Yeah. She named Marco so she could go out and call her stallions. Marco! Polo! All righty then.
So, the February before Marco left, when BO told me she was going to go pick up a colt from the same lady, I probably should have guessed that his name, PJ, stood for...you guessed it (probably faster than me) Polo Junior. If I had known he was going to end up as my horse, I would have changed his name to something else, anything else, so fast it would have made his head spin. I've never liked people names for animals, and so far, my first three horses were people named. The lady was having trouble financially and gave PJ to my BO as a weanling. When the trailer pulled up, BO looked at me and said go get him. I opened the door and discovered the dorkiest looking knobby kneed baby I'd ever seen. I mean, he was SO dorky.
He was absolutely full of worms, and extremely skittish and hard to catch. I'd never really been able to get my hands on a foal, so when BO told me to handle him extensively every day, walk him around the place, etc, I was thrilled. I remember one of the barn moms watching me work with him one day and saying that he was going to be my next project horse. "Nah," I said. What was I going to do with a baby?
Slowly, PJ, or Baby Butter as I always called him, grew and filled out. We had to balance his food intake just so, to prevent him growing too quickly for his tendons and ligaments to support, and yet to keep weight on this elastic foal that kept stretching upwards and upwards. By the time he was a yearling, he was already as tall as my Arab.
Still a little dorky. He never grew out of that. The ears, either.
It didn't take him long at all to learn how to tie, cross tie, pick up his feet, wear a saddle and bit. He was kind of like Marco all over again. Very easy going, not bothered by much of anything, and a joy to work with. I grew pretty fond of him, and when BO told me one day that someone had driven past the barn, saw him in the pasture and called her, offering to buy him. At that point, she still wanted him for herself when he grew up, so she politely declined. I panicked; he was MY baby, my protege! I told her if she ever wanted to sell him, I would take him if Marco was sold and I didn't have another horse. In the meantime, the baby kept on growing. His best friend was our oldest retired school horse, a grumpy curmudgeon named Rat who couldn't be turned out with the other horses, because, at 37 years old, he was still too aggressive towards the other horses and would invariably end up biting off more than he could chew and would injure himself somehow. So he and Butter had the run of the barnyard. Rat took the responsibility of raising his new charge very seriously, and would go into fits when they were seperated for mealtimes. Eventually we had to turn PJ out with the ponies during the day so he could learn to be a horse in a herd setting...Rat was not happy. He would spend the day nervously pacing the front of his stall and calling frequently for his child.
The seperation anxiety got worse when we gelded PJ. We took him to a nice open area where he could go down and get back up without injury to himself. As the vet was preparing for the surgery, Rat went absolutely ballistic in his stall. Exasperated, BO turned to me and said, "Will you go get him?" I went in the barn and pulled Rat out, and brought him into the ring. I stood with him about twelve feet away from PJ, and when the general anesthesia Doc gave him hit, he crumpled to the ground. I swear to god if Rat had eyebrows they would have shot way up his bald old forehead as he took a worried step forward. Oh my god, you've gone and KILLED HIM! He was horrified! Even though Rat and I stood guard during the whole procedure and the recovery, watching his child fall like that obviously stood out in his otherwise senile mind, and he would not rest until his colt was safely by his side again. PJ, bless him, was affectionate to Rat but never returned the same neurotic attachment the old man displayed.
It was about this time that Marco left. On the way back from GA with an empty, Arab-less trailer, BO and her husband tried to console me by saying over and over that I could have PJ, he loved me, and he was a nice horse. All of those thing were true, but I was absolutely heartbroken and a piece of my heart hardened itself against poor blameless PJ. I remained fond of him as long as I had him, but I never allowed myself to form the deep bond I'd had with Marco and still have with Ben. I retained the professional relationship I had failed to maintain with Marco.
When PJ turned two, I started backing him and sitting on him for five minutes at a time once or twice a week. Same drill as with Marco; a person on each side and a few steps forward, call it a day. He never flinched.
All was going well until the first time we tried a few steps of trot. My best friend was visiting from WA and lucky for me, had the camera rolling. I was doing our normal drill of a short walk when BO walked by and said, "Trot that thing a few steps!" "Ehh," I said. "I'll wait." "Oh, come on, he'll be fine! Just a few steps and then walk." "Should we put a lunge line on him or something?" "No. Trot."
I don't blame her. I was nervous, PJ was already in an oddly distractable mood that day, the saddle I was sitting in fit him much better than it fit me, and I didn't have the stirrups adjusted for my legs since I wasn't using them to just walk him anyway. BO had offered to send him to a cowboy to be broken with her 3yo filly in a few months, and I had declined, since he was so quiet and Marco had been so easy. Without thinking about it, I crammed my feet into the much-too-short stirrups and gently asked for a trot. Which I got...for about three strides before he exploded and took off at a sideways, scrambly scooter pooter run across the ring. Needless to say, I was ill prepared and ate dirt. Okay, that's fine, who can blame him? I gingerly got up, as I had re-rolled the ankle I'd injured falling off the tractor. Before I had even caught him, BO had grabbed a lunge line and was ready to hold him this time. He was unsettled, so I talked to him as I got back on. "Walk on," BO said. We moved into a prancy, unsettled walk. "Now, easy, a few strides of trot and come back down." Okay, a few strides of jiggy sideways trot. "And one more time and that's enough."
Um, specify for me: trot one more time, or rip the lunge line away from BO and scooter pooter and eat dirt one more time? My dear friend, love her to DEATH, figured if I was going to keep falling off, she might as well get a picture of it. (Did I mention she's a brilliant photographer? As a matter of fact, rodeos and bucking horses are her specialty, you might say.)
It was not his fault. He was a baby two year-old and didn't know anything, and we pushed him too fast and scared him, as well as treating him like an average bomb proof horse instead of the ignorant, reactive creature most two year-olds are. Serves me right, laying in the dirt after hitting the ground on my back with a terrific impact that left me unable to catch my breath. I tried to roll over and get up but couldn't move. So I laid in the dirt for a few minutes and took the time to reflect on my day, wonder if I'd paid my cell phone bill, and wonder if BO should be calling an ambulance. She leaned over me and said, "I'm sending him to Chris." I nodded my head and said, "Okay." That sounded like a fine idea after all. I lifted my head and asked my friend if PJ was okay; he was, she had caught him and was working him a little bit to try to get him calmed down. All of a sudden, I had an adrenaline rush and somehow popped up from the ground like nothing had happened, and said I wanted to get on and walk him around for a minute so we could end on a good note.
I got on and he barely walked two steps before pulling away from BO AGAIN and taking off. He wanted to make sure we knew he was done for the day. My foggy brain slowly creaked into action and I realized that if I fell off of him again, I probably wasn't going to get up and walk out of the ring. My ankle was aching, my lower back was throbbing and felt funny, and the waistband of my jeans was feeling a little snug. Luckily for me, he aimed himself at the fence and in what I am sure was an impressively elegant display of horsemanship, I hauled back on the reins and WHOAHed him. He stood there quivering with his tail tucked between his legs as BO slowly advanced on him and picked up the trailing lunge line. Photographer Buddy got a lead rope and clipped him on the other side, and we slowly walked a circle and I dismounted. We took him into the barn and I had a knee-jerk reaction emotional breakdown. Photographer Buddy looked alarmed, so I choked out that I was fine but really just had to cry for a sec. If you've ever had a busted tailbone, you can imagine the discomfort I was in for months to come. My lower back was so swollen by the time I got home that I could barely get my jeans off, and Boyfrand had to lift me into bed that night since I couldn't make it. I walked like a 97 year-old for days. The bright side was that I got out of work for the remainder of Photographer Buddy's visit. It was time well spent, even if she couldn't control the occasional giggle at my painstaking efforts to maneuver my stiff body in and out of my car.
Experienced horse people? Want to guess what lesson my colt taught me?
Needless to say, PJ got plenty of time off until he went to the cowboy at about 2 1/2.
He and Ben were pretty good pals. I've never met a horse Benny didn't befriend.
The day came for PJ and BO's filly Rose to depart to get broken. The cowboy reported the next day that PJ was scared of everything and he could barely get his hands on him. "How much work has he had?" Uhh... are you sure you're talking about my colt? He quickly settled in, however, and was quickly quiet w/t/c, and the cowboy only kept him for about a month, mostly to work on loading and unloading in the trailer. A few days before he was supposed to come home, I went out to ride him to make sure we were fine. It goes without saying that my heart rate was a little high that day.
I didn't recognize him at first; I was pretty sure he was gray when I sent him off, and he had grown another inch and further stretched his body and was a gangly bay creature that my eyes passed over at least three times while I tried to figure out which horse tied to the fence was mine. My nerves were completely unfounded; the cowboy did a great job with him, and if anyone in the central Alabama area needs a good trainer to work a colt, I can recommend a good fellow.
PJ came home, and I rode him once every week or three... I wasn't comfortable with working a young horse, so I tried to let him spend his summer growing up, and planned on going to work in the spring when he was a solid three year-old. Mostly, I watched the super interesting process of his color change.
Day after coming home.
I had always planned to leave his beautiful long mane until it was time for him to grow up and start to go to work; sort of akin to your toddler's first haircut being a sign of them no longer being a baby. But one day I got bored and took it off. The change was incredible. He was an adult. Where was little Baby Butter?
By this point, he was pushing 16hh. He was a nice baby with good gaits, and definitely a handsome animal, but every time I got on his back, the less I felt compatible with him. He was so much horse for a five foot tall girl to hold together, and not very forward and took more leg than I could give. One day, I put up an ad.
(Incidentally, isn't Boyfran handsome?)
It took no time at all. I didn't think Marco would ever sell. I quickly had a few replies to his ad, including one from a woman asking if I would be interested in a trade. She said she had a 7yo TB/WB cross that she had bred herself, and although both parents were over 16hh, "Tuesday" had barely made it over 15hh, and was much too small for her. I told her I wasn't really interested in a trade; I had hoped to sell PJ and buy another pony project and start saving up for my own horse trailer. However, a couple kids at the barn were horse hunting; perhaps the mare would be a good fit for one of them? She sent me a couple videos.
Screw that; I wanted her!! Beautiful lofty floaty trot, perfect for dressage. After selling Marco, all that wonderful confidence I had went out of the window and I forgot how to ride, and had no inclination to get another jumping prospect. The more I semi-schooled dressage with Ben, the more appealing a horse who had some ability for it sounded. After many false starts and delays, I finally kidnapped my sister and we drove an hour to go meet Tuesday. It was a gloomy, rainy day but I was determined to try this horse out, and as soon as possible, with a few other people interested in trying PJ out. The woman trailered Tuesday to a friend's place, where there was a covered round pen I could ride in. Not ideal, but I was excited about this horse and chomping at the bit. She came off the trailer quietly, stood quietly while I tacked her up in her bridle and my saddle, lunged quietly in the round pen, stood relatively quietly while I mounted.
A little history on her: This lady also owned Tuesday's dam, and while out picking up hay one day, saw a very impressive stallion she was told was a Hanoverian. She had her mare covered by him, and voila! Foal!
(Let me just say, this is the first time I've had baby pictures of one of my horses. PJ doesn't count.)
...with much less chrome than she had anticipated, but hey, breeding is a crapshoot anyway. She raised the foal, broke her and put a pretty solid foundation on her, and then stepped back to raise a family of her own. Tuesday had about two years off in the pasture before the woman was ready to get back into it...but hopefully with a horse that suited her more. Which was when she saw PJ's ad and contacted me. For having such a long time off, Tues was a good ride. I was duly impressed. The footing along the rail of the round pen was deep and slick, so I didn't want to ride in it. We pretty much did a 12m circle the whole ride... which was made very exciting by the fact that my saddle wasn't wide enough for her broad back (there's a reason for the redponybaytank handle of this page) and kept slipping. I wanted her. We made plans for Tuesday to come down the next Friday so I could ride her at my barn and have Dear Vet kick the tires, and the woman could try out PJ and hopefully take him home with her.
The night before the exchange, I spent the evening with PJ, cleaning him up and spending a little time with him. I never did bond closely with him, despite his sweet disposition and goofy quirks (my favorite being the way he would stick his leg out in front of him and plop it down on the ground, watching himself with fascination as if to say, I have a FOOT!!) A sadness, however, creeped over me, and I told Boyfrand as he helped me spoil my grown up Baby Butter, that I didn't think I wanted to do this again; it was too hard.
Everything went well the next day. Dear Vet was a little concerned that Tues might be an IR horse, so I would have to watch her diet carefully. She also had a bit of a contracted heel in her RF and flexed a little off on it; Dear Vet put her at a .5 on the scale. She warned me that as a resale, any vet would pick that up and caution a potential buyer. But you know what? I kinda thought maybe I wanted to keep her... I didn't need a Grand Prix horse or a jumper. I wanted a horse that suited me, that I could reteach myself how to ride on. I wanted a horse that I could take to some small local shows and do some dressage classes with.
So, I said a bittersweet goodbye to my grown up weanling. I can hardly put this handsome fellow in the same place as that doofy looking colt, can you?
See ya around, kiddo...
So far, PJ is doing well in his new home. She also is giving him time to grow up before putting him to work, but what she has asked of him so far, he has taken in stride. He now lives close to where my dad lives, so hopefully I can go visit him soon.
And as for me...a new phase was starting.
No comments:
Post a Comment