Turning Point | Barn Stories Ep. 91 - Equus Barn Stories

0:00You are listening to the Horse Radio Network, part of the Equine Network family. How can a freak past your injury deep in the relationship between a woman and her horse? Find out in this episode of Barn Stories. Here's another great essay from our podcast archives. It's about a woman buying the type of horse she never imagined owning and ultimately loving her in a way she never expected to. It's a story about transformation and how a little orange mare with an attitude can be a catalyst for personal growth. This essay hits on a theme we see often in Equis, showing how people bond with their horses during difficult times. It also illustrates how a crisis can lead people to re-examine their priorities and decide what in life they value most. Let's listen to Turning Point, written by Brenda Thomas and read by Taylor Autumn. For first time horse owners and new riders just starting out, find the information and support you need can be challenging.

1:01That's why Equine Network has partnered with Sentinel Horse Feed and Absorbing to bring you my new horse. A place where equestrians just getting into horse ownership or riding will find the resources and community they need at precisely their stage of the equine journey. From important horse keeping information and how to videos, to social media communities, exclusive experiences and more, my new horse is your one stop shot for riders of all levels and disciplines where eager to find easy to understand horse care information and guidance. Start your horse ownership journey today, visit mynewhorse.com. As I stood with the cold wind in my face, I wondered why I was in this muddy pasture, staring at a scruffy orange yearling filly with a pitiful wisp of a tail. I was shopping for my perfect horse, preferably a beautiful, smooth body gilding. A bay would be nice, with a long glossy tail. He would be a lovely mover and possess gentlemanly stable manners and a workman-like attitude.

2:02So far, I had traveled many well-swept barn aisles and padded many glossy and well-muscled shoulders, but I had yet to lock eyes with the right horse. Which brought me to this ranger filly who regarded me with cool disdain before turning back to her hay. I snapped a photo of her almost as an afterthought and climbed back into my vehicle. I quickly forgot about the trip as I continued the search for my next sport horse. A few months later, I was shuffling through a pile of papers on my desk when the photo of the orange filly slipped out and floated to the floor. I propped it on my desk and left it there, eyeing it wearily for a few weeks. One day I picked it up and examined it more closely. The filly had a nice, short back, a clean throat latch and bright, calm eyes. I began to contemplate new possibilities. Several years later, I found myself trotting from the ring on my show horse.

3:04The little orange filly I had seen that cold winter day. Cricket was far from the ideal I had once envisioned, but we did have our fair share of blue ribbons on the wall. Still, our relationship was rocky. Cricket had a varying and distinct opinion on everything from her position in the trailer, last in, first out, please, to whether she really wanted to perform a flying change when asked. In flat classes, she was a bold mover, but she also had a nasty way of swapping leads. And by her third or fourth trip into the ring of any given show, she had an even nastier way of throwing in an occasional buck. My trainer often said, when cricket is good, she is very, very good. And when she's bad, she is awful. Cricket was boarded at a show horse barn, 45 minutes from my house. She received excellent care and regular schooling. I was able to get to the barn for lessons two or three times a week, and we had settled

4:08into a pleasing routine. One day, the caller idea on my phone listed the stable name and a breeze of foreboding crossed my mind as I let the phone ring one more time before lifting it to my ear. Cricket had taken a fall on the ice as she jokied for position at the gate to come in from her daily turnout. We sent her to a university hospital where diagnostic imaging showed that her pelvis had shifted and she had a deep hamstring tear. The stack of papers on my desk now deepened with bills from the various professionals called upon to treat my injured horse. Among other things, I arranged for massage therapy, deep sonar treatments, and chiropractic sessions to help return my mare to form. Yet, show weekends came and went, and cricket showed no real improvement. Restless, I considered getting a sound less buck prone show horse.

5:09Some returned to fall, and one day I walked into cricket stall and stood by the window. Somehow she had managed to deposit her manure through the bars and onto the sill. I considered her obvious talents as I took in the current condition of my show horse. She had lost weight, her muscles were soft and her coat dull. She did not acknowledge my presence for some time until she finally turned, and her apathetic gaze fell upon mine. At that very moment, I became a better person. Suddenly, I realized the responsibility was mine. I was the one who needed to restore her, not the show horse I had once hoped for, but the vibrant and strong soul that she had always been. At the time, I was reading to my daughter the secret garden, the story of a boy pampered, but denied the typical joys of life because of his delicate health. His young cousin dismisses his condition and treatments, and each day wheels the boy's

6:13chair to the garden. There, his soul is nurtured by the songs of birds, the feel of grass on his bare feet, and the joy of companionship, and he is healed. I cancelled all of cricket's various therapists and massaged her daily myself. I bought her a pretty new halter with her name on the cheekpiece, and every day I walked her down the concrete aisle and out into the light. Rainer shine we would stroll outside for hours, stopping to graze wherever the grass looked particularly tasty, often I stopped and waited while she froze and stared off at whatever it is horse's sea on the horizon. I studied her, getting to know her wrench-shaped blaze which thins to a trickle and trails off down the side of her muzzle until it seems to drip from her chin. I discovered that she has a silly little cow lick on her neck, and an interesting little trail of chestnut-colored spots dotting the tall white stalking on her injured leg.

7:17We walked companionably each day that fall, the songs of the birds and the feel of the grass nurtured her, the sun angled across her withers, and she too was healed. I have now moved cricket to a barn just 10 minutes from my house, and I visit her almost daily. Sometimes I just sit in her open stall door and watch the other horses in the arena while she anoints my head with alfalfa leaves. We have been learning dressage. Cricket seems to like the new challenges, and I enjoy trying to grasp the properties of an energetic and forward halt. I plan to do a few first-level classes soon. I know we will never garner high numbers in the gates category, but the beauty of dressage is that you don't really have to compete with other riders. You can compete with yourself, and a good ride as its own reward. Cricket and I now have a relationship that supersedes the highs and lows of the show

8:18world. I realize now that I had so much invested, financially, physically, and emotionally, and those 10 minute rides in the ring, that I couldn't take joy in anything other than the numbers on the judges' cards. Other show horses may come and go in my life, but cricket will always have a good barn to live in, nice warm blankets in the winter, and fly spray in the summer. We will continue to work together on achieving our own goals in our own way, and when she is too old to ride, I will take her for long walks, and wonder what she sees when she pauses to stare off into the distance. I will feed her hay, and she will feed my soul.