Magic...and Toby the Pony

                                                by Laura Crum

            I can’t count how many times my son has asked me if there is real magic in the world. Of course, he was mostly thinking of Harry Potter and flying broomsticks and the like. But each time he’s asked, I have told him seriously that I do believe there is magic in the world, magic that is every bit as wildly improbable and delightful as a flying broomstick. We just don’t (mostly) notice. And nowhere is this more true than when it comes to horses.

            Has anybody else ever noticed that when you are open to being led, the right horse comes along? The horse that takes you where you really want to go. Sometimes the horse looks not at all as you thought he would be, but he is the right one nonetheless. This has happened to me many times. But today I want to talk about one particular special horse that came to me when I needed him—Toby the pony, the magical little white horse that taught my son to ride. Toby died in October, five years ago, and I think of him a lot this time of year.

            I didn’t envision buying my kid a pony. To tell the truth, I had a very common horseman’s prejudice against ponies. I thought they were all ill-broke and ill-mannered, the result of being too small to be ridden by anyone but children. I had never owned a pony myself, and my limited acquaintance with the ponies of others only reinforced my belief about ill-broke and ill-mannered. So I wasn’t thinking about buying my kid a pony.

            But my five year old son was getting too big to ride with me on my horse, Plumber. See my September post “The Story of a Good Horse”. At the same time my young son felt very unsure up on the horse without me, and truthfully, Plumber had too much spook in him to be an appropriate leadline pony. He was also 15.1. “I need something smaller and quieter,” I told my husband.

            Well, be careful what you ask for. The very next day the neighbor came over to say her kid’s pony was for sale. My emotions were mixed. Yes, this was just what I was looking for. I had seen this pony packing the neighbor girl for years, sometimes packing her and two of her friends—bareback and wearing only a halter. I was pretty sure he was a reliable pony. But…well, quite frankly I was prejudiced against ponies and by my standards this was a really ugly pony. He was white, with blue eyes. He did not have a cute little head. He was a coarse, solid made critter and looked tough and strong. But white. With blue eyes. Yuck.

            Still, I swallowed my reluctance and tried the pony. He was thirteen and a half hands high, and strongly made, one big point in his favor. I am five foot two, and this pony was quite big enough for me to ride. The neighbor girl’s mother often rode him. They were selling the pony because they could only afford one horse and the girl wanted to buy a mare she could show. At sixteen she’d outgrown Toby, who was twenty, and no show horse. But it was clear that they were very fond of Toby and wanted to be sure he went to a good home.

            I rode the pony, asked a lot of questions and decided he would work. I tried to ignore how homely he was. He seemed completely sound. He’d had one run-in with cancer—tumor on his sheath—but it had been removed and he was doing fine. I decided to take a chance on him. He had come my way the very week I had asked for such a thing. I bought Toby and we brought him home. And that very day my son, who had been afraid to be up on the horses alone, demanded that I lead him all around the property on Toby. Which I did. Toby was great. We were off to a good start.

            Once I got used to Toby, I began to get over how homely he was. In fact, I began to think he was cute…isn’t it funny how this happens? Toby wasn’t really white, he was a medicine hat paint—mostly white with a sorrel “cap” and a big sorrel patch on his left flank and some sorrel in his tail. I learned that medicine hat paints were considered good fortune. And Toby certainly was good fortune for us.

            Now I am going to make a confession. I feel really dumb about this, but its true. Nobody I knew put a helmet on their kid when they rode (I ran with a bunch of cowboys and team ropers—and if you don’t believe me, ask anyone you know that runs with such a crowd), so I just never thought of doing it. When my son was riding in front of me on Plumber I was perfectly confident Plumber wouldn’t dump me—and that I could hang on to my kid. This proved absolutely true, so the no-helmet wasn’t the huge mistake it might have been.

            When I started leading my kid around on Toby I didn’t stop to think how much easier my child could come off. When we went faster than a walk my husband used to jog next to my son, holding him with one hand. But time passed and my kid grew more confident. He trotted and eventually loped along on Toby, sometimes being ponied by me from my own horse. And, yes, no helmet. I was dumb.

            So Toby helped me out. My son was riding the pony independently now, and starting to trot and lope him on his own. And Toby, though a good pony, was a pony. As his previous owner said, “Every pony is a little Napolean. Give them an inch and they want world domination.” Toby would sometimes to decide to go where HE wanted to go, rather than where my son wanted him to go.

            The other thing about Toby that was a little disconcerting is that sometime in his checkered past (he’d been rescued from an abusive home by the owner previous to the neighbor, and no one really knew where he came from), he’d clearly been a gymkhana pony. This showed itself in various ways. Several times I watched him “pole bend” the oak trees in his corral—at a dead run and just for fun. And I noticed that though he started out quiet (his basic nature) when my son loped him, about the fourth time he was kicked up to the lope, he began to find another gear. Like he was getting ready to run a pattern.

            So one day when my then six year old son was riding Toby in the paddock, walking him down the hill and loping him back up, Toby gave me a wake-up call. The pony had loped up the hill quietly and obediently two or three times, and about the fourth time he was asked to do it, Toby took off on a route of his own, jumping a small ditch and weaving at the high lope (like a good pole bending pony) between some tightly spaced oak trees—with low hanging, solid limbs. My heart was in my throat, but my kid stayed on and ducked in all the right places. When he pulled Toby up next to me, though, he gave me a look. “Mama, I need a helmet,” he said.

            “You’re right,” I said. And we went and got one that afternoon—he hasn’t ridden without a helmet since. Thank you, Toby.

           Yes, Toby could be stubborn. I had to ride him from time to time and "straighten him out." But Toby never once dumped my son. Never hurt him, never even scared him. He did teach him to ride. And I was several times treated to examples of how hard the pony tried to take care of his young rider. One summer we’d returned from a month long trip, during which Toby was not ridden by anyone. Our pens are big and he had room to run, but still…

            The very first thing my son wanted to do when we got home was ride his pony. I had misgivings, but I pulled the pony out and saddled him up and off they went. I could tell Toby was feeling good, but he never did one thing wrong. When my son was done riding I decided to lunge the pony a bit…and you should have seen that critter buck. But despite how good he was obviously feeling, he had managed to hold it together for half an hour of gentle riding with his little kid. Toby had a good heart.

             Toby was always very affectionate and loved petting, and we lavished a lot of attention on him. My son rode him almost every day during the years we owned him. Never hard enough to even crack much of a sweat, but lots of rides. We had a good life together.

             Sadly, a year after I bought Toby, his cancer reoccurred. I had another tumor on his sheath removed and we put him on some (very expensive) supplements that were supposed to reduce the risk of cancer reoccurring. We had another year in which Toby was sound and perfectly happy and my kid rode him a lot. And then one day the pony was off his feed.

            He wasn’t colicked, but he wasn’t right. He had a slight temperature. The vet came out and prescribed antibiotics. But a couple of weeks went by and Toby still wasn’t right. Not cleaning up his food. One day I noticed blood in his urine. The next day I hauled him to the equine center to have his urethra scoped.

            The scoping revealed he was bleeding from one of his kidneys. The blood work showed markers indicative of a tumor. The guess was that he had a tumor in his kidney. It was consistent with his history and symptoms.

            The surgeon was willing to operate, but had never removed a kidney on a horse before. It would be complicated with an uncertain prognosis; my twenty-two year old pony would go through a lot of grief and perhaps it would all be for naught. It would be very expensive. And this was the third time his cancer had reoccurred. I decided against it. (A year and a half later, faced with colic surgery to save my son’s twenty year old horse—and the same surgeon—I opted to go for the surgery—because the surgeon had done this procedure MANY times and the prognosis was good. I’d make the same two choices, if asked to do it again.)

            Having elected not to do the surgery, the likelihood was that Toby did not have much longer to live. The vet asked if I wanted to put him down. Toby, loaded up on Banamine, was happily cropping grass and looked at me bright-eyed, his expression clearly asking, “When do we go home?”

            I thought about my son and how worried he’d been when we hauled Toby away. I looked at the bright-eyed little guy. In some ways it would have been easier just to give the word and drive away—remembering the pony happily cropping grass. But I couldn’t do it. And again, it is a choice I would make the same way a thousand times over. I brought Toby home.

            It turned out he had a week to live. During this week I explained to my seven year old son that Toby did not have long to live. We let the pony roam around the garden, grazing. We left his pen open and he would go in and out as he pleased. He went in every night and shut his gate behind him—something my son remembers with a smile to this day. I kept Toby loaded up on Banamine and he wouldn’t eat hay, but he would graze and clearly enjoyed carrots and attention.

            I will never forget one October afternoon, in the long, low golden light—my son and I were hanging out with Toby while he dozed under the oak trees, occasionally grazing. My son stepped up to his pony many times to pet him. Finally my little boy looked at me and said, “Can you see how much I love him?”

            I said that I did see—and I know Toby did, too.

            The end of this story involves a bittersweet magic—and I truly believe it was magic. You may call me naïve—and that’s OK. I’ll believe in the magic until the day I die.

            Toby was getting near his end. He no longer wanted to graze much, one morning he wasn’t interested in carrots. He had begun grinding his teeth, which is a sign of pain. I made an appointment for the afternoon and tried to prepare my son. That afternoon, an hour before the vet was due, I noticed a strange cast to the light. Looking up, I realized it was smoke. Smoke, in October, in the brushy hills where we live, is nothing to take lightly. My husband scrambled to the top of our ridge and called me on the cell phone. “Hitch up the trailer,” he said. “The fire’s right next door and it’s coming our way fast.”

            While my husband stayed up on the ridge fighting the fire with neighbors, I rather desperately hitched up the trailer and collected the dogs. I had at the time four horses—one of which was a dying pony—and a three-horse trailer. I had no idea what I should do, but I got ready to roll. Smoke was billowing over the ridge. I had not yet heard one siren, though my husband had called 911.

            And then, in an instant, it seemed, everything changed. With a roar of engines several airplanes appeared and dumped fire retardant on the ridge (drenching my husband). In the next five minutes, helicopters followed, dumping buckets of water. My husband called me back. “Forget it,” he said. “They’ve got it.”

            And so it proved. We went from catastrophe to no big deal in the blink of an eye. Half an hour later, when the vet arrived to put Toby down, all seemed normal. Except that it wasn’t. Those who have been through a potentially life threatening emergency will know what I mean. My senses were over the top. And I knew, I absolutely knew, that the dying Toby had used his power to save us.

            I know perfectly well that there is a rational explanation for that massive so-quick response to our little local brush fire. I can explain it in logical terms..etc. But I know in my heart that the rational explanations don’t matter.

            You can all laugh at me—I don’t mind. I have seen this before in animals, and once with a person. Those with a pure heart are granted the power to do something special with their energy when they die. Create a truly magical moment, save a life. Toby saved us. He died quickly not an hour after the fire was put out—our magical little white horse.

            We still love Toby and remember him. He is buried here on our property. And I truly believe he still takes care of my son.

Things that run your life

Ever notice that there are periods of time when your life is taken over by certain events or a series of events that don't seem to be under your control. Like your daily life has been abducted by circumstances.

Well that has been the theme for my life this past year. Other than my usual responsibilities of earning a living and putting food in the dog and cat bowls and hay in the barn, this year has primarily revolved around circumstances which at times consumed nearly every available minute.

The first of these circumstances, a very happy one,  is training and competing on the horse I purchased last June. I blogged about Uiver many months ago and our FEI dressage career has been progressing well throughout this year's show season. Driving an hour each way to ride with an FEI level trainer, however, dramatically impacted my schedule but it has been a labor of love. David Blake, the trainer I have been working with, has been great and the skills and partnership between Uiver and I has steadily improved. Uiver and I have enjoyed many successes this year, a topic which I will blog more about in a few weeks.

Circumstance number 2 has been dealing with one of my dog's health issues. Let's just say it has been a very expensive years in vet bills and there is a specialty vet hospital in San Diego at which I should have a private designated parking spot for the amount of bills I have paid at their facility. This first issue was ACL surgery for Murphy and as many of you might remember from a previous blog, not only was the $4500 cost a huge ouch to my credit card but the aftercare and complexities of immobilizing a more than slightly neurotic dog was all consuming for several months. Factored into his multi-phased recovery process was somehow finding the time to drive him 45 minutes each way to go to swim therapy to regain proper muscle tone in his leg. So every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday I had to magically create the time for a 2 plus hour window of time for Murphy's physical therapy.

Get the theme here. Time has been in high demand and a precious commodity. The time needed to take Uiver to Arroyo weekly to train or Murphy to therapy came out of the normal time period where I would write, manage books, organize my office or just normal things like eating meals, cleaning, laundry and sleep. Needless to say, sleep has been almost as precious a commodity as time has been.

That brings me to circumstance number 3. Thump. You might remember, also the subject of a blog this past June, that I became the proud parent of a baby European Starling that fell out of a nest in my barn. Little did I know that my simple act of being an animal good Samaritan would lead to this little bird completing taking over my household. Much to the chagrin of my cats I might add. Thump, as he is called, has beaten all the odds and grown to adulthood and is living blissfully in my house. There were originally 2 baby birds but Thud sadly did not survive. Both of the baby birds fell a good 20 feet onto the center aisle of my barn with little more than fuzz and a few pin feathers on their bodies. In my experience very few this young survive but Thump is a fighter to say the least.

 In the first several weeks, Thump needed to go everywhere with me because he needed to be fed every 30 minutes or so during daylight hours. Thankfully baby birds generally don't feed at night so I could get some sleep. Everyone at Arroyo where Uiver and I train thought it was hysterical that I would be feeding a baby bird in my truck before and after my lessons. Of course anyone who knows me also knows that normal is not a word often associated with my life.



Inspecting a tissue box.







Waiting for the water to get warm









Taking his Bath

 

So caring for Thump has also become a part of the routine which includes making sure he is supplied with meal worms and crickets to eat. My friends have gotten use to the containers of worms and crickets on my counter and the cricket food in my refrigerator. Thump spends his days in a large flight cage outside on my patio and has a smaller cage in my kitchen next to my Love Bird named Chance. (Chance flew into my old barn nearly 15 years ago and has been a part of the household since.) What Thump enjoys the most is when I shut my cats in another room and Thump gets to fly freely around the house.



My poor long suffering dog having to babysit.

There are windows that separate my living room from a smaller room where the cats stay and Thump takes great joy in pecking on the glass and tormenting my cats. He gets right into their face as if to say "try to get me stupid cat, there is glass between us." Needless to say with this brazen attitude I know that turning Thump loose would probably be condemning him to death so in the household he will stay.



His favorite sport, taunting the cats



Telling what show I should watch.

I need another animal to care for like a hole in my head but what is an adopted bird mother to do. I do think now that Thump has grown into an adult that perhaps I should change his name to something more mature and sophisticated. So any suggestions?? Should I keep it the same or change it, since Thump has become a permanent circumstance in my life.

Guest Post - Marilyn M. Fisher

We've had a few recent posts lately about how difficult marketing is, and how some of us, while we love our horses and love writing, clearly shy away from the marketing and publicity aspect of this business.

So please welcome Guest Blogger Marilyn M. Fisher, author of THE CASE OF THE THREE DEAD HORSES and HE TROTS THE AIR. Marilyn is obviously very good at selling her books in person, so I hope you enjoy this post about how she does it. (I'll be taking notes, that's for sure. *grin*)

Selling Adult Horse Fiction On the Road

Years of selling my adult equine novels in meadows, community centers, schools, farms, book stores, and churches have convinced me that many customers assume all horse writing is for juveniles. On the road, it’s up to me to explain why my book will fascinate them—despite the fact that horses are in it. As I’ve discovered, it’s an art.

 

 

As I sit at my table, I watch for a passerby who notices my novels and may stop walking for a minute. I quickly say politely, “May I tell you about my book?” I then relate a story about my novel, pointing to the gorgeous horse on the cover to start my narrative. (The book is He Trots the Air, which concerns drugging steeplechase horses.)

If a person says doubtfully, “I don’t know anything about horses,” a common fear about buying a horse novel, I say comfortably that I have explained anything technical in the book so that anyone can understand.

As I forge ahead with my story, I’m always ready to improvise quickly if the customer asks a question or makes a comment.  

Now I talk about insurance investigator Connie Holt, time and place settings, and the major mystery (a shadowy conspiracy to drug the horse on the cover). I then touch on the equine subplots involving Connie. For example, she has romantic trouble with the former owner of a breeding farm. And she’s trying to find out if a friend’s old rediscovered equestrian painting is the real thing.  Then I say, “But there is more to read about in my book. I like to write about other things relating to Virginia:  architecture; parties; foods; how people dress for a prestigious race; and in this book, a little about how paintings are restored.”

I tie in incidental information I find out about my customer with my novel. For instance, if the person is a horse owner, I enlarge on the novel’s horse information. I might say something like, “Have you ever seen a horse whirlpool in action? There’s one in my story.” Or if the person is an older teen-ager, I point out that a teen-aged lover of horses helps Connie start her investigation and is in on the exciting climax.

Throughout my sales talk, I try to gauge the expressions on the buyer’s face. If that face lightens a lot, I know there is something I said that is interesting. I quickly expand on whatever it is. For example, a reader approached my table last spring, wearing a beautiful long flowered cotton dress with a lace fichu collar. An older woman with delicate features and gray hair, she was obviously dressed in a way she thought appropriate for a fair. Her face lit up when I talked about the prestigious Gold Cup race in the story and I expanded a bit on that. She bought the book.  

In the world beyond the Internet with its convenient author profiles, reviews and websites, I’ve found it possible to convince adults that horse novels can offer a rich reading experience.

Wow! Thanks so much for stopping by and sharing your experiences, Marilyn. Clearly, you are very good at this, and I'll have to remember some of these techniques at my next book signing.

To learn more about Marilyn and her books:

The Case of the Three Dead Horses: American Book Publishing, 2005

He Trots the Air: American Book Publishing, 2011

Check out her Blog and website: http://www.mmfisher.com

Visit her on LinkedIn, Facebook, or Amazon.

It's a Gorgeous Fall and my Thoughts are Turning to . . .

Trail riding? Apple Picking? Carving Pumpkins? Nope. The answer is stinkbugs! 


For those of you living in blissful ignorance (that means anyone who does not live on the East coast) stinkbugs have not only become a major nuisance in the garden and orchards, they are everywhere.  Any warm day, I can find hundreds on my back porch sticking to the screen or in the garage crawling behind trash cans. They fall out of umbrellas and fan blades. They hide in cracks and crevices waiting for the door to open. Once inside they sneak behind pictures and into drawers. My husband even found one in his chili.

Remember Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds"? Stinkbugs are even worse. The ones clinging to the porch screen literally whisper, "I'm coming for you. You can't stop me." Because you can't. Their sheer number are overwhelming. And they live up to their name. Grab them in your hand and it stinks with a pungent odor, which means you don't dare step on them or you'll track stink bug smell through the house with every step.

Stink bugs are considered a new pest. They arrived from China in 1998, 'hitching a ride" in a packing crate. They were first recorded in Pennsylvania, and quickly spread. I first spotted them in my garden two years ago. When I Googled them for this blog, I got 2,250,000 hits, which means I am not the only one this fall with stink bugs on my mind.

One big problem is they have no know natural enemies -- most birds won't eat them, and even my huge garden spider can't handle more than one or two.  I battle them with a pan of soapy water, making stink bug soup that I throw out far into the woods. Fortunately, they are slow and stupid and once they plop into the sudsy soup,  they quickly drown.  UN- fortunately, a few always escape. They are the smart ones. The devious ones. The ones who will lay eggs and next spring, when the eggs hatch, a craftier, hardier breed of stink bug will arrive, slowly making their way west . . .

Beware.

Something Beautiful

                                                by Laura Crum

            All my life I have loved seeing the aspen turn bright gold in the high country. Sadly, I can count on one hand the times I have been there to see this in the last twenty years. I live on the California coast—no aspen here—and my husband is a farmer. Fall is his busy season. We don’t take vacations during the harvest time of year. Until this year.

            This year I lobbied for a short vacation in the high country to see the aspen—and I got my wish. And so, for those of you who won’t see the high mountain aspen trees this year, or perhaps have never seen them in autumn—here’s a virtual vacation for you.

            First off, meet the canine contingent, who traveled with us.

This is Star and Jojo. Star, the small black dog (about 15 pounds), named for the white star on her chest, is a rescue—part of a litter that was to be euthanised at the animal shelter due to demodectic mange. We adopted her as a puppy about a year and a half ago, and she’s doing great. Smartest dog I ever had. People always ask, “What is she?” Well, I don’t know. I saw her mother and siblings and they don’t look much like her, other than being small and black (all got homes, by the way). Our guess is she’s part Chihuahua, part terrier and part ?

Jojo, on the other hand, is an accident raised by my neighbors, who bred Jack Russell terriers. They went away for the weekend and the female Jack Russell got bred, they assumed by the male. But when the puppies were born it was clear that their Australian Shepherd was the father(!) Jojo was the smallest pup. She’s a very sweet dog, fourteen years old this year, about thirty pounds.

So, off we went, three people and two dogs in our camper, headed for the mountains. We stopped to have lunch on the terrace of the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite Valley, an expedition I recommend. And Yosemite is relatively uncrowded this time of year. Here’s my son and I having lunch on the terrace.

Then it was over Tioga Pass to our friend Bill Crum’s forty acre property twenty miles from anywhere, surrounded by national forest. Sagehen Meadow in the Glass Mountains. About 8500 feet high. The Glass Mountains are a small range just east of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and south of Mono Lake. We camped there this summer with our horses. See my August 1st post, “Ride the High Country,” for photos of us riding through these mountains. Here is the view of Crooked Mountain from Sagehen Meadow the last day of September, with the aspen on the mountain’s flanks turning gold.

And here is the aspen grove near Bill’s house.

Looking into the blue distance of Nevada—dusk at Sagehen Meadow.

Our camper as the full moon rises.

Sunrise at Sagehen Meadow—Sagehen Peak and Crooked are lit up with golden light and golden aspen.

It was really lovely to be there. That day we headed out to see more of the country. As we were leaving, we saw the sage grouse that give Sagehen Meadow its name. Ten of them.

These were the same roads we rode horseback in July. Here we are, headed out across Sagehen meadow on our horses.

Summer aspen along the trail.

But now the aspen looked like this, rather than green and silver.

Aspen on the flank of Crooked with the Sierras in the distance.

The eastern Sierra Nevada range—doesn’t this have a very “Sound of Music” feeling?

Fire colored aspen at the base of Shark Fin Mountain.

Sadly, the camera will not do justice to the beauty of the aspen. They are so graceful and delicate, they flicker and “talk” with every breeze, their shining gold leaves and white bark make such a lovely contrast to the brilliant blue autumn sky and the dark green pines…I took many photos but not one captures their glory.

We stopped to admire some cliffs made out of obsidian, for which the Glass Mountains are named. My husband and son and Bill climbed up to the base of the cliffs—not me—it was quite a steep climb. My son at the obsidian cliffs.

Looking down at me on the road below with the truck.

And then it was back to the camper for whisky and music—and margaritas in my case. My husband played his pipes and Bill played his guitar. The sun set over Sagehen Meadow.

It was a lovely trip. The weather was sparkling and perfect. The only way it could have been improved was if we had brought the horses. Riding through those brilliant yellow aspen would have been delightful. But it’s a very long haul (eight hours) for one day of riding. And my husband’s schedule precluded a longer trip. Anyway, I hope you were able enjoy my autumn vacation to the high country with me—if only in a small, virtual way. Cheers--Laura

Vacation

by Laura Crum

Hi all,
I was supposed to post today, but I've been in the mountains and just got home. Here's a sneak preview of what I was doing. I'll post more on Weds. Cheers--Laura

Horse For Sale

                                                by Laura Crum

            I don’t know about you guys, but I hate selling horses. When I was younger, I kind of enjoyed the buying/selling routine, especially buying. Like many people, I suppose, I always hoped that the new horse would be the perfect, special, just-right one. I didn’t mind selling, thinking that I would find a horse I liked better than the one I was letting go. But this all changed as I got older.

            Now I’m far more careful when I buy, knowing that I’ll want to keep the horse forever. And as for selling, why I just don’t. I’m tormented by the thought of the horses I sold when I was younger. Horses that I had trained myself, that I owned for many years in a few cases. I never once sold an old horse that had given me his best years (thank goodness), but I did sell several horses in their prime. And I wonder now if some of them ended up at the killers. I’ll never know. It haunts me.

So, any more I don’t plan to sell horses. The two that we re-homed in recent years both went for free to a very good home who has promised to retire them when their riding years are done. I trust these people and I also keep in touch. I feel fine about these horses. But selling, not so much.

Still, two years ago, when my friend and horse partner Wally bought a black horse that he thought he could use for a backup heel horse, I agreed that we’d sell the horse if he didn’t work out. Wally boards his horses with me, but I couldn’t take Coal, the black horse, at my place, as all my corrals were full. So Wally boarded him with our friend Mark, a young horse trainer/team roper, in exchange for Mark getting to use the horse.

Coal was/is a pretty horse—absolutely solid shiny black, very refined. More refined than I would prefer, actually, he looks more like a TB than a QH. He is taller than I like at 15.2 (I like 14.3 or shorter, thank you very much). Coal was nine when Wally bought him and sound and gentle and very smooth gaited—and cheap. I rode him four or five times in the arena and agreed he was a nice riding horse. He had the smoothest trot and lope of any horse I’d ever ridden, I think. He carried himself in a nice frame and was a very polite, obedient horse to ride. I thought that if I lost the use of Sunny or Henry, maybe my son and I could use Coal as our backup. Wally thought he could use Coal if he lost the use of Twister.

So we went along for a couple of years. Mark roped on Coal and trail rode him and mounted lots of people on him and the horse did OK. He didn’t turn out to be a very good heel horse, though, and Wally didn’t like him. This last summer Wally began lobbying to sell Coal, and, of course, I protested. I just don’t like selling horses.

But I had nowhere to put the horse and no time for him. One horse is all I can keep ridden these days. In the end I agreed to take Coal on a trail ride and make up my mind if I really wanted to keep him as a backup for Sunny and Henry. So last weekend I did that. And sadly, he flunked.

We went on a very easy ride, a logging road that winds up from my uncle’s place through the redwood forest to the top of the ridge. Its an up and back. Takes about two hours at an easy place. About five miles total. Its pretty steep in the first mile up the ridge. But good footing.

I had promised to take my son’s friend for a trail ride, so I put the friend on Sunny, my son rode Henry, Wally rode Twister and I rode Coal. Coal was a touch cinchy, which I knew about—no problem, though. He looked at stuff from time to time but for the most part walked with his ears at half mast—very slowly. Now Sunny is not a fast walker, but Sunny, Henry and Twister all outwalked Coal—quite dramatically. Still I wasn’t really bothered. I trotted to catch up and Coal had a lovely trot. Smooth—seemed absolutely even. We made it to the top of the ridge with me thinking the horse was OK. I didn’t love the way he walked so slowly with his ears flopping—both Sunny and Henry, though not fast walkers, walk alertly, with their ears up. Its easy to see that they enjoy trail rides and like looking around as much as I do. Coal, however, gave me no sign that he was enjoying this expedition. And then we started back down the ridge.

Right away Coal’s already slow pace slowed further—to a snail’s pace. He also, rather alarmingly, began taking “bad steps”, where he would suddenly stumble. We fell further and further behind the others. I remembered Mark telling me that Coal was not a good “downhill horse.” Now I could see what he meant.

I didn’t want to hurry Coal, and I could not tell what was causing his problem. So I just asked the others to wait periodically. My horse Sunny also walks (in my eyes) quite slowly downhill, but Sunny was leaving Coal in the dust. I had the sense that Coal was uncomfortable, and he became more so when the hill got steeper. I was uncomfortable riding him. As soon as we got to a level spot I trotted him out and he trotted absolutely even. Whatever was bothering him, it wasn’t an easily detectable lameness. But I knew for sure I wouldn’t be using this horse as my trail horse.

We made it back to the barn in time, and everybody had a lovely ride—except me. I was sad about Coal. I knew I had to tell Wally to go ahead and sell him, and I just HATE selling horses. Coal is in many ways a very nice horse—he’s just not a good trail horse. It would make me feel awful to think that he came to a bad end because I didn’t keep him. (For those who think I’m paranoid here, I have just known too many horses that were sold to a supposed good home that ended up somewhere not good at all.)

But logic prevailed. I told Wally to go ahead and sell Coal. I just asked that he do his best to be sure the horse went to a good home. We agreed that he shouldn’t be sold to be a rope horse or a trail horse, as he clearly wasn’t enthusiastic about these events. And Wally told Mark to find the right sort of a home for the horse (giving our conditions).

Now there’s every possibility this story will have a happy ending. Coal may get a home that is far better than the home I could possibly have given him. And I have to admit, there is no way I want to ride Coal on the trails. But still…I worry. What if? What if years later I realize that poor black horse ended up at the killers, or starved to death. And this happened to some horses I once knew and liked. They didn’t belong to me (like Coal) and they were sold, and I only heard much later what happened to them. It still bothers me.

Any thoughts?