Seri died this week. She was never my horse, but she is part of the trainer I’ve become. Seri was a horse to reckon with. This photo of her and Edgar Rice Burro was taken during a fire evacuation. It’s a testament to who Edgar is that she allowed his company. Geldings were never up … Read more
We are in Limbo. It’s that week between Christmas and New Year when nobody knows what day it is. Not that it matters because that’s the point of limbo. If you are in the Northern Hemisphere you are in-between storms. Entire states seem to have traded places. Some of us have ice rinks, and some … Read more
She’s an 18hh Thoroughbred-Shire cross. She’s 30 years old and her name is Thyme. I’ll give you a minute to smile. Thyme lives in England but managed to get her rider to email me with a question. “Did you ever write a post on the halt?” he asks. “She will stop in the school, but … Read more
Walking past the mare, I let my hand follow the shape of her body, her hair so short it has no texture in the height of summer. My fingers slip under her mane first, and remembering the full moon on night she was born, watching with the rest of the herd as her dam gave … Read more
The woman doesn’t make a good first impression. Her hair is dry as straw under a ball cap from Tractor Supply. Wearing a stiff barn coat and men’s muck boots that make a hollow flap as she walks with a limping rhythm, the full bucket bumping her knee each stride. Her hand is thick, nails … Read more
She has no time for gentle words and soft hands primping her mane. The broad-chested mare may allow a stiff curry in the itchy season, but she would rather throw herself on the ground to rub the loose hair off on a crust of spring snow and cool mud, leaping in air to gallop away, … Read more
Everyone did what instinct dictated. The beach was so peaceful. Deserted with not so much as a footprint when they arrived. People in the distance maybe but they felt alone. Just a bay mare and her rider standing in the water and their friend on the ground leading another horse. All was calm but in … Read more
No shy curve, she takes a direct line. The big mare trots up with authority, her ears shouting orders in all directions at once, her body dwarfed by an ageless spirit that has yet to find its limit. If she needed you, she’d never let it show. Settle your doubt and stand with equality, … Read more
She was for sale: a black bay Arabian mare and I was looking for a beginner lesson horse. Tacked up when I arrived, I led her to the mounting block, held the reins a bit too tight, poked her with my toe as I stepped into the stirrup and then dragged my leg over … Read more
We became strangers. I thought I knew her so well; that place just back from her ears where her mane flips to the other side. Her slow half-closed eye resting in speckled shade, head low to the flank of a gelding. Her outline in moonlight blue at the night feed, the horse from my … 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
Caramel and blond…
…she sees it all
One gray mare to another.
Less correction; more direction.
…as she turns her ear to me.
To say that all of my best teachers have been horses is a draft-horse-sized understatement.