In Which Ro Contemplates a Career Change
A couple weeks ago, Ro had some time off.
She thought that being a kept woman was awesome. Food, grooming, a little stretch in the round pen, but no actual work. All the hay she could eat. Life was good.
Then the rain stopped and the arena dried up, and she went back to work.
To keep her mind off the injustice, she came into raging, flaming heat. I own the world’s biggest hussy. The geldings next to her were bemused and confused: You keep peeing… are you ok? Maybe it’s a kidney stone. Want me to call the vet? I’m not sure what you want me to do…. The poor girl can’t get no satisfaction.
About the time she came out of heat, I decided I had had it with her mane. I stared at it critically for a while, with Ro edging as far away from me as she could: You look, um, kind of, you know, intense. And I think I would like to be over here for a while, and what are those things in your hand and why are you… OMG! My hair! My hair is on the floor! Why is my hair on the floor?!
Apparently there are rules to cutting manes. Things to do and not do. I never bothered to learn them, because I’ve always lived in the land of civilized manes, where a little pulling and tidying will do ya.
You could say I butchered her mane. You could say it gets a touch warm in Texas in the summer. Same difference.
Ro is horrified. I am trying to decide if I 1) wait six weeks and see if I can salvage it then with some judicious pulling; 2) roach it all; 3) roach it all so it sticks up, and then cut spikes in it.
I mean, if I’m going to roach it, I might as well have fun with it, right?
Ro was on Craig’s List that night, putting up want ads for a new owner.
But today I went out to the barn and all appeared to be forgiven. I brushed her, tacked her up, and headed to the round pen. Lunging day. Muscle building. Side reins. We like to pretend we have a program. We’re in training. We have goals. Probably.
The round pen was occupied, so I considered my options. Arena: busy. Grass: Open. Lunge whip: in the occupied round pen. Dressage whip: available.
I have lunged Ro on the grass before with a dressage whip. She played along and pretended it was a lunge whip. Not ideal, but it worked.
We head back to the barn to pick it up. Ro is still looking bright and interested. She probably knows something I don’t know. Work is busy right now; the dogs hanging out by the arena probably know things I don’t know.
Back on the grass, it occurs to me that since we have done this before, she probably has figured out that the dressage whip is not the lunge whip. I consider the situation and then have her walk on a small circle so that I can reach out and touch her with the whip. She rolls her eyes and flicks an ear at me. Yeah, yeah. You have a whip. You’re the boss. Whatever. Let’s go.
I ask her to trot. She eyes the whip and determines that I have not specified what she is to trot, and starts with a half circle. I wave the whip at her: No cutting in! She eyes the whip and begins cutting in everywhere. What am I going to do about it, she wants to know—throw the whip at her?
Five minutes and some careful negotiation later, she’s trotting a circle. Look, she says, I’m a circus pony. Are you happy now?
I ask her to canter, and as she does, I remember that thing that she knows that I don’t know.
She auditions for a career change: she would like to be a bucking bronco.
I reel her back in and we do some walk/trot transitions while my brain processes the revelation I’ve just had: Ro had yesterday off.
With both our brains back in, we try the canter again. It goes much better this time. She’s loping along, and she’s figured out the uneven terrain thing. While I’m enjoying our success, she’s still contemplating career changes.
She jumps an odd-colored patch of grass: I could be a hunter! A bump in the ground: An eventer! A patch of dirt: A jumper! I don’t even need the obstacles!
Well, that’s great. We can go Grand Prix—the water spreads will be a piece of cake!
Actually, I was very happy about the jumping thing. Maybe one day I really will get to take her to do Wave-At-The-Jumps-As-You-Pass-By eventing.
The round pen eventually opened up, and we went in to get to work. That is, work in Ro’s current career path instead of her wishful thinking career paths.
I put the side reins on. She flicked an ear at me. Really? This is what you want? Side reins? We could be out tearing up the grass some more, you know?
I see her point. I want to get out on trails too. On the other hand, the last time I tried hacking her around the property a little, her heart was thumping so hard in her chest my teeth were vibrating. I put the conversation on hold while we get to the task at hand: lunging. Working. Pretending we have a program.
When we finish, she sighs. I liked being a kept woman better. This working thing is for the birds. Can I at least go back to being a lawnmower?
I don’t know what to tell her. I’ve been asking that question for years—perhaps not the lawnmower bit, but the not having to work for a living bit. No one sympathizes with me. If I have to work, so does she.
She’s probably posting on Craig’s List again: More Food, Less Work. I’ll mow your lawn while you eat lunch and relax in the shade. In return you don’t ask me to trot in silly circles. Everyone’s happy, except my former owner—and she can trot her own darn circles if she likes them so much.