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Regional,
Monthly All-Breed Horse Magazine • Since 1993 |
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Copyright 2011 Rocky Mountain Rider. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Reproduction of any editorial material, artwork and photos is strictly forbidden without express written permission of the publisher. For information about reprint rights, please contact the editor; editor@rockymountainrider.com.
Possum’s pasture on the little ranch above town was about a mile from
our house, but I happily hiked up there every day after school to see my beloved
horse. At first the rancher, Mr. Kohl, helped me catch him. Possum didn’t want
to be caught and he’d kick up his heels and head for the far corner whenever
he saw someone coming with a halter or bridle. Mr. Kohl and I would corner him
by the barn fence.
After a few days, however, I was able to catch him by myself. I was very
patient and it didn’t matter to me if there were a few moments (or even half
an hour) of cat-and-mouse games before he allowed himself to be caught. I was
never in a hurry, never got angry. I was in love with that horse.
Maybe my lack of frustration and my easy-going attitude had an effect on
the old horse. He realized I would just keep following him around until he gave
in. He no longer trotted off to the far corner when I came to ride him.
Maybe because he had such easy work, he didn’t mind the riding. I never
rode him very fast, and our lazy sojourns around the edge of town and up the
mountain were never strenuous, and I often let him stop to graze along the way.
Possum began to look forward to our rides, coming to meet me at the gate
whenever he saw me.
The hardest part, for me, was putting his bridle on. I was short and he
was tall. If he held his head up high, I couldn’t reach it. So I taught him to
put his head down low, by giving him a handful of really lush grass or alfalfa,
which he loved. Then I could slip the bridle on. There were some clumps of green
alfalfa growing along the lane to Mr. Kohl’s house, and I always picked some
on my way to Possum’s pasture. Getting
on him was also difficult, since I didn’t have a saddle and was always riding
bareback. I was too short to reach up and grab his mane and swing on, like I’d
seen bigger kids do, so I had to lead him up to a fence, stump or some other
object I could climb onto and then slip onto his back. I often used the wooden
gate into his pasture.
After school was out for summer I had more time to ride, and I’d
usually spend the whole day with Possum. I had to clean my room and wash dishes
first, but then I could hurry off to Mr. Kohl’s place. I’d ride all morning,
ending up at our house for lunch, where I’d let him graze in the back yard.
Mom or Dad would boost me back on so I could ride again all afternoon.
My “twin” cousin and best friend (Diane Moser, who was born the same
day I was) sometimes rode with me. We rode double, spending hours along the
quiet back streets at the upper end of town or in the hills.
Occasionally we were adventuresome and took longer rides, like the time
we rode out past the other end of town to visit a friend who lived on a ranch.
The biggest problem with these extended excursions was finding a way to get back
on Possum if we ever got off. One of us could boost the other one up, but then
the second person had no way to get on, and had to walk until we found a fence
or something else to climb onto.
Necessity is the mother of invention, and I figured out a way to get on
Possum without a fence. He and I worked out a system. I’d lead him to a good
grassy area, and while he had his head down grazing, I straddled his neck,
facing his withers. Then he’d raise his head and I’d slide and wiggle to his
back, turning around to proper mounted position. Possum didn’t mind, so that
problem was solved.
Diane and I also worked out a way to take turns sitting in front. It was
always more fun to be the “driver,” in control of the horse, deciding where
to go. The person behind was merely a passenger. But we had to be able to switch
places without getting off the horse. Diane wasn’t brave enough to try the
get-on-the-neck trick. So the person in front would scrunch down and scoot
backward while the person behind would carefully go over the top of her and end
up in front. Possum was patient and stood still, so we could do it safely.
He was accustomed to children and all their antics by this stage of his
life and was a perfect babysitter. There were times I left him in the backyard
at Moser’s house, and all the neighborhood children came to see him. They’d
pet him, walk under his belly, or run up behind him while he was tied or
grazing, and he didn’t mind. He never spooked, kicked or bit. Even my mom
finally quit worrying about the possibility of an accident.
The only “accident” that happened that summer occurred when there
were no people around, and it taught me an important lesson. I occasionally rode
with another young friend who had a mare named Dolly. That particular day, Janet
and I had ridden for several hours and stopped at my house to go inside and have
some lemonade, since it was a very hot day. We tied the two horses by their
bridle reins to an old power pole lying on the ground behind our garage, in the
shade, next to the street.
The horses stood there patiently for about an hour as we talked and
rested in the house. Then suddenly we heard a loud banging sound. We rushed
outside to check on the horses and found that the big power pole had been pulled
out into the street. The neighbor’s garbage can was rolling down the street.
Possum and Dolly were galloping away, heading downtown.
We ran after the horses and finally caught them. Dolly’s bridle was
broken and Possum’s headstall was completely off. I found it lying in the road
with the metal bit bent and smashed, where the power pole had rolled over it. I
tied the broken reins around Possum’s neck to lead him back home.
Something had startled the horses, and one or both of them pulled
backward. Since the pole was merely lying on the ground, it probably moved when
the horses pulled back, rolling toward them and frightening them even more. So
of course they tried to run away from it, and pulled it out into the road,
knocking over the garbage can and the clatter must have made them pull even
harder! They broke their bridles and ran off. My dad had to take Possum’s
bridle to the saddle shop to have Mr. Stone straighten the bit and mend the
reins and headstall.
I learned a lesson that day. Never tie a horse by the bridle reins, and
never tie to anything that might move. Possum got over his scare and was still
well-mannered about being tied up, but if this had happened to a younger, more
nervous horse, this bad experience might have ruined the training, making the
horse untrustworthy for tying in the future. I tried to never do anything that
foolish again.
[to
be continued] Readers:
Can you relate to this story? Go to “Forum For Horse People” at www.rockymountainrider.com. Tell us about your childhood experiences
with your first horse.
Heather
Smith Thomas is the author of numerous articles and 20 books. She and her
husband ranch near Salmon, Heather’s
blog online is: heathersmiththomas.blogspot.com.
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Rocky
Mountain Rider Magazine • Montana Owned & Operated |
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