My Life With Horses--Part Six

                                                by Laura Crum

            So just when you think you have it all figured out…it changes. I was enjoying team roping, but slowly my overall enjoyment began to grow less. Because no matter how hard I tried to dwell on the positive, I couldn’t help but see all the negatives in competition. This was the third competitive horseback event that I had immersed myself in, and it was more fair and more affordable than the first two. But it was just as hard on horses. In some ways it was much harder on horses than cutting.

            I was getting to the end of watching horses be trashed in order to win. In any form, for any reason. I was sick of seeing people be too hard on a horse because they wanted to win a damn event. I didn’t do this to my own horses, but it was all around me. My fourth mystery novel, Roped, had a lot to do with these feelings.

            I became aware that I was less and less interested in winning and less happy at team roping competitions. I began focusing on horse packing in the mountains more and more. Flanigan was my main mount at this time and he proved to be a wonderful mountain horse. We made many, many trips together, including some that were over a week long and covered a couple of hundred miles over many high Sierra passes. Here we are Wood Lake in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

            But despite my riding in the mountains from time to time, the thing that dominated my life was roping. I practiced twice a week and I competed on weekends. It was my life. Training horses and competing at horse events had been my life for twenty years. I didn’t know how to quit. Once in awhile I would stay home and putter around my garden on the weekends and just turn my horses out to graze…and I was aware that I would RATHER do this than go roping. But the honest truth was I felt guilty if I didn’t go. All my friends were going. Surely I should go, too?

            I had retired Gunner from competition at this point, due to arthritic changes. I was still roping on Flanigan, and I had trained my young horse, Plumber, to be ready to compete. But something was wrong. The heart had gone out of it for me. I knew how I felt, but I didn’t know how to change. So life made a change for me.

            I am going to say something here that not all horse people will want to hear. But it is absolutely true (at least for me). I had spent my life focusing on horses to such a degree that I didn’t think very hard about much else. I didn’t, for instance, think about how to create a happy marriage. I never gave much thought to having children. I was too busy with my horses. And now I was forty years old and competing on horses was beginning to seem meaningless and downright upsetting. I still loved my horses, but I went off to the ropings completely uninterested in winning or even performing well. “Please don’t let any horses or people or cattle get hurt,” was the only thought in my mind. “Let whoever needs to win, win.” By which you can see that the joy had really gone out of it. But I kept doing it. Because I didn’t know how to quit. And this is where life stepped in.

            In my 40^th year my husband fell in love with another woman and left me. And between this, and the very real angst I already felt due to losing my lifelong passion for horseback competitions, I fell into a true depression.

            Those people who have been depressed themselves will know what this means. For those who have not, I will say that depression is far more like being sick with the flu than it is like being “sad.” I had tons of physical symptoms. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I felt physically terrible. It wasn’t as if I could just sit around on the couch relaxing and feeling sad. I felt so awful that I was desperate to feel better. You know when you have a really bad flu how everything is just misery? That’s how depression was for me.

            And yes, I did try to get help. That’s what everyone says. Get help, there is medication, etc, etc, etc. Well, I am here to tell you that this doesn’t work for everybody. I saw three separate shrinks for a year straight, I took at least ten different anti-depressant meds (not simultaneously). None of it helped at all. Some of the meds just made me feel worse. The only thing that gave a little relief was a couple of glasses of wine in the evening. But the relief was always short-lived.

            And yes again, I contemplated suicide. That’s how meaningless everything seemed. But I honestly felt that I needed to survive for the sake of my animals. At the same time, I couldn’t really care for them. I did not go roping; I did not even ride. I had to drag myself through the most basic of horse chores—feeding and watering. Anything more seemed beyond me, and even this much was very hard to do. My friends and family helped me feed my horses…and they went to the grocery store and brought me food so that I would eat. Yes, it was that bad.

            But it passed. I just had to walk through it, one step at a time. It wasn’t easy. More like going through a severe illness than any other way I can think of to describe it. I felt like shit…all the time. And I endured it and continued to put one foot in front of the other. More than that, I contemplated my life and tried to see what the depression might be trying to teach me. Because strange though it sounds, that depression, as I began to understand, came to me for a reason. When I look back on it, I learned some very important things during the year I was depressed. But that didn’t make it easy to bear.

It lasted a year. Until finally it lifted of its own accord. A year and one month after it began, it left me for good. I was involved with a new man and I went to Europe with him, and suddenly life was worth living again. And I still had my horses. Thanks to my friend, Wally, who did much of the feeding and caring for them during the year I was depressed.

            The thing is that awful though it was, the depression was actually a gift. I emerged from it changed—for good. I no longer felt that I had to compete on my horses in order to achieve something. I felt perfectly free to interact with my horses in whatever way was best for me and them. And I knew that I would never again prioritize horse competitions and horse training over my marriage.

            At this point I was re-married and I knew I wanted to have a child. I still had Burt and Gunner, who were both retired, and Flanigan and Plumber. My friend Wally was roping on Flanigan and Plumber and having a fine time with them. And me? I went on the occasional trail ride on Plumber with my new husband riding Flanigan alongside me and felt that life was good.

            But there were still more changes to come. (To be continued.)

PS—I wrote Slickrock about my horse packing adventures, and Breakaway about my battle with depression during this period of my life. These books are, of course, fiction, not memoir. All my novels have classic mystery plots involving murder and such, and this sort of drama did not come my way in real life, thank goodness. But all the background material in the stories is drawn from my own experiences. Click on the titles to find the Kindle editions of these books.

Heart Horses and Breakaway

by Laura Crum

First off, I have to confess, I don’t really know what the term “Heart Horse” means. I hear it used a lot, and I take it to refer to those special horses that come along in one’s life—the ones who own a piece of your heart. When I was young there was an old cowboy saying about how you “only got one special horse” in your lifetime, but I find that isn’t true. I’ve had five “special” horses in my life—and each one brought me some unique gifts. Three of these horses are still with me—two of them I kept until the end of their lives and they are buried here. So today I’d like to talk about my “heart horses” and show you some photos, and maybe hear your stories about yours.

I sometimes wonder how many special horses will come my way in my lifetime. I’m going to be 55 this year, and I’ve owned horses pretty much non-stop since I was 15. That’s forty straight years of horse ownership. I don’t know whether to be proud of this fact or sort of embarrassed. It kind of reminds me of an AA meeting. “My name is Laura and I’m a horseaholic.” Only I’m still doing it. Sort of like going to the AA meeting and then heading out to the bar afterward for a few cocktails. Cause I am still drawn to acquiring more horses—though I know that’s not particularly reasonable. But I am deeply grateful for the five forever horses that have come my way.

I’ve owned many horses in my life, but plenty of them did not really work out for me, and I either sold them or gave them to an appropriate home. When I was young, I longed to have a horse that WOULD work out, would be a forever horse, but I just didn’t know how to make this happen. I eventually found out that you don’t MAKE it happen—you follow where you’re led. Not one of my heart horses came to me in a “normal” fashion. You know, where you set out to buy a horse, try lots of them, pick one you like and buy him, and hey presto, he’s your forever horse. No, every time I tried this approach, I ended up with a horse that did NOT work out.

My first forever horse came along while I was in college. I had previously owned three different horses that I never established much of a bond with; I was busy with school; I had horses I could borrow/ride and had determined I didn’t need to own a horse at that time. But not a month after I sold a little sorrel gelding that I’d trained, I went with a friend to look at some Queensland heeler pups—and saw Burt.

It really was love at first sight. I got out of that truck and ignored the puppies, just walked straight to the corral where this bright bay gelding was trotting up and down. Burt was exactly the horse I’d imagined. My favorite color and size (bright bay, 15.3), and he had the brightest look in his eyes. “Is that your horse?” I asked the guy with the pups.

Turned out he was boarding the horse for a friend—who wanted to sell him. Burt was five years old—and had had thirty days put on him when he was three. That was it. He was said to be gentle—but obviously green as a grass. I’ll make a long story short. A couple of months later Burt was my horse. And he stayed my horse for thirty years. Burt was my first forever horse, or heart horse, I guess. He died at thirty-five years of age—and was trotting about as bright-eyed as ever two hours before we had to put him down (due to a major stroke).

The photo below shows Burt in his prime—he was about seven or eight.

Next came Gunner. Once again, I wasn’t looking for a horse. I owned Burt, and another horse named Ready (who ultimately did not work out). I could not afford a third horse. And I particularly could not afford Gunner.

At the time I was riding for a well known cowhorse trainer as his assistant. I was learning a lot, and I got to ride a lot of really nice horses. I also saw a whole lot of very abusive stuff. Gunner was a just turned three year old for sale, who was placed in my string for me to put some training on him. Gunner had had thirty days when he was two. Like Burt when I bought him, Gunner was green as grass.

But unlike Burt, Gunner was a royally bred cowhorse prospect, and an immensely talented colt. He was also sweet, friendly, and willing. After three months of riding him I was desperately in love with him. I could not stand the thought that he would be bought by some tough cowhorse guy who would torture him to try to win the Snaffle Bit Futurity. No matter that I had no clue how I could afford his expensive purchase price, I took out a loan and bought Gunner. Best choice I ever made. We competed at many events over the years, won some buckles and awards, and shared many good times together. Almost thirty years later, he is still my horse, and he’ll be with me until he dies.

Below you see Gunner and me fifteen years ago—Gunner is seventeen years old and mostly retired—I just used him for light riding at that time.

Next we have Flanigan. Once again, I was not looking for a horse (do you see a pattern here?) Flanigan belonged to my friend, Wally, and he was a horse I did not much care for—until I borrowed him to rope on when I retired Gunner due to arthritic issues. Once again, I fell in love. I have told Flanigan’s story before on this blog, so will simply say that both Wally and I feel he was the best horse either he or I ever rode. I bought a half interest in Flanigan, and took care of/rode this horse until he died—of an inoperable colic at 21 years of age. Below you see us together when Flanigan was in his prime as a rope horse—I’m turning a steer for my friend Sue Crocker on Pistol.

And then there was Plumber. This time I WAS looking for a horse (shock). Gunner and Burt were retired, Flanigan was getting older, and I wanted to buy a young horse to train. But Plumber was not the horse I wanted. I had known this colt since he was born, and when my uncle decided to sell him as an unbroken three-year-old, I took the colt to the round pen to see how he moved. Well…I got Plumber trotting and stepped to his head to turn him—the horse promptly tangled up his front feet and stumbled. I got him going again and again went to turn him—this time he tangled up and fell down. I shook my head in disgust. This was not an athletic colt.

My uncle was of the same opinion—the price on Plumber went lower and lower, as no one bought him. Eventually my uncle made a deal to sell him to the local horse trader. I couldn’t stand it. I had known this sweet little horse since he was born and I knew him to be kind and cooperative. I bought him, determined that he would be my “mind over matter” horse. I told my disbelieving friends that I would prove that a good mind could triumph over a lack of athletic ability.

Plumber was truly a klutz. He disunited if asked to go faster than a lope. He could not make three turns in a row while following a cow without tangling up his feet. It took me five years to get him solid enough at team roping that you could compete on him. But when he was nine years old he was a competitive heel horse. He’s won at least half a dozen saddles, as many buckles, and thousands of dollars in a ten year career. We triumphed; my little mind over matter horse was a winner.

I still have Plumber—he is twenty-three and retired. He nickers every time he sees me.

Below you see Plumber at seventeen years, packing me and my kid.

And now there is Sunny. Once again, I was not looking for a horse. I had quit roping, and the only riding I was doing was with my kid. I had recently bought my little boy a solid horse (Henry) and we were starting to go out on trail rides. I was riding Plumber, recently retired from roping and plenty sound enough for the trail riding I wanted to do. I had no intentions of buying another horse.

But Plumber didn’t like being a trail horse. He’d been a team roping horse for my friend Wally for the last seven or eight years, and hadn’t been out on the trails much during that time, though I’d ridden him outside a bunch when he was younger. For whatever reason (and I suspect he was kind of stiff), Plumber protested when asked to walk downhill and spooked dramatically at every little rustle in the bushes. I was not afraid that he’d dump me, but I didn’t enjoy riding a horse that clearly didn’t want to be there, and I did want to keep my entire focus on my kid, which required that I have a solid bombproof horse of my own.

I had known that Sunny was for sale (in fact I’d tried him and rejected him as a horse for my son—too stubborn), and I knew he was a good trail horse. On a whim, I called the owner and asked if she’d sold him. No, she hadn’t. Many people had tried him, a few had come close to buying him, but he was still with her. Waiting for me, I think.

Anyway, I picked Sunny up on New Year’s Eve 2007, and the rest you know, since I write about him often enough on the blog. Here’s one of my favorite photos of Sunny, taken a couple of years ago. I think it shows the magical quality this little mutt of a horse has—at least for me.

And finally, my sixth book, Breakaway, is now up on Kindle for 99 cents. This is a funny book. People either like it or hate it. I’ve had quite a few folks tell me it is their favorite title in the series. But my then editor told me she never should have agreed to the book, that it didn’t fit my series and was outside the range of “cozy”. It is certainly my darkest book. But my books are pretty light in general, so a dark one isn’t all that creepy compared to lots of what’s out there. In any case, Breakaway deals with depression, which some people relate to, and some people don’t. People who’ve been through depression usually like this book. People who haven’t often find it “depressing.” The crime around which the plot turns is a little weird (OK, very weird)—though it is based on something which I encountered in real life, as are most of the crimes I use to create my mysteries. Anyway, I really like this book, but don’t say I didn’t warn you it’s a little “different.” Here is the link to buy it on Kindle.

If any one would like to talk about their own heart horses—or review Breakaway—I’d love to hear your thoughts. Also, if anyone would like a free copy of my most recent book, “Barnstorming”—a paper copy—email my publisher, Susan Daniel at susan@danielpublishing.com and ask for your free review copy. You must send her your snail mail address, and your only obligation is to post a short review—can be two or three sentences—on Amazon or on your blog.

Why Ever Did You Pick That Cover?

By Laura Crum

As the author of ten mysteries featuring equine veterinarian Gail McCarthy, I’ve frequently been asked the above question. Believe me, on some of those books I would have asked the question myself, if I had been the reader. The truth is that I didn’t pick that cover(!) In fact, I had virtually nothing to say about it.

My first mystery, Cutter, came out in hardcover from St Martin’s Press in 1994. Needless to say, I waited with great excitement to see what the jacket would look like. (For those unfamiliar with this process, it takes roughly a year from the moment of turning a manuscript in to the publisher until the finished book arrives in the mail…a long wait.) I can still remember my immediate sense of deflation when I finally saw the book. It looks like Nancy Drew, were the words that came to mind.

This was my first experience with a phenomena that I later became very familiar with. For some reason, books with horses on the cover have a tendency to look “YA” (publishing industry slang—means “young adult”), unless the cover artist is quite skillful. Cutter looked very YA from my point of view.

Still, I had no idea how dire things can get in the book cover department. Not until I saw the paperback version of Cutter. Not only did this cover also look very YA, the artist had depicted my western cutting horse with an English saddle (!) You can imagine the comments I got on that one. Unfortunately, most of the world believes that an author personally chooses or designs the cover—I hate to think how many folks may consider me dismally ignorant on the subject of cutting horses, based on this jacket.

As you might imagine, at this juncture I called up the St Martin’s art department, wanting to be sure I could have some input into the cover of my next book. To make a long story short, the answer was “not”. A midlist author (publishing industry slang for anyone who’s not a bestseller but is still getting published by a big publisher), it turns out, has very little control over what cover her book will have. I could whine to the art director about what I wanted and didn’t want, sure, and he would agree to pass this on to the artist, but the net result was that the art director was interested in his/her concept, not mine.

Fortunately Hoofprints, my second novel, had a much more pleasing cover than Cutter. Or at least, I thought so. (Not coincidentally, at least in my opinion, it sold a lot better, too.) When I praised the cover to my agent, however, she sniffed dismissively. I was quite surprised that she didn’t seem to like the jacket. Novice in the publishing business that I was, I had paid no attention to the lettering. My agent was no novice. “I wish they’d done your name a little larger,” was all she said.

Sure enough. Now that I considered this aspect, I saw that my name was printed in such small letters it was hardly legible. Another lesson learned.

Finally, on my third mystery, Roughstock, I hit the jackpot. I loved the cover, and virtually everyone who saw the book did, too. Not to mention my name was nice and big. (Roughstock also sold very well, by the way.) The cover artist, Peter Thorpe, had emailed me in the course of his work (being one of that lovely breed who actually reads the material and tries to make the cover fit), so I was able to thank him for a great job. Naturally I requested him thereafter.

This system didn’t work all the time. The art director at a big house like St Martin’s has a tendency to be a “revolving door” position. Seldom did I have the same art director from book to book. So, periodically the current inhabitant of the office would decide to replace my favorite artist with someone else, usually not to good effect. For instance my sixth novel, Breakaway, which is one of my favorite books, but also probably the “darkest” of my mysteries and the least suitable for young readers, has a cover that looks more YA than all the rest. Needless to say, I was not thrilled.

So the answer to my title question is that I have mostly had very little control over the covers of my novels, which is unfortunate, as I think many people do judge a book by its cover. I have to admit, I find it easier to buy a book with an appealing cover than one with a repulsive or boring jacket (in my eyes), despite the fact that I may be familiar with the author and able to evaluate the book more fairly on its merits. I’m a big believer in the idea that covers are very important. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that overall, those of my books that have what I would call appealing covers have sold better than the others.

Thus I’m grateful that my last two books have been published by Perseverance Press, who has been willing to use Peter Thorpe as the cover artist (and thank you, Pete, for being willing to do the work). Moonblind and Chasing Cans are two of my favorite jackets—I’d welcome your input.
Cheers,
Laura Crum