An even-keel equine personality has become such a prerequisite today–everybody seems to want horses who are “easy to ride” or “bombproof”–that I worry that horses who challenge their riders’ ability will soon become as rare as Siberian tigers. So this week I’m singing the praises of horses for whom eccentricity is absolutely part of the package.
We all know people who are virtuosos at a sport, a job, a craft, or, especially, an art or teaching, people we’ve always considered to be either a bit unusual or “from another planet.” I’m sure you know people who can solve complex mathematical calculations or esoteric physics problems but can’t tie their shoes. Or who can fix anything but can’t remember to change their clothes or feed themselves. And we can all think of trainers or riders whose ability with horses we admire but of whom we think, “Whew, I’m glad I’m not married to or related to him (or her).”
But if we want to ride gifted horses, we have no choice but to have a relationship. Sometimes it’s hard to get that alliance started because the horse is wild, hard-headed, opinionated, or just, apparently, crazy. And sometimes we strike up an instant kinship with them–we feel a chemistry, an understanding, just as often happens with our human partnerships.
For slow-starting relationships to work, we’ve usually got to believe in the horse’s athletic capacity to get through the exasperating or frightening moments. It’s a little bit easier in the instant relationships. Then, just as with people, we can just smile and say, “Oh, that’s just him.”
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What kind of foibles am I talking about? How about the horse who spooks at sparrows, shadows or feathers on the ground, but no jump in the world can cause him to stop? The horse who leaps away from anything new or different at home–a wheelbarrow, a hose, a jump that’s been moved–but never blinks at a show. The horse who’ll only load or ship on the left side of the trailer. The horse who’ll throw himself on the ground if you try to tighten the girth before you get on.
Sometimes the best horses are the ones who just don’t seem to get it at first. They just can’t pick up the right lead, they stumble down hills and trip over logs out hacking, and they struggle for weeks with the concept of all four feet leaving the ground to jump. Or maybe they overjump everything by two feet, seeming awkward and chicken, but it’s all because they’re so scopey and careful.
Some horses are just too smart (or clever) for the rest of the world. They’ll understand everything the first time, at least they think they do. So they’ll buck and play (often bucking you off) if you don’t present them with a new challenge, with something harder than what you did yesterday, every single day. Or there are horses who don’t seem to have any scope, until you start raising the fences and discover they only jump as high as necessary. Many foxhunters have ridden horses who feel like dead-green 3-year-olds each cubbing season but can always find hounds (and jump anything in the way to get there), even after six hours, in the dark, in December.
It’s those moments–when you and your horse have done something together, through your partnership, through your understanding of and trust in each other–that makes you willing to have a relationship with, to enjoy, a genius who is not normal. Because you wouldn’t want him to be any other way.