Carrots with Kwintus

He’s no spring chicken, but the rolling hills of Burgundy are definitely having a rejuvenating effect on our now retired, ex-dressage schoolmaster, Kwintus, who turned twenty a couple of days ago.

Kwintus officially belongs to my daughter Olivia, who left Switzerland for university in England in September 2010. We bought him in Germany when both he and Olivia were fifteen; as a first horse for my daughter we couldn’t have found better. Kind, patient, reliable, and always willing to work, Kwintus taught Olivia and me how to do half-passes, tempi changes, pirouettes, piaffe and passage. He won Olivia a first place in the very first dressage competition she ever entered. Basically,
he’s a very special horse.

Sadly, Kwintus developed arthritis in his neck, which made him stumble. His condition worsened abruptly when Olivia went to university, particularly when he suffered a broken tooth right at the back of his mouth (underneath his left eye) that became infected. I had the tooth surgically removed (I wrote about it at the time on this blog: I had to fly an equine dentist in from Munich because nobody in Switzerland could perform the operation), treated his arthritis with cortisone infiltrations, hoping to at least keep him sound enough for trail-riding. But when I saddled him up a month after the infiltrations, I knew immediately that his riding days were over, and made the decision to retire him.

Kwintus spent the next year chilling, turned out during the day with his friend Coconut, an ex-showjumper who was also retired. Kwintus seemed comfortable enough moving between his stable and the pasture, but not to the extent that I’d have considered putting on his halter and leading him down the trails for a change of scenery. It really was that bad.

But he seemed content enough, ambling around his huge field, and swishing away flies with Coco. It was nice to watch them hanging out together, enjoying each other’s company.

To my horror, late last year, totally out of the blue, Coconut’s owner evicted Kwintus. I scrambled to find him another home, and was lucky enough to get him the last space at Domaine des Hugaux, an amazing place in Burgundy. Domaine des Hugaux came came highly recommended by a friend of mine who owns my favourite tack shop, and although I can no longer visit Kwintus as often as I’d like because of the 250 kilometre drive, and hated having to tear him away from his beloved Coconut, I realise now that his abrupt eviction was a blessing in disguise.

When I first moved Kwintus to Burgundy the only thing that worried me was the hilly topography of the property, and when Olivia and I returned to visit him last week, Nathalie, who owns Domaine des Hugaux with her friend Monika, confessed that this had worried her too, because he seemed to be stumbling all over the place. Also, he had a hard time “making friends”, and seemed to prefer hanging out alone. It took a few weeks of trial and error for Nathalie to find him the right combination of field companions. But she persisted, bless her, and Kwintus made friends with Newton, a
horse ten years his junior, who is spending a year at Domaine des Hugaux while his young owner completes her education. Newton and Kwintus apparently hit it off immediately, although there were days when Newton’s youthful antics clearly got on Kwint’s nerves, whereupon Nathalie would separate them and let Kwint spend the day in part her garden, “mowing the lawn”.


Gradually, however, Nathalie noticed that Kwintus had grown stronger, and that constantly moving up and down the hills had not only done wonders for his stamina, it had also had an amazing effect on his movement.

Olivia and I could barely believe our eyes when we visited Kwintus last week and
witnessed him tackling steep inclines not only at a trot, but also at a gallop! His eyes were bright and he was clearly happy with his life within a small herd of four. Kwint recognised up immediately, raising his head and looking our way when Olivia called his name from behind the fence. I’d love to tell you that he came trotting over to us immediately, but that would be a lie; the spring grass was clearly far more appetizing than our giant bag of carrots! And as tempting as it was to slip under the fence and go pat him, we refrained. Experience has taught me that it can be dangerous to walk out into the middle of a herd of even the gentlest natured horses.

The most thrilling sight was when it was time for the horses to come in for the night. Nathalie stood at the gate, calling their names one after another. They came immediately, thundering across the fields at a full gallop. Kwint’s group skid-slipped to a halt just in front of her, then waited patiently as she put their halters on and led them two by two up to the stables. Once in his stable, Kwintus suddenly took a keen interest in our carrots, enjoying being fussed over, chatted to and photographed like a movie star.


We checked him over, delighted by his healthy appearance. Sure, he looks a little tatty because he’s busy shedding his winter coat, but his back is strong, his legs are cool and lump-free, and his feet are in great shape; going barefoot clearly hasn’t bothered him at all (I’d pulled his shoes off soon after I initially retired him, only to have to re-shoe him in front a few months later when some moronic farrier cut his feet far too short).

Later that evening, over dinner, Nathalie suggested that Olivia might like to try saddling Kwintus up and taking out for gentle hacks on the trails when we go back to visit him in the summer. As you can imagine, this concept would have been unthinkable a couple of months ago, but now, thanks to his active lifestyle, taking him for occasional trail rides seems like a distinct possibility. Personally, I’d love for Olivia to be able to ride him again, even if it’s only once or twice a year; she was away at university in England when I had to take the decision to retire him, and she was heartbroken when I broke the bad news. I’ve always felt that it should have been her, not me, who took him for that final short, sad ride in the rain.
Might Kwintus enjoy accompanying Olivia on a couple of gentle, happy rides in the sunshine during the summer holidays? I hope so, but it will definitely be his decision.


Incidentally, if you are planning a trip to France and fancy spending some relaxing time on a hilltop in the beautiful Burgundy countryside, Domaine des Hugaux also
operates as a “Chambre d’Hôte”, offering simple but comfortable rooms, as well as great cuisine. As you can see from the photo, the house is straight out of a picture book, and the view is amazing. There’s a swimming pool, a game room with a pool table, and plenty of open space to run around. Children will love hanging out with the resident donkeys and Shetland pony, with the added attraction of the duck pond and chicken coop, ruled by Gaston the Terrible Turkey (although Gaston’s days might
be numbered due to his bad temper!), flanked by his gaggle of hissing geese. There are a couple of gentle horses to take out on trail rides, as well as a few brood mares, one of which has probably had her foal since Olivia and I were there last week. The hiking is spectacular, and there are plenty of interesting, historical places to visit within easy driving distance, lots of good restaurants to enjoy, and far too many fabulous wines to taste. And then, of course, there’s lovely old Mr. Kwintus, who would love to meet you and share a carrot or two!

How much do they know?

My daughter, Olivia, is home from University for the holidays. She hadn’t seen Kwintus, our lovely old KWPN (ex)dressage-master, since early September, when he was suffering from terrible toothache and the dentist came to take a look at his mouth. That day, just before the dentist arrived, she took him for a short, gentle walk to the village and back. She didn’t know it was the last time she’d ever ride him. The following day, I drove her to England to start her new life.

I’ve written quite a few posts about the series of problems Kwintus developed after Olivia went off to University, problems which led to me having to retire him at the beginning of November. I’ve often wondered whether Kwintus somehow knew that Olivia had graduated from high school, was going off to University, and would no longer be a regular part of his life anymore. You see, fundamentally, Kwintus was her horse.

Sure, she and I shared riding him, but when, almost four years ago, we set off to Germany to find a horse, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that the riding bug would get such a strong hold of me again. I’d had a serious riding accident, hadn’t ridden in many years, and wasn’t sure I’d ever want to do more than go for gentle outside rides. Kwintus changed all that.


But as much as Kwintus clearly loves both of us, I think he has a super soft spot
for Olivia. I think he knows he’s “her” horse. I think he’s always considered himself as her “teacher”. Kwintus and Olivia always looked perfect together: Kwintus is not a very big horse (he’s 16hh), and my daughter is quite a lot smaller than me (I’m 5’9, with big bones!), so their partnership always appeared far more esthetically harmonious. At least, that’s what it seemed like to me. And in those perfect moments when everything came together, Olivia and Kwint had a magical connection. There was something...well, something almost romantic about their partnership! And, seriously, when I took Olivia up to the stables to visit Kwintus when she came back from England for the Christmas holidays, you’ve never seen a happier horse!

So when Olivia went away to University, did Kwintus know it was the end of an era? Did he decide that his work was over, and that, at the respectable old age of 18, it was time for him to enjoy a well-earned retirement?

In your experience, do our horses “know” more than we think? I’d love to hear your personal stories.

And speaking of personal stories, seeing as tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, and that 2010has been a very emotional year for Olivia, Kwintus and me, I’d like to share something special. I recently came across the following story in my hard-drive, and reading it made me all warm and fuzzy inside. Ok, so it made me a little tearful, too! It's Olivia's account of her very first competition with Kwintus, three years ago. The way I see it, it’s her “International Velvet” moment!

Happy New Year to everyone!

The Winnings, by Olivia Bossert

Kwintus climbed into the van. You never would have known that he didn’t like the dark. He was as good as gold. I yawned impatiently.

“What’s the time?” called out my mother.

“About 5:30am. We should probably get a move on,” I replied. The barking dogs could be heard from the canteen. All the other horses had woken up and were becoming restless. I moved to the front of the van, gave Kwintus a carrot, a kiss and closed the door. Two months of training and today was the day.

I glanced at the rising sun over the Neuchatel lake. The crimson sky was spectacular. I needed something to lift my spirits and calm my nerves. I felt the car shake as the two anxious horses complained. I was as restless as they were. The nerves came and went, and I went over my programs continuously. If I forgot something, a moment of panic would occur and I’d scream at the others in the car, asking them what came after the 10 metre volt. Before they could answer, I’d already remembered.

We drove for another 30 minutes before arriving at the competition in St Blaise. We were directed into a big green field where other vans were parked. Dozens of horses whinnied and snorted all around, breathing in the fresh morning air, puffs of smoke wafting from their nostrils. We climbed out of the car, and I rushed to the door of the van. I hoisted it open and Kwintus pocked his head out, looking enthusiastically at everything around him. His braided mane looked lovely against his thick strong neck, and the white heart on his forehead was striking. He nudged me softly, and began to paw at what he thought was the ground. He startled himself and looked at me. I gave him a carrot and patted his neck; he was going to need the energy.

Kwintus and I walked into the warm up arena, and I glanced at all the other riders. I was the youngest. Everyone around me was over 25, and I felt vulnerable. What on earth was I thinking? There was no way I’d ever be good enough to beat any of these people. But before I could panic, I heard Marie-Valentine, my trainer, tell me to pick up my reins and collect Kwintus. She was the only trainer there, and I was thankful to have her. She called out to me, wondering if I could shorten my left rein a bit, and make his right hind-leg more active. I began to trot, and I could instantly tell how proud Kwintus was. His vain attitude was showing more than ever. He pranced around the arena as though he was an Olympic champion. Somehow, I felt the same.

I looked around for my father and my boyfriend. I’d been looking forward to showing them how much I’d progressed in two months.

“Are they here yet?” I called out to my mother.

“They’re by the ring!” she replied.

I closed my eyes and prayed nothing would go wrong.

I broke into an elegant canter, and practiced a few simple transitions. I could feel the sweat dripping down my back and my reins slipped through my hands as my palms got sweaty. It was my turn next.

Marie-Valentine told me to stop working, and walk Kwintus for the next five minutes. I did as I was told. I went over the program in my head at least a million times, and before I knew it, I was trotting down the centre line and saluting. I looked up, forced a smile, took a deep breath, and pushed Kwintus on.

“Go to the left, go to the left. After that, extend the trot.” The whole time, orders from my subconscious went in and out. A moment of panic. I forgot what to do, but within seconds, I had remembered the 10 metre circle. I managed the circle quite well, and carried on to the diagonal. Everything had been going perfectly. Five more minutes, just me and my horse. My left leg moved back, and we cantered. I squeezed my legs, asked for an extension, pushed Kwintus faster and faster, then sat deeper into my saddle and closed my seat to ask him to slow down. Using my abdominals, I sat even deeper into Kwintus, asking him to stop.

“That must have been an 8 out of 10,” I thought, quickly. But I didn’t have very long to think about the extension, I already had to transition into walk. I halted for three seconds, and asked Kwintus to go backwards five strides, sighing when I felt his hind quarters move slightly to the right.

“You’re so silly, you could have done that perfectly straight Kwintus,” I thought, hoping he would hear me. Somehow, I think he did.

When it came to the final extension, my heart was beating faster than ever. I felt nauseous and tired. All I could think about was the extension, and the halt at the centre line. Right before we reached the corner, a surge of excitement exploded inside me, and I gave it my all. Kwintus flung his legs out as far as he could, and I felt his strength soaring across the arena. All of a sudden, it was over. I saluted and smiled, showing all my teeth (even the little gap in my mouth!). I heard cheering and clapping. I looked back, and realised that my whole family was there, cheering me on and congratulating me.

“You gave the best performance! It was beautiful. Swift and clean, so precise. Your mother was near tears!” called out Carine, my friend who was about to enter in the same program as me. “I’m so proud of you.”

I didn’t know what to say. Had we really done it? Two months of training, had it really paid off? Were all those strangers really clapping for me?

Surely not!

I walked back to the van, patting Kwintus and kissing his neck. I was sweaty and tired, and all I wanted to do crawl into the car and sleep. When I reached the van, I jumped off his back and took off the saddle. When I turned around, I saw my trainer and mother jogging up the field.

“Congratulations! Wow it was absolutely beautiful! We are all so proud of you,” exclaimed Marie-Valentine.

“Everyone is talking about you. They’re all wondering who you are, where you’re from, who trains you!” said my mother.

I handed the reins to Marie-Valentine, and she took him to the other side of the van to let him graze. I sat down and had a drink. There were too many thoughts bouncing around in my head.

“Olivia! You’re first! You’re first on the list! Can you believe it?” I turned around and saw my father smiling at me. “You’ve got a score of 69%!”

Suddenly I felt quite dizzy. 69%? I had to be dreaming.

“It’s true Olivia, all the other riders have scores of 65% or less!” insisted my boyfriend, Tim.

I blinked at him. Could it be possible? All those other riders! All those people who had been riding that program for years! Had I really beaten them?

“But what about that man that went before me? He’s been riding for years! I used to watch him when I was only seven years old, sitting on top of fat ponies! Surely he must have beaten me.”

“He hasn’t.” Marie-Valentine explained calmly. “You’ve beaten everyone!”

It felt too good to be true.

And yet, a few hours later, Kwintus and I had beaten everyone! Yes, we had won our very first competition!

The Kwintus Chronicles: Showtime!

I was determined to be super organized the night before Saturday’s dressage competition. I figured the more organized I was, the more Zen I’d feel when the alarm went off, rousing me from a long, restorative, competition-priming sleep. So, in an élan of efficiency (okay, so it was more of an élan of anxiety, but let’s pretend…), I gathered all my show paraphernalia. I lay my brand new hairclip with the pearl embellished, navy blue chignon basketty-net thing next to my “tubette” (French for dressage hat; what’s it called in English?). I repositioned the pin in my stock, put my pale blue, sleeveless competition shirt on a hanger under my navy blue jacket. I rummaged through my underwear drawer to find my favorite (albeit somewhat frayed) Calida granny knickers and my new, wobble-defying, extreme hold sports bra (do you have ZeBra sports bras in America? They are brilliant! ), and put them on the old white rocking chair beside my bed. I folded my brand new bright white “sticky bum” jodhpurs and placed them at the bottom of a basket, along with a pair of pale-blue and white socks. I added a towel, as well as a sponge bag filled with miscellaneous indispensables: sunscreen, deodorant, lipgloss, a brush and comb, a gallon of Rescue Remedy.

Then, satisfied with my preparations, I took a long, cool bath (it's still mad hot over here in Switzerland), pulled on my PJs and went to bed early, ready for my aforementioned long, restorative, competition-priming sleep.

Yeah right.

Actually, my zzzzzs got off to a good start, and I didn’t even notice Mr. Prescott slip into bed beside me a couple of hours later. I did, however, pick up on his nasal obstruction issues when at two am, snuffling and sniffling, he pottered into the bathroom, unraveled a length of toilet paper and trumpeted away his discomfort at a level of decibels powerful enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. Then, satisfied with the state of his nasal passages, he pottered back to bed.

And started snoring.

I poked. I kicked. I poked again. The nocturnal concert continued. I tossed. I turned. I grumbled. I fretted. I checked the time. Two-thirty. Three. Three-thirty. At three-thirty-five I grabbed my favourite pillow and my mobile phone (set as an alarm clock) and stormed down the corridor to the guest-room. Where I tossed and turned, and fretted and sweated, imploring the Sandman to come back. He didn't. Maybe he'd run out of sand.

Imagine my bleary state at seven-thirty a.m. See me at the kitchen-table, round shouldered and grumpy as heck, sipping my tea and contemplating toast. Witness the ocular ice-picks I hurled at my poor husband as he spread Cenovis across his toast (Cenovis is the Swiss equivalent of Marmite) and proffered apologies for disturbing my peace, before kissing me, wishing me luck, and setting off for an early morning waterskiing session with his friend. I showered and dressed, hoping Kwintus had had a less eventful night.

Kwintus had obviously had plenty of beauty sleep. He looked like a superstar when I arrived at the stables, having already been groomed, plaited (tail too!), oiled and doused in insect repellant. While Steph added the finishing touches, I hauled the day’s necessities into her lorry, my stomach showing increasing signs of preoccupation. My spirits lifted when Kwint - proud as an Olympian athlete - astronaut-strutted into the lorry in his protective boots, clearly looking forward to the task at hand.

The trip went smoothly. We arrived at the show an hour before I was scheduled to tack up, and even found a parking place in the shade. My trainer, Marie-Valentine,
met us with her usual bubbly enthusiasm, and we opened up the lorry to give Kwintus as much air as possible (it was 34° and mega muggy), and went to take a look around. My daughter and her boyfriend arrived, armed with multiple cameras, as did my lovely friend Sybile, the owner of a stunning, seriously talented, young black stallion.

With such a show of support, I definitely felt the love!

But time flies when your stomach’s in a state; before I knew it we were back at the lorry, unloading Kwintus and tacking up. I was lucky to have so many people around because they took care of my horse, leaving me free to take care of myself. Applying a touch of sunscreen, I watched Kwint enjoying the devotion of ladies fussing around him, telling him how fabulous he looked. I could tell he thought he looked rather fabulous, too!

I mounted, and we headed towards the warm-up arena. Thankfully, I was one of the last few competitors riding this test, so there weren’t a gazillion other riders buzzing about, something I always find intimidating. I tend to have a problem with left and right; it takes my brain a fraction of a second to figure out which is which, so even the simple matter of passing other riders on the right requires concentration. We walked on a loose rein for ten minutes, Kwint stepping out proudly, definitely in “look at me” mode, me trying to breathe deep into my diaphragm, mentally revising my program. Gradually, I picked up the contact, shortened his stride, and pushed him into trot.

Wow!

Could this horse be more of a show-off? Marie-Valentine gasped. “Magnifique!” she exclaimed. My daughter Olivia giggled. I grinned, enjoying the swing of his back beneath me, the soft contact in my hands. It was magical, a moment I'll never forget.



Because of the furnace-like atmosphere, we’d planned keeping the warm-up to a minimum. Kwintus isn’t the type of horse to goof around; pick up your reins and he goes straight to work, all he needs is a little time to warm-up his muscles. We’d aimed for fifteen minutes but it still proved to be too much. The heat sapped his energy, and reduced me to a perspiring, nervous, jelly-like blob.

Showtime came. With shaky legs and flagging impulsion we trotted into the arena.

“Breathe,” I told myself, smiling as we passed the judges, urging my horse to step under a little more. “Come on, Kwintus; it’s only five minutes. We can do this.”

The bell rang. We trotted down the centre line. Except it wasn’t quite the centre line. Oops. Oh well, nothing we can do now, I decided, closing my legs and seat to halt at X. Our halt wasn’t quite square, nor was it entirely straight, but at least Kwintus didn’t look around to see if everyone was admiring him, which is what he usually tends to do. Maybe even he knew we’d fluffed it! We moved into a decent working trot. For some reason, I was somewhat caught off guard as we turned right and extended up the long side; we definitely lacked amplitude and brilliance. I then had a hard-drive meltdown and rode the ten-metre circle one letter late. Luckily, I didn’t hear the judges ring the bell to tell me I’d made a program error (there was another arena right next to ours with another test in progress, so the bells were a little confusing. And had I heard the bell and realized my mistake, I’d probably have become irretrievably flustered), and carried on to turn right at E and halt at X for four seconds. Ha! That halt was brilliant! So pleased was I with our halt that I almost forgot the ten-metre circle at R, remembering with barely two half-halts to spare, and then lost his haunches a little as we returned to the track. Bummer. We transitioned to walk at C, turned on the haunches before the corner, moving into an extended walk that lacked ground coverage (Funny how Kwintus can cover ground fabulously when we’re out hacking, yet when we’re working he can’t be fussed). I
collected him before K and pushed him into canter, leaving the track at P to turn into the centre line, transitioning to walk for three strides in the middle, then moving into the opposite canter lead. I probably should have breathed more deeply into the transition as his walk was a little precipitated. We repeated this exercise at S (more smoothly this time), and then cantered past the judges, extending down the long side (H to K), collecting at K to turn into the half-diagonal (F to E) where we transitioned to trot at L. Yay! Good one! We resumed canter at S,
but ran into trouble just after C when I got my collection technique in a twist just before the extended canter down the long side. Oops! Kwint fell into a big, bumpy, trot, and it took me a couple of strides to rebalance him and resume the extended canter. Major bummer, and major loss of points. At A we transitioned to trot again, and I collected him in the corner, determined to ace the extended trot right down the diagonal. Ta-dah!


Then came our bête noire: the twenty-metre circle while progressively giving the reins. As I mentioned in my previous entry, “The Final Countdown”, Kwintus thinks this part of the test is a complete waste of time. I’m not too fond of it either, mainly because Kwint has always had a tendency to stumble when you drop the contact; it’s one of his few weak points. Consequently, I did what I dared, he did something half-way decent, we didn’t fall over, and I collected him at C, rode towards S where we turned into a semi-circle and rode down the centre line towards G, where we executed a pretty good halt. I saluted, dropped the reins and hugged my horse.

Phew!

We’d finished. We’d done it! I’d overcome my nerves, pushed my boundaries, ridden my first test in an unfamiliar environment (the only other tests I’d done with Kwintus had been at my previous stables, on my “own terrain”). Kwintus had done his best for me in temperatures he’s never been comfortable with. We hadn’t made total idiots of ourselves. In fact, some parts of the program had felt pretty darn good!

We didn’t place; didn’t even come close to placing. Precision-wise, we have considerable work to do, and I need to work on controlling my nerves in order to avoid the sort of hard-drive meltdowns that lead to program errors. But in the past six weeks, from the moment I signed up for the competition, my riding has definitely improved. Competitive riding will never be my thing, but I’ve realized that the challenge of riding a test gives me something to work towards. And if only for that reason, I’m sure I’ll be signing up for competitions again.

Besides, I think we look pretty good in the photographs!

Thanks for your support, and for reading this very long, very detailed account of my latest adventure with Kwintus!

I’d love to hear about your experiences with competition. What drives you (or not) to compete?