Yesterday's "Ride"

This fine chunk of horseflesh is Gideon, aka Fabio. If I spend too much time talking about how hard this horse is to ride, it will sound like I'm complaining, and that's just small of me considering how lucky I am to have horses at all, but lord this horse is hard to ride. And not because he's naughty. He's about the sweetest animal you're ever going to come across - just look at the kindness in that eye alone. He's a pleaser. But actually sitting him - ay, there's the rub. It's kind of like riding an upholstered, overstuffed barrel - one that galumphs along like a 16 hand dump truck with hooves. And feelings.

So yesterday was a beauty and I had a short time before dinner and thought it might be fun to take a brief tour of the property from the back of a horse, which I am often wont to do. And I was in a hurry. And I was feeling lazy. So I ran down there, snatched the bridle, and set off without changing into my proper riding attire. Long pants and boots with heels people! Always long pants and boots with heels!

It started out fine, though Gideon threw a little buck in when we cantered up the hill and down the field toward the neighbor's deer plot, so I knew he was feeling good. Have I mentioned that I ride this horse bareback? I'm still looking for a draft saddle that fits him. At any rate, once we hit the deer plot, which is of course the farthest point from the farm, Gideon spotted some - wait for it - deer. Now deer around these parts aren't exactly exotics. I mean, the neighbors set out food for them in this specific spot. It wasn't like we were accosted by panthers or minotaurs. But Gideon still spooked, and he spooked in exactly the same way he does everything else: slowly and methodically. At which time I fell off. Slowly and methodically. And before I knew it I was sitting there blinking in the weeds with a hunk of curly flaxen mane clenched in my fist while Gideon nonchalantly grazed, not acting the least bit embarrassed by wanting to run away from other prey animals.

I've always prided myself on being able to jump on to my horses from the ground, but until now, my horses have also always been in the 15 hand range, and built like normal horses, not sofas. So with no stumps around, I wasn't getting on this one any time soon. So, it became apparent that I was going back to the farm unhorsed, or as my sister would say, walking my dinosaur.

And that was when my darling Belgian, because he has hooves the size of dinner plates, stepped on the back of my heel and snapped my croc right in half - YES I WAS WEARING CROCS. AND CAPRI YOGA PANTS. NOW YOU KNOW MY SHAME. So there I was, stranded, half-shoeless. With my dinosaur. The neighbors do mow the edge of the field, which is very nice of them, because the rest of it is filled with nettles and sharp, hard prickly things, and I was getting by okay hobbling along this lawn-like swath until we interrupted a skunk - yes, a skunk - snuffling along the path. You would think a skunk wouldn't care one way or another whether or not he was on a designated path or wild CRP land, but what do I know about skunks? And let me tell you I wasn't getting into any kind of showdown with this one. Trying to out-wait a skunk for mowed-path rights is kind of like having a Cold War with Russia; the actual lack of physical engagement doesn't lessen the anxiety any.

Needless to say we lost that particular game of chicken, and Gideon and I backed away slowly from Pepe LePew and trudged home through the weeds, thereby leaving my calves and ankles a mess of scrapes, scratches and hopefully not covered in poison oak.

When I told my house mates this sorry tale last night, I asked for a moral to the story. To me it seemed obvious (all caps and italicized up there in case it's not clear) but see, that's why it's always good to ask, because my sister came up with one just as good: always carry a tiny ladder with you wherever you go.