My "Bombproof" Horse

I had another post ready for today, but I decided to tell the story of my "bombproof" horse, Moses Malone. I've mentioned Moses previously in a few other posts.


Way back (too far back to even think about) in my late twenties, a timid riding friend and I decided to find a horse to half-lease together. Now, I'm not exactly a brave rider either but compared to her, I was. She's one of those riders that rarely gets beyond trotting. Nothing wrong with that, she was who she was.


We took a trip to Seattle and checked out several horses. One big warmblood we considered was quite impressive, but there were subtle red flags. The owner treated him like he was a bomb ready to explode any minute. We never saw any behavior that justified her caution, but obviously it was there. My friend refused to try him out. So that was the end of him.

We checked out a few more horses, all unsuitable.


Finally we showed up at this backyard barn. A very pregnant teenager came out and proceeded to show Moses to us. It was love at first sight. He was five years old and a rich chestnut with a flaxen mane and tail. Even my timid friend tried him out. He walked, trotted, and cantered (taking the correct leads) and seemed calm and agreeable. The teenager needed to find him a home for obvious reasons. She'd prefer to sell him but agreed on a lease with an option to buy in a year.


Moses had an interesting history. As a baby, he and his mother had been boarded in a small pasture. One day when he was several months old, the owner showed up and hauled away the mother, leaving him behind. Driving by his pasture every day, a woman noticed that he became increasingly thinner and thinner. Finally, she stopped and inquired with the neighbors. None of them knew who owned him, nor had they seen the owner in months. They did give her the number of the property owner. A quick call to him revealed that the absentee owner hadn't paid board on the horse for months.


So she loaded Moses up and took him home, naming him Moses because she'd found him "abandoned in the bullrushes." She attempted to find the owner with no luck. At three years old, she sold Moses to the girl I got him from. This girl added Malone to his name because Moses Malone was her favorite basketball player.


Moses proved to be an excellent horse for me, not necessarily for my friend. I found him to be bombproof, she didn't. While he was a mellow sort, he did seem to be sensitive to the moods of his rider. He also had one quirk. He liked to play with you if you weren't paying attention. All of a sudden, he'd shy for no reason. He was quick, too. One minute there'd be a horse underneath you, the next you'd be suspended in air and he'd be halfway across the arena. Within in a months, he had my friend's number, and she quit riding him. I kept him and bought him about six months later.


Over the years whenever anyone rode him who was overly nervous, he became overly nervous. He also checked out his rider to see what they knew. If they didn't handle him with authority, he took over, usually in the form of walking back to the barn and waiting by his stall. If they were heavy handed, he became annoyed and jigged the entire ride if it was a trail ride.

On the other hand, even if you were a novice, as long as you treated him fairly and confidently, he'd do anything for you. One time at an open show, a novice rider friend of mine hopped on him for a novice western pleasure class. She'd never ridden him before. They finished 1st in a class of 34 horses! Moses took care of her. She just sat there while he listened to the announcer and walked, trotted, and cantered based on what was announced.


I owned Moses for years. I rode him to Prix St. George, showed him to 4th Level. I also jumped him. He was a handy little jumper but didn't start using himself until he hit 3 feet, while I maxed out at three feet. I also did a stint showing him in open shows in western and English pleasure.

He wasn't a talented dressage horse, quite the opposite, but he was a wonderful horse just the same. We spent countless hours on the trails by my house. You could just loop the reins around the horn and enjoy the ride.


In his later years, I leased him to two men for a trail horse. A few years ago, I tried to get him back. The two guys were almost in tears. They said it'd be like losing a member of their family. I let them keep him. He's 30 this year, and to my knowledge still going strong. I loved that horse.

He'll always hold a place in my heart.

Keeping the Dream Alive

Welcome to Equestrian Ink, a circle of women with two things on their minds: horses and writing. We come from different places and different states of mind, but our writing spans a wide range of genre within that special niche called "horse fiction." And each of us came to that niche for our own unique reasons.

From the fourth grade on, I'd yearned for a horse. That dream became especially painful when my best friend received a wonderful old Quarter Horse gelding for her eleventh birthday. From then on, I began begging my parents, promising to do anything if I could have a horse of my own. My stern father grew tired of my pleas and announced that the subject was closed--I could not have a horse.

On family outings, I'd lean my head against the car window and gaze at the magnificent rolling foothills of the Cascade Mountains, drumming a galloping beat with my fingers and picturing myself racing across the fields, leaning into my steed's whipping mane. At home, I'd curl up in the window seat with my horse books. King of the Wind. The Black Stallion. National Velvet. Keeping the dream alive. And I began to write fantastical stories about "my horses."

By the time I turned thirteen, I'd given up hope that my dream would ever come true--I was destined to watch from the sidelines. My friend had joined the local 4-H club and, occasionally, I'd be allowed to go with her. It was my only chance to be near the creatures that made my heart thump and my breath come in tiny puffs. The club leader was a wise old horseman who enjoyed being surrounded by horse-crazed kids, and he always made me feel like I belonged to that elite group.

One Saturday, he took me aside. A friend of his had a horse that needed a good home. Was I interested?

Hope and sorrow--what a combination. I could barely speak the words to tell him I'd been forbidden to bring up the subject at home. He gazed at me for a minute, then smiled. He'd take care of it. And he did. Two weeks later, Sonny backed out of a horse trailer and swung around to survey his new home.

Undoubtedly the homeliest horse ever foaled, the rangy 16-hand Tennessee Walker had lop ears, rafter hips, and a nose that must have been the model for Roman. But in the eyes of a horse crazy fourteen-year-old girl, he was as magnificent as Black Beauty or the Godolphin Arabian.

From the day Sonny stepped off the trailer, I was determined to convince my father that letting me have a horse had not been a mistake. Twenty years later, he shook his head in amazement as he watched my small band of Arabian mares grazing on the hill.

"I guess you were serious."

Yes, I was.

I haven't owned horses for many years now, but back when I was mucking stalls and carrying water and sleeping in the hay during foal-watch, my imagination was still astride a galloping horse racing across the hills. It was only a matter of time before I had to put those imaginary rides on paper, give them plots and people and loves and troubles.

Thanks to those dreams, I always have a horse in my heart and a story in my head.

Enjoy the ride while you're here!

Toni

Toni Leland
http://www.tonileland.com
Women's Fiction with Kick
at Romancing the Horse