Anna Blake One draws attention, standing by a tolerant gelding and playing the horse whisperer, tickling withers, teasing his whiskery muzzle. Passive violence in the guise of a scratch, demanding an involuntary response ripped with conflict, pulsing with agitation. One demands sweaty perfection, the mare never exactly good enough, but rewarded at last, one ringing slap, … Read more
Most of us hear voices. We might be working with our horses on an issue and floundering in the moment, because we hear a threatening voice in our heads. It could haunt us from the past; a trainer from decades ago, something said on a video or written. For some of us, the harsh threat … Read more
His back is not solid, nerves run between banks of muscle, each vertebra linked to the next, from the base of his skull to the end of his tail. A horse’s strength is rhythm, each hoof initiating a wave when it takes to the air, a surge of energy rolling up through his hind, my … Read more
You’re standing in a tennis court just behind the baseline, being mildly uncomfortable in your tennis togs because the glare off your legs, like any good horsewoman’s, is near blinding. Right about then, a bullet whizzes by your ear. You know it was a tennis ball, point to the server. Taking a few strides … Read more
Skeletal power poles from the wind turbines out east litter the view of the mountains, splintering the sunset. New construction treads closer, tract homes and fast food. This farm was never announced by miles of white vinyl fencing, just a mailbox at the end of the driveway. There are mismatched fence panels, some white, some … Read more
I’m the sort of horse-person who hears about a castration and pops a cork for a toast all around. I celebrate the gelding, both the verb and the noun. I’ve known some great stallions, but it can be a hard lifestyle in this country. My home barn is filled with a majority of geldings, mine … Read more
Haunted by her hooves, jagged edges tilting her balance, she stood in filth, wooden pallets cobbled into a pen. Remembering her coarse hair, the shadows cast by each rib. No act of blunt cruelty did this, it was willful indifference one average day after another. Looking at her, an ache grows behind my eye … Read more
When Larry McMurtry wrote Lonesome Dove, he gave Woodrow Call’s gray mare a blunt name that was rudely respectful, in a close-as-kin way. Being a sort of gray mare myself, the name stuck in my memory. Some folks hate mares so much they refuse to have them on the place. Others praise them to the … Read more
Audio Blog 41. An Argument Against the Whip
Audio Blog 40. Circles: A Soft Bend