Many years ago we had three dogs, and my husband fell in love with a litter of puppies, begging me to allow him to add another dog to the pack. I recall lamenting to my friend Anita (a common occurrence) and her response —
“Seriously, Patti, you have three dogs, how much difference can a fourth possibly make?”
Her comment may have been accompanied by an eye roll. Her comments often are.
But she was right. Truly –so named because of our realization that we were “truly” insane for getting a fourth dog, particularly when we lived in a 768 square foot cabin– fit right into the pack. The other dogs taught her the ropes, how to stay in line, how to travel in the truck, how to poop in the woods and not close to the house. She fit in seamlessly and it’s hard to believe that she’s twelve years old now.
For the last few years, we’ve had three horses who were sound and capable of competing — Sarge, Ace and Ned.
Last year, Ned never really got legged up. Rich and I would ride Sarge and Ace, respectively, leaving me to either take Ned out solo (somewhat death-defying) or find a third person to ride with us or leave one of the first-stringers home, which I rarely did. By mid-summer it became pretty apparent that Ned was not going to get fit enough to compete, even in a Limited Distance ride, nor did he seem particularly disappointed to be left out of the loop.
Enter Wynne.
At first we thought to ourselves that a fourth horse would only make our keep-the-horses-legged-up situation worse, but since Wynne’s arrival just a few weeks ago, we’ve made it a point to ride twice on our rare decent winter days. One ride we take out Ace and Sarge, ostensibly more fit and better to pace together; the second ride we take out Ned and Wynne.
Now, in theory, neither Ned nor Wynne is particularly fit, but three rides in and I have a whole new perspective about how beneficial Wynne’s addition to the herd is going to be for Ned, if more risky for me.
Wynne has a big walk, and I don’t say that lightly. Ned has a big walk too, but it’s becoming obvious that Wynne can walk away from Ned. Don’t think that Ned has not noticed this. Don’t think for one minute that Ned is happy about it.
Wynne was herd boss in his previous life, and he’s fitting into the middle of the pack here, which is creating some significant angst for Ace and Ned, who also take up that real estate in the hierarchy. Ned, in particular, has his nose out of joint.
This has resulted in some very interesting dynamics on trail.
I am accustomed, particularly during the winter or early spring or when he’s had a lengthy vacation, to swinging a leg over Ned with a bit of trepidation. Although he will be 20 in June, he’s 16+H of very powerful horse, and his disobediences of choice are not spooking or bucking (although those are certainly a part of his repertoire) — they are: 1.) leaping straight up in the air repeatedly (in what I can only describe as a capriole series gone rogue), 2.) plunging his head between his knees and bolting, and 3.) some twisted version of Spanish Walk, with front legs striking out wildly, but which extends also to trot and canter. I admit that it is somewhat unnerving to watch a horse’s front feet fling well in advance of his nose and at roughly the same height with each stride.
I usually get at least one or two Wild Toad Rides on Ned during the cold weather, but find that the next ride has him far more sedate and compliant.
So, on our first little toodle around the woods with Wynne last weekend, I was not surprised that I was required to ride in a mode that I can only describe as aggressively self protective. Elbows at my side, reins short, heels jammed down firmly, leg quietly in place. The entire ride, up and down our hill, across the side of our ridge, was a series of squelched or thwarted incendiary moments. Oh sure, I laughed through some of them, but I think a few of those smiles more closely resembled rictus borne of terror. I survived.
[From time to time I wonder what would happen if I just swung a leg over and let the boy head out on the buckle, all loose and relaxed. Maybe I am somehow encouraging the explosions, but the random moments where I’ve made the mistake of letting a rein become slack or my seat to relax or to be distracted by a conversation and paid dearly make me doubt that this is the case. In the end this is an experiment my sense of self-preservation refuses to let me to play out, despite my general enjoyment of the concept of FTSOI, aka For The Science Of It.]
What surprised me was that on the second ride, the next day, he was just as bad, perhaps worse. Wasn’t he SORE? Hadn’t he had ENOUGH the day prior?
I finished Sunday’s ride with a little dressage schooling in the riding ring. He might have been a little miffed at my delay of his return to recess, but he turned in some remarkably boingy and soft 20M trot circles, changing rein smoothly, powerfully, evenly.
I did not dare to canter.
Today, we headed out again. I let Ned lead for a bit, which seemed to suit him fine and I was lulled into the sense that I was mounted on Senior Citizen Ned. Until we turned toward home. Airborne! The climb back to our barn is not an insignificant one, so I told Richard confidently, “oh he’ll be regretting this halfway up the hill.”
Nope.
Not wishing to reward Ned’s impishness, we turned away from home to ride parallel to the hill. Wynne trotted; Ned cantered while I attempted to obstruct each rebellion, closing doors front, side and rear while spitting out from a clenched jaw — “Do your lungs hurt yet, sucker?!” [I’m not proud of this, mind you, I only admit it to demonstrate that I was hoping a respiratory episode might increase the safety quotient of our ride.]
Ned’s persistent antics resulted in the ride being extended several times to avoid yet another insubordination-inducing turn toward the farm. Please note that we have about 10 inches of snow on the trail; simply walking up and down the hill was enough to give Sarge and Ace (who are, mind you, actually somewhat fit) a workout.
Once again, I hit the riding ring when we got home. Again, perfect, soft, forward 20M circles in trot.
Ned looked positively triumphant as I un-tacked him; he was steamy and warm, he was still panting a bit. His heart rate was 60 and dropping quickly.
Two’s company, three’s a crowd, and I have a feeling four is going to be a resurgence for Ned.
Heaven help me.