a large tree, and this tree had graciously stretched a single branch over into the arena.

It wasn’t much shade, but it was all we had. The horses and I would crowd around it, sweating and grumpy, all vying for our turn in that magical, narrow strip of shade.

“Kick the horse and pull his nose around,” I would say listlessly, annoyed that I had to actually open my mouth and say words. Talking made it hotter.

Little Timmy would earnestly begin flapping his pathetically scrawny legs against the side of the horse.

The horse, of course, would ignore him.

“Kick harder,” I’d say. “Pretend he’s your little brother or something.”

“But I don’t have a little brother!” Little Timmy would say, giggling. Of course, being a child it was impossible for him to talk and pull on the reins at the same time, so the horse continued edging closer to me and MY SHADE.

“Then pretend he’s someone you don’t like. I don’t care who. Just make him move.”

Little Timmy would obediently begin tapping his legs against the horse. Again, he’d be completely ignored. When you weigh forty-five pounds and you’re already doing the splits, your horse-kicking abilities are kind of useless.

“Go away,” I’d say moodily to the horse, who by this time was crowding me in my precious shade, heating up my personal bubble with his sticky, hot breath.

The horse would move off. When you’re 170 pounds and have firmly established your superiority in the past, you don’t really need horse-kicking abilities.

I’d reclaim my spot in silence, sweat collecting and dripping down the front of bra, doing my best to discretely peel my hot, polyester granny-panties away from my bum and let in some air.

Little Susie’s horse would round the corner, picking up its pace as it saw me, and the process would begin again.

Arena rides were just shy of AN HOUR LONG. I’d like to slap the person who came up with that time frame.

One of the horses that we had that first summer was a cute little chestnut named Bobby Sox. Deep coppery red, 14.3 hh with a pleasant expression topped by pony-sized ears, a big blaze and four white socks, he was remarkably attractive for a string horse. I never got the chance to know him all that well, mostly because I never tried. It may be juvenile of me, but I resented him for trying to take kill me the first time I really interacted with him. After injuring himself on the trailer, Bobby Sox had been in “isolation” in a private stall for the first few weeks he’d been with us. We’d cleaned and fed him but hadn’t messed around with him until his knee had finished healing. As the season was about to kick off, I decided to hop up on him and see what kind of horse was hiding behind that fancy packaging. Into his stall I went with a halter. Three seconds later I was lunging over the top of the fence, only a few feet in front of angry, violent, charging horse.

The second I was out of his pen, his murderous expression instantly rearranged back into his normally friendly facade and he wandered back to the front of his stall.

I put my hand on the gate, warily opening it. Bobby Sox flicked a glance at me, then looked away in disinterest.

My hand holding the halter came into view as I slipped inside, and Bobby Sox immediately pinned his ears and began to rush me. This time I was ready for him and I swung the halter over my head with a violent shout, giving him a good one as the heavy halter whacked him across the face. He snorted and spun, and I followed it up by chasing him around the stall a couple of times, making certain he really understood where I was coming from. It may not have been the most trainer-approved method of getting things done, but it worked for me. I slipped on his halter and brought him out to the tie rail, and then radioed my boss. The string horses we were supposed to get where SUPPOSEDLY kid-safe and people friendly. Bobby Sox had proven to be anything but that. We called up the people we were leasing him from and got the low-down.

To make a long story short, it turns out that Bobby Sox was actually VERY kid-safe and VERY people friendly. He was just low man on the totem pole in the herd and had also never been in a stall before. Having the freedom to eat his hay whenever he wanted and however he wanted wasn’t a luxury he was ready to give up, so when I came in with a halter he did his darndest to keep that from happening. Once we turned him back out with he herd he immediately settled right in, and soon became a staff favorite.

Except for me. After watching him try to turn me into minced-Becky I never really trusted him.

Still, I knew that he was a perfect babysitter for the arena rides, so I usually ended up requesting him whenever it was my turn to run the arena. On the day in question I had used him 3 times in a row. This meant that except for a 20 minute water break in between rides, Bobby Sox had been plodding in a near-comatose state around the arena for almost 3 hours.

I was drifting off in a day dream (probably thinking about ice cream, or cold Dr. Peppers, or swimming in a cold pool) when I heard a sudden scream from one of the kids. Usually the screams were preceded by the sound of horse hooves— if one of the horses did end up spooking at something, it would usually try to take advantage of the confusion by trotting back to the gate and MY shade, which would inevitably prompt screaming from whatever kid was bouncing around on top. This time, however, I hadn’t heard a sound. It took a second for me to see what was going on, but finally I zeroed in. Bobby Sox’s knees were trembling, and he was slowly sinking down to roll in the sand. This wasn’t the first time one of the horses tried to roll with a kid on them. Every once in a long while one of the horses would surprise us by doing this.

“KICK FREE OF YOUR STIRRUPS AND JUMP OFF!” I ran towards the two of them, visions of squished kid and lawsuits dancing before my eyes.

Naturally, the kid did not kick free, but clung to the saddle horn frozen in horror.

Bobby Sox dropped to the ground with a grunt, thankfully pausing before he flopped over. I reached them in time, grabbing the kid by the back of his shirt and hauling him up off the horse.

Bobby Sox groaned long and deep.

The other kids in the arena ride began to clamor in high pitched, shrill voices. “What’s wrong with that horse? What’s wrong with him?! Is he sick? Is he dying? What’s wrong with him? I want down! Get me down! Is he dying?”

And then Bobby Sox did something I really didn’t expect.

Instead of rolling completely over and thrashing/scratching himself in the arena sand, he groaned even deeper, lay his head flat against the sand, and closed his eyes.

I stared at him in disbelief. Was he asleep?

“Is he dead? HE’S DEAD! WHAT’S WRONG WITH HIM?!”

I walked carefully over to Bobby Sox. Most horses who don’t know you will jump up if you approach them while they’re laying down.

Bobby Sox was not most horses. Not only did he not jump up, he didn’t even bother to open his eyes.

“He’s just sleeping guys. He’s fine. Don’t worry. Watch, I’ll wake him up!” I said in a falsely cheerful voice. I kicked a little sand onto his red belly, expecting an explosion.

Nothing.

I kicked a little more sand onto his belly, watching his closed eyelids.

Still nothing. His breathing was deep and even.

“Is he sick? Why isn’t he waking up?! I want down!”

Annoyed, I reached down and grabbed his reins, tugging slightly.

He stayed motionless, but I swear I saw him close his eyes even tighter.

“HEY!” I said loudly, popping him in the mouth with the reins. I mean, after all— I couldn’t have him learning that it was okay to just roll over on kids whenever he felt like it.

Nothing.

“I SAID HEY!” I popped him again, kicking sand on his belly at the same time.

Bobby Sox opened his eyes briefly, glanced at me furtively, then slammed them shut again.

Annoyed that I had to do this in front of the kids, I gave him a little kick in the belly. He grunted and raised his head, gave me a very nasty look, and then lowered it back to the sand.

“Don’t kick him! Why are you kicking him?!?! He’s sick! Leave him alone!” Shrill voices became even shriller. I didn’t even bother explaining it to them. Don’t mind me, kiddies. I’m just your neighborhood horse abuser.

Enough was enough. “GET UP!!!” I hollered, slamming my foot into his belly. With a sullen grunt, Bobby Sox slowly clambered to his feet, shaking off the sand sticking to his wet hide. He shot me a grumpy look, looking for all the world like a teenager being forced to wake up early on a Saturday.

Ignoring the angry, anguished cries of the other riders I turned to the distraught kid by my side, and smiled widely, trying to seem comforting and cheerful. “Upsy-daisy! Time to get back on!” Time to get back on your lazy, stubborn horse. Yaaay!

Stupid Bobby Sox. I never used him again in one of my arena rides. Trying to explain to a dozen concerned parents why you were kicking/abusing injured animals was not something I wanted to do more than once. Seriously, though— what a weird, quirky little horse. I wonder what he’s up to today.

I miss my idiot thoroughbred.

Don’t get me wrong— I loved Catarina. She was my first horse. How could I not love her, especially after all the years I spent hungering after a horse of my own? From the time I was able to talk, I was obsessed with horses. Breyer ponies, my little ponies, plastic horses of any no-name brand… the memories of my childhood circle around the times I spent living life through their plastic, unseeing eyes. They each had names and personalities, and the Barbies in my household only existed as a backdrop for the endless, ongoing dramas I always created for my herd:

Would the new foals survive the harsh winter? Would Apache fall in love with King? Oh, no! The new stallion Dark Magic was captured by the evil humans! But, wait! He jumped the 9 foot enclosure and escaped back to the herd!)

When I was 8 years old, my parents told me that if I kept up my straight A’s until the time I was 16, they would buy me a car. I immediately shot back, “What about a horse instead?”

I don’t think they really thought things through when they said yes. Maybe they thought I would grow up, grow out of my “horsey” phase?

Yeah, right.

Don’t get me wrong, when 16 hit, I knew how lucky I was to be able to have a horse. Living in the city, owning a horse was more than we could afford. But somehow, we managed. After countless hours on the internet researching exactly what to do, and how to avoid being sold a lemon, I owned my first horse. She was beautiful—an 8 year old liver chestnut, quarter horse mare that was sweet, willing, and completely beginner safe.

By the time I got her off the trailer to our new home, she’d turned into a 13 year old mare of unknown breeding (Quarter horse/arab/morgan/pony?) that had severe neck and back problems and had probably foundered severely in the past. She was also completely apathetic about my existence. The only thing I did luck out in was that she was the most bomb-proof, forgiving horse I’ve ever met. Nothing phased her, and I went from being a complete beginner to being able to doing everything I could dream of doing— sidepass at a canter, riding with no reins, riding for hours bareback… she was even trained to stop and stand still whenever I fell off. In retrospect, I think she might have been charro broke, which accounts for her lack of interest, and completely emotionless, indifference to the passionate love I had for her. Even worse, she was unsound/completely lame more often than not. After years of the frustration of owning a horse and rarely riding, I decided it was time to get a new one.

Enter Jubilee.

After so much time staring at a hobbling, hurting, horse, I did the only thing I knew how in order to avoid purchasing another broken-down horse: I hunted for a horse with the floatiest, free-est, non-limpy-gate I could find. With all that I could do on Catarina when she was well, I knew I could handle anything in terms of training. A four year old thoroughbred with only six months off the track, Jubilee brought me back to reality. I thought I was an experienced rider— it turns out that my mare was just an experienced teacher, and I was still completely green. It only took 1 day for me to realize just how little I knew.

I approached him in my normally hasty manner (forget a leisurely grooming! I was going to get a chance to RIDE!) and whipped out the flyspray bottle, starting with his face. He immediately pulled back, setting back and snapping his leadrope, then hitting the back of his head on an overhanging roof behind him. He began slinging his head from side to side, the horse-equivalent of, “OUCH!”

I was horrified. I didn’t even know that such a thing as “setting back” existed, and I didn’t know what to do. I froze, and then sidled up to him carefully, fully expecting another explosion. I placed my hand on his neck, speaking softly. He stiffened his skinny neck, holding it stiff and high, almost perpendicular to his ridiculously high withers. I continued talking softly, giving him a chance to think. He stared at me with bright glassy eyes for a few moments, then licked and chewed, dropped his head, and pressed his forehead flat against my chest. My first horse hug. “Fix it,” he seemed to be saying.

My heart crumbled.

I’d like to say we had a perfect relationship after that, but life doesn’t really happen that way. He was still 4 years old and fresh from the track, and I was still a beginner rider. In fact, we never got along all that great in the saddle. He was a stereotypical thoroughbred in all the best and worst ways— one day off, and it was back to square one. He was sweet, but not the brightest crayon in the box when it came to retaining information.

But when it came to an on-the-ground relationship, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel about a horse the way I did about Jubilee. Maybe it’s because he was did such a terrible job at being a horse— when turned out with a herd, he always stood about 20 yards outside of it, pathetically uncomfortable and vaguely lonely. He was just as socially inept as I was, and something about his inability to feel like part of the crowd clicked with me.

I spent hours just hanging out in his stall, reading books, feeding him hay one stalk at a time, braiding, braiding, and re-braiding his mane and tail. I learned that while his high withers made bareback riding impossibly uncomfortable, they created a little hollow that fit my face perfectly, and whenever I cried there, I felt comforted. I’m surprised I didn’t wear that little patch of hair away from all the hours I spent leaning into him, breathing in his healing scent.

Jubilee was there for me when my grandfather died. My grandma and I had been able to give my grandpa his wish— he died at home, surrounded by family. But dying is rarely as clean as it is in the movies, and after months of round-the-clock care and a heartwrenching final week of listening to him slowly drown from smoking-induced emphysema, I felt fragile. Brittle. Empty. Unable to cry. Unable to sleep. So I did what I’ve always done when I’m troubled. I drove to the stables.

I’ve always loved the stables best at night. There’s a peace and a quiet that just can’t be found during the day. Jubilee was long-since used to my unusual hours, and he came out to greet me. It was cold, and his breath curled out in plumes from his nose. I buried my hands beneath his mane, trying to warm them. Then I buried my face in that niche, and felt myself release whatever it was that was holding me back. I cried. I cried. And then I cried some more. I think my cheeks even went to sleep, I cried so long and so hard, and I don’t know how long I would have continued if I hadn’t heard something.

Jubilee nickered.

I’d heard him beg for food before, but this sound was different. It was the same sound a mare makes when calling to her foal. Deep, warm, and filled with reassurance. Startled out of my sobs, I pulled back, and saw him staring at me, ears pricked. He lipped my sleeve, and nickered again. Something about it made me laugh through my tears, and regain my composure. “I’m fine, Jubie. I’m fine.” .

That was the only time I ever heard that sound from him, and frankly, it was the only time I ever needed it. I ended up having to sell him a couple of years later, and it’s something I still regret. I wish I had the money to keep him. I hope he’s okay. He was an idiot, but he was my idiot thoroughbred, and I miss him.

Addendum (7-30-10): I wonder where Jubilee is, sometimes. I hope he’s doing okay. I know he wasn’t the easiest horse to ride or care for, and I have a deep seated fear that he’ll go to auction/kill buyer one day. I wish I had kept tabs on him after I sold him so I can rescue him from that fate one day. I saw an expired ad (about 6 weeks old) on a Fresno Craigslist selling him, but I couldn’t track him down at all.

That said, here is his information, in case his owner, wherever he/she may be, ever decides to google him and wants to know more about where he came from.

Breed: Thoroughbred
Barn Name: Jubilee
Registered name: Barbco
Dam: Cheerco
Sire: Barb’s Relic
Birthdate: May 1995 (I *think* it was May 23, 1995. It could have been May 27, 1995)
Description: 15.2 hh, Chestnut gelding, 4 white stockings, blaze. The stocking is highest on his front left leg, and gradually get smaller as you go clockwise. Two silver-dollar size scars on his croup. Old scar in the shape of an X on his front knee. Parrot mouth. Hard keeper. Sweetheart on the ground, nervous under saddle. Plays with his bit incessantly. Grinds his teeth when he’s nervous or frustrated. Unbelievably, stupidly high withers. Used to be very, very loved.
Tattoo: I really, really wish I had thought to write it down. I *think* it starts with Y8, but I can’t really remember 🙁

And here is my blatantly obvious attempt to try and make this post come up higher in the listings:

Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco Jubilee Barbco Thoroughbred TB Gelding May 1995 Chestnut blaze socks stockings Jubilee Barbco

Yeah. Miss my horse. (And I’m totally cheating on this Sunday Still’s assignment… which was “Motion” in case you didn’t know. I didn’t take these photos at all. Photo credits go to baitisj of baitisj.blogspot.com. I know it destroys the whole idea of the Sunday Stills being photos you’ve actually taken, but I just wanted to share these again.)

As I only have a little bit of time before I’m due to go to a REALLY cool Junior Lifeguard event, I decided that my time would best be spent writing a quick blog that very few people actually read.

To make matters worse, it’s not even going to be a real blog. It’s really just going to be a series of pictures, accompanied by a few whiny paragraphs from me.

As some of you may recall, I’m trying to sell my friend’s horses for her. She’s gone from showing Paints into cutters. For you non-riders, a “cutter” is a horse that you ride to herd cattle about an arena. Basically, you try to separate one steer out of the herd, which usually ends up being a rather cool-looking face off between you and the cow. It’s a trip to watch, and I’m sure it’s even more fun to ride (I’m not nearly good enough to stay on a cutter yet… those horses are QUICK!)

Here’s a quick photo, in case you’re curious what it looks like:

So, anyways, since she’s shifting her focus, she needs to get rid of excess horses that don’t follow her program. As I’m not paying any of her bills, I can’t really complain, even though I think she’s getting rid of the best of her herd.

So, where was I? Oh, yes. Whining.

Now, I don’t really want her to sell any of the horses that she’s selling. They’re all incredibly well-trained (beginner-safe), gorgeous, intelligent, personality galore, etc, etc, etc…. Being me, of course, I’ve fallen completely in love with all of them.

And I’ve fallen especially hard for her filly, Snickerdoodle. (I’ve dubbed her “The Doodle”.)

This filly is barely a yearling, and is already showing signs of maturing to about sixteen hands. As I’m 5’9″ barefoot, I usually look a little silly on the short horses I normally choose to ride. In fact, my friend who I’m selling the horses for says I usually pick horses that make me look like a monkey riding a football.

Anyways, while it’s completely impractical of me to fall head-over-heels for the only non-rideable, untrained horse in the herd…. Well, that’s exactly what I’ve done.

CAN YOU BLAME ME? Look at her! She’s stunning! Have you ever seen a prettier yearling? They’re usually gawky, clumsy, and all out-of-proportion. She’s a little thin in these photos, because despite the massive amount of feed she’s getting, she’s in the middle of a growth spurt. Both mama and grandma have a solid muscularity, so I’ve no doubt that she’ll bulk up as well. Look at her! That mane! That blue eye! That round hip!

I’m such a sucker for blue eyes. I know it’s really shallow, but hey. I’m allowed to be shallow. And she has the prettiest blue eye on such a pretty little head, doesn’t she? And that forelock… that thing is going to be down past her nose in just a year or two. Every horse I’ve ever had has only managed to grow little tufts.

To make matters even better, this filly has BRAINS. In fact, she probably has too much brains for a rider like me (not that I’m letting it interfere with my fantasy). She’s the daughter of an alpha mare, who is the daughter of an alpha mare, who is the daughter of an alpha mare…. Needless to say, she’s already displaying classic alpha mare signs (nothing pissy, just a steady stubbornness that shows that you need to be two steps ahead of her at all times.) That’s not really that great a thing to have in a mare, but I get the feeling if you could manage to stay those two steps ahead… What a partner this filly would make! BRAINS! I am drawn to horses with brains, after the six years of my life I spent trying to convince my off-the-track thoroughbred that he had some.

This is one of the steadiest little horses I’ve ever been around. I get the feeling that, with a personality like hers, she’ll be completely steady until you ask her to do something she doesn’t want to do…. Then, if my guess is correct, you would probably have to prove to her that you are THE BOSS before she took another step. I haven’t actually reached this stubborn point with her yet, simply because (so far) the filly has shown an incredible willingness to learn/work. Because my friend is so overworked, this filly has basically just been sitting out on pasture since she was weaned. When I took her out of her pasture/stall for the first time in months, I only worked her in the round pen for about twenty minutes before I decided to drag her down to the river for her FIRST INTRODUCTION TO WATER, EVER. You horse-people know what that usually means. For you non-horsey people…. Water, because of a horse’s difficult with depth-perception, can be a difficult fear for a horse to face. The horse can’t really see the bottom beneath the surface, so it doesn’t really know if it’s stepping into a 50 foot lake, or a shallow puddle. Coaxing a horse to follow you into water can sometimes create quite a “battle”. (No, I don’t really battle horses, but that’s just a good descriptive term.)

Anyway, this photo is actually from the filly’s second day with water, but this is exactly what the first day was like:

No fear, no tantrums, no nothing. Just a calm, intelligent curiosity. Like I said, I’m head-over-heels in love with her. To make matters worse, my friend ACTUALLY OFFERED HER TO ME, COMPLETELY FREE, because she knows how taken I am with this filly. Saying no was was one the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I’m sure I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. but I just can’t afford a horse right now. Besides, I don’t have the time for a baby. There’s just no time between school and work. Julia from MoodSwingsinMedSchool…. I feel your pain. When will we ever friggin‘ graduate, and be able to satisfy our desire for a horse of our own? It feels like NEVER!

I don’t want to sell this filly. I don’t. I don’t want to market her, and I don’t want someone to buy her for the RIDICULOUSLY low price my friend is asking for her. Did you see her mane? Did I mention that it is equally full on both sides of her neck??? Have you ever seen a yearling with a mane this long? I haven’t.

I know it looks a little scraggly here, but I’d just brushed it out for the first time in months. This filly appears to be growing more mane than the Andalusian that lives in the nearby ranch. And since I usually spend at least half my time brushing and decorating my horses as if they were some kind of expensive Barbie… well… She’s made for me! She really is! And I just can’t afford her right now! Dag-freakin‘-nabit!

She’s greying out already, so by the time she’s two or three, she’s going to be white. A white horse with a luxurious mane and tale, one brown eye and one blue. Gorgeous. I know I sound incredibly shallow, but oh well. I just can’t help it… I’m totally gone on this little filly. Oh, and before anyone complains that she will be a “gray” horse rather than a “white”… I say “white” instead of grey, because she’s got so little actual color on her that even if she does go flea-bitten, it will hardly be noticeable. Her dam is a very finicky horse, and she passed it onto her daughter. They don’t roll in mud, and they even poop in a little pile in one corner of the stall. How cool is that?

And, since I actually have photos of mom and dad…. here you go.

Mom (Twistin Purrfectly)

Loping:

Pleasure-horse jog… so well-trained, no hands needed:

Backing up:

Dad (RR Risky Rebel):

And, simply because I can….

Here’s a picture of Grandma:

So, there you go. Coming from intelligent stock like that, I know that this filly’s apparent intelligence, work ethic, and beauty is not going to fade.

If anybody reading this blog would like to suddenly donate a pasture for me to keep the filly in for the next two or three years, you’d be my all-time best friend! Or, for that matter… if anybody would like to give me a fair price for one of my kidneys, I’m up for that as well. I mean, I have two of them. Anyone? Any takers?