Dream horse

 
I was a horsy little girl, meaning I was obsessed with anything Horse, and even owned a horse/pony for a couple of years, until he was just too expensive to keep. This means I'm condemned to forever-longing, because it's not practical for me to ride unless I am willing to drive to Langley (1 1/2 hours round-trip) and pay fifty bucks an hour to go on an unfamiliar trail with an iffy horse. They also took one look at me and told me I needed at least an hour of refresher lessons before they would let me even get on. And forget about Caitlin, who took to horses just as easily and naturally as my daughter did: she would need at least 8 weeks. Ching.

So. No more horses, except the horses of the mind that have probably kept me from going completely crazy in my life (with a few exceptions).

For years I loved Arabians, as most little girls seem to, but now I see them as too exaggeratedly pretty, the forehead so broad and the muzzle so teeny it seems almost silly. The "jibbah" or dished shape of the head has become nearly ridiculous.  Perhaps this is public demand causing breeders to go for a My Little Pony look.

But there is no doubt that tipping a little Arab sauce into the mix can fire up equine genes, and it amazes me to see the Arabiform (my word) sculpted head and fine muzzle even in chunkier breeds.

All right, I'm working up to something here. I began to see pictures of this breed on Facebook not long ago, and was startled, not so much by the conformation as the coat. I felt I was looking at something like a Tennessee Walker with a very long, flexible neck, sleek body and impossibly high head carriage, but the forequarters were rippling with muscle like those of a Quarter Horse or even a Morgan. And then there was that supernaturally-glowing, metallic coat, as if the horse had been airbrushed with some sort of  platinum-based spray paint.

Not that I didn't love it.

This was a horse in silver and gold, a very ancient breed called an Akhal Teke. I had never heard of it before, but I was intrigued by the fact that  the legendary Byerly Turk, one of the three foundation sires of the Thoroughbred breed, may have been an Akhal.

I was always told the Arabian was "it", the fountainhead, the source of all horsedom, particularly the racehorse, but maybe "they" were wrong. These guys look more like the ancient representations of horses in stone friezes. No one would need to hold this horse's head up.

The Akhal-Teke (/ˌækəlˈtɛk/ or /ˌækəlˈtɛki/; from Turkmen Ahalteke, [ahalˈteke]) is a horse breed from Turkmenistan, where they are a national emblem.^[1] They have a reputation for speed and endurance, intelligence, and a distinctive metallic sheen. The shiny coat of palominos and buckskins led to their nickname "Golden Horses".^[2] These horses are adapted to severe climatic conditions and are thought to be one of the oldest existing horse breeds.^[3] There are currently about 6,600 Akhal-Tekes in the world, mostly in Turkmenistan and Russia, although they are also found throughout Europe and North America.^[4]

These horses know they're beautiful, sort of like cats do, and who can blame them? I'm interested in the fact that they were crossbred with Thoroughbreds a long way back, perhaps to improve their speed and sleekness, as those frieze horses are more powerful and chunky. But they still hold their heads up high.

Silver and gold can't buy you a home 

When this life has ended 

And your time is gone 

But you can live in a world where 

You'll never grow old 

And things can't be bought there with silver and gold

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This horse says "nay!"

                                                               

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Just a horse, just a girl. . .

But not just any girl.

 It's the next generation. . .

. . . of horsy little girls.

Ride on, Caitlin!

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Rocky, run

Like almost every girl I knew, I longed for a horse of my own. I'd read all the Marguerite Henry stories, Misty of Chincoteague, King of the Wind, and Walter Farley and Black Beauty, so I knew I understood them.

But I also knew I stood a fat chance of actually getting one: they cost too much money, my Dad kept saying; we'd have to board him; I'd never really had riding lessons and couldn't handle much more than an easy tourist trail.

All true.

So what was it that changed his mind? His business rival bought a horse for HIS daughter, and suddenly the race was on to find a tonier, more expensive

one.

How I ended up with Rocky (who was neigh-ther) was this. Dad got me a very beautiful but semi-wild two-year-old palomino mare named Pot 'o Gold. I discovered the first time I tried to ride her that she hated anyone getting on her back. When I put my foot in the stirrup, she took off.

Dad thought this was my fault. He had the vendor's daughter work with me, but the thing is, she was much more experienced, practically a trick rider, able to achieve a flying vault, catching Goldie just before her hindquarters faded off into

the sunset.

Finally we had to admit defeat. I couldn't have a horse. I was desolate. I kept nagging and whining and saying we could buy a better horse, a tamer horse. A horse I could handle, a horse I knew personally! Suddenly the light bulb went off over my

head.

At the Lazy J Ranch, where I spent most of my Saturdays riding the trails and helping the staff groom and muck out, I had a favorite, a strawberry roan named Rocky. I couldn't say exactly why I liked him so much: he wasn't much to look at, a bit stocky, Shetland pony genes poking through the one-quarter Quarter Horse of his

heritage.

Maybe because he was a rent-a-horse ridden by dozens of non-riders a day, he was stubborn. He did weird things. He pawed at streams until the water flew. He also pawed at mud.

He had a ridiculous whinny, sort of a show-off whinny, and when I chased him around the pasture with a bridle, he arched his neck and did a ridiculous takeoff of a show horse high-step. Just to annoy me, he pretended to spook at harmless things like gum wrappers.

He had a rubbery pink-and-grey nose, perfect for kissing. He was a shade over 14 hands, small enough for me to just hop on.

"I want Rocky," I told my Dad.

"You want Rocky? Can't we do better than that?"

"No. I'm used to him. He knows me."

My Dad was naive enough to offer the same amount for Rocky that he had paid for

Goldie. Horses were horses, weren't they?

It was the beginning of several years of idyllic moseying along beside the railroad tracks (and I have no idea how we handled the trains). Of picnic lunches in the fragrant grass, my girlfriend Shawne sitting behind me and hanging on tight as we bumped along.

Time stopped when I was with Rocky. I groomed his white-mottled red coat until it (sort-of) shone. I cleaned his feet with a hoof pick, tenderly removing stones. I would have braided his mane, but someone at the stable kept shaving it off so he looked like a merry-go-round horse.

There were a couple of hair-raising episodes with Rocky that were at odds with his implacable reputation. Once in a while in the summer I rode him the two miles or so from the stable where we boarded him (along with a bunch of tall Standardbred race horses: he became the stable mascot) to my house on a quiet street in

Chatham.

Neighbors were a little disconcerted by the sight of a horse on their street. Silverwood Dairies had stopped delivering milk by horse and wagon several years earlier; what was this nag doing on the street, leaving great steaming deposits to step over?

It was grand to promenade the street like that. Once I even took him to my high school, and he was an instant hit. It was the one time I felt popular.

Anyway, this particular time, he seemed to be perfectly content in our back yard mowing the lawn while my dog sniffed around his heels and (disgustingly) ate some of his poo.

As we had dinner, with the usual genteel classical music playing in the background, I suddenly heard a sound like coconuts being hit together. Buddle-up, buddle-up. We saw a reddish blur out the window.

My mother exclaimed, "Oh dear Lord, it's the horse."

Rocky had somehow broken free, and was high-tailing it back to the barn. Literally! His tail was held as high as an Arabian's, his head thrown back

majestically.

We jumped in the car in a panic, trying to stop him or at least get him to slow down. He was galloping flat-out in the exact centre of the road, getting more and more lathered. My Dad tried frantically to swerve him over to the shoulder so he wouldn't be hit.

When he saw the big barn full of Standardbreds, he immediately checked his pace. Threw up his massive head and let go with one of those ridiculous whinnies. Then trotted elegantly through the gate.

The other episode is not so funny, one of those things that ended well, but only just. I had a bad habit of riding Rocky in unusual places (railroad tracks?). One afternoon we clopped our way through a cow pasture where a gorgeous Jersey named Bambi lived. The mud was maybe an inch or two deep, no

big deal.

Then - I will never forget this, a feeling like an elevator dropping away beneath me. My horse slid down into an invisible bog, and was instantly mired up to his belly. I had no idea what to do but hold on as he bucked and heaved, trying to pull himself

out.

I wondered if I should try to get off, try to get help, get a rope or something, but no, Rocky insisted on lurching ever more violently to free himself. My heart was in my throat. I was sure he'd break his leg and have to be put to sleep.

Then, with a great shuddering heave and a sucking sound such as you've never heard, he was out. We both stood there trembling. He had his head down and I gasped with fear, wondering how he could have come through such a thing

unhurt.

Then, beginning at his nose, he began to shake himself, the great wave travelling from his head to his shoulders to his whole body to his tail. He must have taken shaking lessons from a wet dog. Remarkably, he seemed to be OK, though coated with glistening brown as if he had been dipped in chocolate.

I carefully hosed him down, though it took an hour, since he stopped me several times to shake everything off. I was so proud of him, so relieved, and my, didn't he look handsome, all wet, his sorrel coat glistening in the summer

sun.

Feeling that a reward was due, I turned him loose in the pasture. He walked around with his nose to the ground until he found a suitable patch of mud.

Carefully lowered himself down.

And rolled until he was so upholstered that I could barely tell he was a horse at all.