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The Adventures of Zoe and Foxy
Zoe the Tank dumped me smack into the middle of our dressage arena last Friday. She is too big and I am too old for this kind of nonsense. At this point you might not be able to pot geraniums on my rear end, but I’ll bet you could manage a few pansies. We had been working on leg yields. Very simple exercise, unless one is a blockheaded mare who refuses to loosen either her left jaw or her left shoulder. She should step away from whatever leg I am pressing against her girth. After some fairly acrimonious discussion, she agreed that indeed giving me her left jaw and shoulder was feasible—no, advisable. Then we started working on right lead canter departs. Zoe decided that one agreement was enough for one afternoon. She would absolutely, positively, and in no uncertain terms NOT give me her right lead canter. First, I asked politely, then I asked a bit louder. We were getting our left lead canter depart perfectly every time. Unfortunately, when you’re going around the dressage arena with your right side facing into the center, you’re generally supposed to be on the right lead. So I tried one more time. Most saddle broncs in rodeos are small quarter horses and low to the ground. Zoe, on the other hand, is near 16.2 hands tall and weighs over 1600 pounds. It’s a long way down. She bucked and spun as though she was at the Cowboy finals in Las Vegas. She spun right and I went left. Right in the sand. At that point, of course, she realized that she had done what my grandmother used to call “dirtying in the churn.” I was lying on my back attempting to force some air back into my lungs, and all I could hear was Zoe’s hooves and my trainer’s cusswords. While I was getting myself back together my trainer got on her and explained that she would give us the right lead canter and hold it. Then I got back on, although I didn’t much feel up to cantering. She’s been fawning over me ever since. That’s Zoe’s form of apology. We’ll see how far that goes the next time I ask for a right lead canter. Say a prayer for me. Foxy: The two year old filly, Foxy, is finally sound after a dreadful hoof abscess that eventually went all the way up into the coronet band at the top of her hoof. We’re going to try to get a good video of her this week so that we can put it up on the internet and find her a good home with someone who will take her where I’m not able to. [12/7/2004] Zoe the Tank, my half-Shire mare, is actually named Azora. The people who bred her named her. I have no idea what it means. I do know, however, that she is a saint. She puts up with my incompetence, and seldom reacts badly. She did dump me in the arena about a month ago, but that was my fault. Although Zoe is only 16.1 hands tall, she weighs about 1600 pounds. Believe me, it's a long way to fall. I was sore for a month despite the ministrations of a massage therapist and a chiropractor. She still can surprise me, however. This is a mare that was trained to drive to a carriage before she was ever broke to saddle, and who refused absolutely to canter until she was seven years old. A week ago, several of us were out trail riding in the beautiful fall weather. The others decided to canter off down a long straight stretch. Zoe was missing a shoe, so we stayed behind trotting sedately. Zoe, however, knows that dragons go after the stragglers. She had no intention of being snatched from the end of the line. All of a sudden, she took the bit between her teeth, hunkered down and tore off after the others at a dead run. I couldn't slow her down, much less stop her. I had no idea see could move that fast. I knew that if I fell off I'd REALLY be hurt, so I sat back and hung on. I knew she wouldn't gallop long. Entirely too much effort. The minute she passed Coss, a big chestnut Hanoverian, she slowed down to a nice long-strided trot. The dragon would no doubt eat poor Coss and leave smart Zoe alone. She was so proud. I was just glad I'd stayed in the saddle. River Fox, my two-year-old gray Holsteiner filly is for sale for one reason only. After all, I bred her for me to ride. She'll top out about seventeen hands when she's grown, and I've always wanted a big fancy horse. However, my trainer gave me a cold dose of reality when I told her my plans. "Are you out of your mind?" she said. "Do you have any idea how old you'll be when that baby is four? You have no more business riding a youngster than you do going up in the space shuttle. Less." So, my precious Foxy is for sale to some youngster who'll take her to the moon as a jumper, where her talents definitely place her. I really believe horses have ESP. No sooner do you decide to sell a horse
than it goes lame, gets the sniffles, or runs itself into a stob and cuts a big
hole in its chest. And babies do not suffer in silence. Poor Foxy came in this
morning limping on three legs with a horrendous abscess in her right front hoof.
I have soaked her ankle-deep in Epsom salts and warm water, filled the hole full
of Betadine, kept her relatively pain-free with Bute, and bedded her down deep
in fresh shavings. When I left her, she leaned her head against my shoulder as
if to tell me, "I want my mommy." Poor baby. | Home | Bio | BelleBooks | Superromances | Latest News | Contact | Guestbook | |
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[01/25/2005]