PrintThe snow is melting slowly, the roads are almost passable, and life is slowly returning to normal. I have a few choice words for VDOT on their idea of plowing a road versus my own, but I'll let it slide for now. And I'm 99 percent sure we're off to Florida next winter, which will guarantee a Virginia winter of 55 degrees and mostly sunny every day from December to April. You can thank me later.
Midge might be on his way out of the training hole we've been in. Today's ride had a lot of promise, and as I look to our first Prix St. Georges (t-minus 3.5 weeks, please shoot me), we might not totally humiliate ourselves. Secret to a happy life: ride a pretty horse. Then even when you're cataclysmic, you have a chance at lovely photos. Midge is, among many, many other things, very pretty. So there's always hope.
He can also REALLY trot—the throughness has gotten very, very reliable, and while his medium and extended work is still pretty cart-y looking, the collection is getting more and more elegant and less and less like a hackney pony. The canter will be what it will be, but mamma wants a 9 on her trot half-passes, and they might just happen, especially since as the weather gets warmer, Midge thinks the application of my leg is less offensive.
And Ella is back under saddle, tentatively. The worst of the alligator skin is gone, and while there are still a few scaley patches, I've got a collection of thick, gooshy sheepskin pads that I'm applying religiously and proceeding with caution. The week of longing was a good thing—she only felt like she'd had a few days off for our ride today, instead of a 10-day vacation.
The real test as to whether I can kick on will be tomorrow. If she's sore, it's back on the longe line, and I jump off a bridge. The t-minus 3.5 weeks applies to her, too, except it's the Brentina Cup test. Yes, only at a schooling show, but yikes! Not the way I hoped our pre-season would be going. I'm starting to have stress dreams about it—had one last week about having to do our first Grand Prix in a library, and Ella kept getting stuck, so I had to reach out and use my arms to pull her through the stacks. Every time I did, Axel Steiner at C took 2 points off. I think there's something wrong with me.
Fender is going through one of those charming 17-year-old boy stages where he's got his bangs in his eyes and listens to a lot of death metal and greets everything I say under saddle with "pffft. Whatever." Fortunately, corporal punishment is not against the rules in my barn, so Fender has had a few hot dates with Mr. Whippy, and he’s finished every ride by combing his hair and putting on a polo shirt like a good little Alter Boy. He'll go to his first show in a little more than a month, just training 3, and I'm not worried. He'll eventually figure out the rules—the quicker you do what I tell you, the quicker I get off your back. Every day. End of story.
I am very proud of him on the ground manners front—he had his first foray off the farm, during which he loaded and unloaded for both trips like a pro (though he's still got some learning to do on the self-unloading thing; hasn't quite figured out that you can't turn around and come off face-first. Whoops.) We went to the vet for some pre-first-shoeing X-rays, which reveal nothing of note, and the farrier comes tomorrow. Baby's growing up! Maybe his new shoes will cut down on the sass. (Not holding my breath. I think that only works on teenage girls.)
