Horse People

 

Several months ago, I saw a spat of unhappy X posts because “horse people” were judging a “cowboy romance” in which it was, apparently, very obvious that the author had never been around horses or horse people. “What is a horse person?” one angry book fan wrote. “As if that’s a thing.”

It is a thing, and not the elitist thing you’re thinking.

This angry author-defender likely had visions of spoiled private school girls in mind…and, even if some them are intolerable brats, most of them are horse people, too. But that’s not what I think of when I ponder on the term. And us horse people as a whole? We’re our own breed of weirdo.

My first request, at four-years-old, was for a horse of my own. I at one point said, at the laughing goads of relatives, that I’d trade my own dad for a horse. I wouldn’t have, usually, but it was this viscerally, enigmatic impulse I possessed from birth. I wanted to be a jockey (not eventually.) I wanted a horse of my own. A farm of my own. It was the only concrete thing, aside from a pickup truck, that I wanted with such a bone-deep, aching sort of nostalgia. (It’d be nice to have a husband, now, but that won’t happen.)

Why? I couldn’t tell you in specifics, despite being an author who’s pumped out something like ten million words.

Most little girls, and a fair many little boys, love the idea of having a pony.

But then there’s the horse people. It’s an addiction. It’s a need. It’s a phase that’ll never end.

I could write you a novel about why I’m a horse person, and why all the horses I’ve known and loved had reinforced that; why all the incredible, non-famous horse people I’ve known have reinforced it further.

But I think at its core, universally, across breed and discipline, that, for some of us, horses call to this deep, hard-to-touch longing that lives in some of us. The equestrian/ranching life sings to a personal, melancholy part of us that’s always looking toward sunrises and sunsets. It’s something bigger than us. It’s our communion with God. It’s the thirst for knowledge and the love of absolute beauty all rolled together.

In my experience, horse people love stories. We love legends – and legacy. It’s about something so much bigger than us, that will far outlive us. It’s history. Centuries of history.

I want to kiss my girls’ noses at night, but it’s so much more than that. We’re carrying on a tradition of the world that we hope won’t someday be lost.

It’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to describe, and maybe someday I’ll get it right.

(Also, don't hesitate to reach out to a horse person if you're doing book research! We're all over, but especially Facebook)

Ruminations: The Wild Charge

My "favorite scenes" Insta post yesterday put me right back in the thick of The Wild Charge. I've had immense difficulty concentrating while writing this week, so maybe a little walk down memory lane will help. 

If you haven't read The Wild Charge, turn back now, because I will be posting spoilers. You can grab it HERE if you're ready to dive into book nine of the Dartmoor Series. 

#ThrowbackThursday: Markus

 

TFW Facebook sucker punches you with one of those "remember this?" posts and you have to go blog about your man-eating horse.

***

Patrick said, "There's this horse I want you to go see."

He was the farrier who'd worked miracles with Cosmo's dinner plate feet, and he knew it had been a year since I'd been able to ride anything other than lesson horses. I trusted his judgement, and he knew the horse I'd tried to lease had been an absolute nightmare. "Okay, tell me about him," I said. 

The horse was a 17.2hh imported Dutch warmblood gelding. "He's big and old school, like Cosmo," Patrick said, "and he knows all the tricks through Prix St. George. His owner wants to sell him, but I told her all about you and your situation, and she's willing to lease him to you to start." 

"Sounds too good to be true," I said. "What's wrong with him?"

He folded his arms over the wash rack divider and said, "I think y'all will be a good match. I think you'll get along with him real well."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I think he'll like you."

"Patrick, what's wrong with him?"

He grinned. "Just go see him. What've you got to lose?"

Nothing. I had nothing to lose, and it turned out that we really did get along. 

I came to discover that he'd been for sale for six years; that he'd thrown a woman through a fence; that he was so well trained, in fact, and particular about his rider, that if he didn't like you, he was going to smash the eject button - and it's a long way down when a 17.2hh horse bucks you off. I met someone who'd test ridden him, and she scoffed and said, "I tried him, and he's not very nice," while she slopped around on a friend's horse like a split-open bag of oatmeal. 

He was out of shape when I met him, recovering from a pasture injury, quiet and lazy, and that was fine with me. After the Sparky fiasco, I wanted a little quiet and lazy, and I had tons of experience with sports rehab after Cosmo. 

It was probably two months before I saw the real Markus. We'd been plodding along, doing our little strengthening exercises. I would free lunge him in the arena because he wasn't strong enough to lunge in tight circles on the line. I ran around the inside of that 100'x200' arena with a whip that I never used; he was content to run with me, keeping right on the rail the whole time. One night, after dark, under the lights, after all the boarders had gone home, I was working him like that when all of that slow rehab work came to fruition. I had him trotting down the long side, trying not to trip and fall on my face in the sand, when he made this great roaring sound like a dragon, lifted his back, tucked his head, and started to float. From plow horse to dressage horse in a blink, and then he shook his mane and elevated some more, like he was saying, "Yeah, I still got it." I turned toward my Mom standing in the doorway of the barn and shouted, "Are you seeing this??" The horse that nobody else wanted was dancing for me. 

He was a powerhouse. Not a prancy mover, but a strong one. He kicked at my trainer, and he kicked at a judge in the booth at a show, and I never had one moment's doubt that if I yelled for him, he'd come surer and meaner than any guard dog. When I was talking to workmen at the farm, he ran the fence, screaming and pawing until I got on the other side of him, so he was between them and me, and only then would he graze quietly. He would stomp a dog if given the chance, and it wouldn't have shocked me if he'd killed a man in a past life; he sure hated them at any rate. 

I don't believe that God's going to put the "right man" in my path - he'd have to find one who didn't tell me how physically ugly I am to my face, and that hasn't happened yet - but I believe he sent that horse to me. That we needed each other. When I tell people that I owned an imported grand prix jumper and dressage horse from the Netherlands, they think I'm wealthy. *Snort* I paid next to nothing for Markus, and his sweet owner even let me make monthly payments on him. 

I miss you every day, my Widowmaker. Thanks for haunting Kit Kat - but could you lend her a little caution so she doesn't poke out her other eye? That'd be swell, bud. xoxo