Seasonal change

[posted to Morganlist, 26 Sep 1997]

Well, I can certainly attest to the truth of what was said about our latest storm-- nearly an inch of rain in 24 hours, which is highly unusual for this area. To add insult to injury, it was very warm: yesterday's temperature in the barn was 81 degrees at 3pm... while it was raining, mind you.

JM mentioned changes in seasonal behavior in horses a while ago... I have had similar experiences, and always chocked it up the difference in weather. I know that -I- always feel a bit more fey and energetic once the heat of summer begins to abate (hasn't happened here yet, more's the pity) and I have always considered that it isn't a whole lot different for other animals. JM further noted that he sees this change right around Labor Day, and that syncs with my experience too.

Hours of daylight have been mentioned, and may well be a factor. However, I tend to think that *angle* of sunlight and night-time temperatures may be even more of a stimulus. These behavior changes always seem to appear *after* night temperatures have begun to drop, and the angle of light is noticeably autumnal. Too, this is when I usually notice that the horses have started their winter coats, which may indicate some sort of hormonal thing. My grandmere referred to the autumnal wild horse phenomenon as "being tickled by their new coats". This seems appropriate, since even the wildest of the lot usually settles by the time their winter coat is noticeable.

My parent's Percheron mares were a striking instance of seasonal change in behaviour. Normally, they were the most phlegmatic trio of ladies you could ask for. Come autumn, we would always have to endure the few weeks during which they were convinced that they were actually war horses. Their normal routine of off-work hours snoozing under the tree in their pasture and mooching around the byre during milking became a busy schedule of chasing cows and dancing about cutting shapes in the air. This exuberance also came out in their work. I think JM's term "keenness" sums it up: when you feel like you are leading the Charge of the Light Brigade from atop a field rake, it is a little unnerving! (Fortunately, the lot of us came to a far better end than the 11th Hussars did under the Earl of Cardigan.)

For the Ladies

[posted to MorganList, Christmas Day, 1997]

We all have our holiday traditions; one of mine is to give the horses a sweet mash with beer and sing and play for them (and anyone else in the barn,) on Christmas day, in thanks for their work and company. Being the sort of person for whom one thought is inevitably connected to seven other things, I cannot mix bran without thinking of the foaling season, (another occassion to mix lots of mashes) and I cannot think of bran mashes and foaling without thinking of Kevin Powell, my father's business partner, best friend, and a significant influence in my own life.

This is an Irish recipe that we fed mares after foaling. Kevin (the Irishman who provided this) contended that this was to help prevent the mare from retaining the placenta. While the following may not meet the standards of modern nutrition science, I think it has value in the restorative effects of sugars, fats, a little protein, a small bit of alcohol, the bowel clearing effects of bran, and of course, loving attention... Quoted from childhood memory:

"Take 2-4 pound of ¹red bran, depending upon the size of the mare. To this add 1/2-1 pound of ²white bran, mix well in a tub with a cup or two of ³sulphured black treacle and a cup of ⁴good oil. Go the ⁵pig boiler and ladle up enough ⁶butter milk to make a thick meal of your tub of bran, and eat a potatoe if there is one the boiler. Mix the buttermilk well in -- you should be sweating a little now. Let this all stand up for a bit while you go admire the foal. Cool the mixture with enough strong, dark ale to make it up as a soft mash. Pour yourself a pint and give a pint of ale to all the grooms, as well as a silver dollar to the ⁷man who ⁸wisps the foal. Crack and egg (2 or 3 if she has bled much) shell and all into the mash and mix it in. Take the tub and your ale into the stall. Hand feed the mash to the mare until she eats on her own. Keep her standing so the foal can suck his fill. Sup your ale, and let the cats have as much of the mash as they've a mind to eat. If there is aught left after the mare passes her ⁹membranes, and she isn't keen to finish, put the rest in the pig trough, but offer it to the cats first. If there is time enough, eat a bowl of porridge and have a rest. Otherwise, start the morning feeding."

Sláinte to you all, and the foals to come!

¹ wheat bran
² rice bran
³ blackstrap molasses
⁴ usually corn or linseed oil
⁵ pig feed that included scraps from the food preparation was boiled in a giant, closed kettle. Not only does this prevent the spread of disease (and is still required in the case of pigs raised for sale,) it makes the feed more palatable to the pigs. We always put the leftover bits from the dairy into the boiler, as well as a variety of field grade root crops; carrots, beets and potatoes, notably
⁶ in this case, the whey left after making butter or cheese
⁷ or girl! I think this is a Kerry tradition -- I imagine that that once upon a time the currency counted was shillings
⁸ rubs down -- originally done with a twist ('wisp') of straw
⁹ placenta

Sweet dreams

Alchemy by Firelight, registered Morgan filly -- six hours old

A question of temperment

[posted to Morganlist, 15 August 1997]

Through circumstances too embarrassing to explain, I managed to have the upper door of Corey's stall come crashing down on both of us... while I was screeching and flailing about in an attempt to avoid being flattened, he exhibited his usual response to loud noises and airborne objects ("Oh cooool! What else does it do?") and tried to follow the grate into the barn aisle. Managing to close the bottom door in time to prevent on-site accident investigation by the Horse Patrol, he had to be content with 'assisting' me and another boarder in wrestling the grate back on to it's brackets. While I truly do love the courage and curiosity of the Morgan horse, sometimes I think if this animal were a kindergartner, he would come home with report cards notated "runs with scissors".

Morgan Horses: Artemisia AMHR# 02731

Color & Markings: Dk. Chestnut; star & snip, anklet near rear

Height & Weight: n/a

Breeder & Location: Frank Orcutt; West Burke, Vermont

Pedigree:

                    Wood Horse                                              
               Peter's Vermont
                    Jennie                                    
           Peter's Morgan
                    Morgan Hunter 2nd                                             
               Wilson Patridge Mare
                    bay x General Hibbard
       Ethan Allen 2nd
                    Black Hawk                                              
               Ethan Allen
                    gray x Red Robin
           Stephen Doe Mare
                    Green Mountain 42
               Jennie
                    Phoebe                  
   Ethan Allen 3rd
                    Gifford                                                    
               Green Mountain 42
                    mare stb Woodbury                            
           Green Mountain 493
                    Billy Root                                               
               bay mare
                    Crane mare                       
       Wiggins mare
                    Black Morgan
               Charley Watson
                    mare x Wood's Comet                                  
           Thurber mare
                    Morgan Tiger                                                  
               brown mare
                    mare x Dr. Abel Brown Horse
Artemisia
                    Peter's Vermont                                                     
               Peter's Morgan
                    Wilson Patridge Mare                               
           Ethan Allen 2nd
                    Ethan Allen                                        
               Stephen Dow Mare
                    Jennie                                                    
       Bob Morgan
                    Green Mountain 42                                                      
               Green Mountain 493
                    mare x Billy Root                                  
           Topsey
                    Black Morgan                                              
               Dinah
                    Canadien mare
   Lady Laura
                    Green Mountain 16
               Black Morgan
                    gray x Levi Wilder's colt                         
           Morgan Tiger
                    Comet                                                  
               chestnut mare
                    bay x Wilson horse                    
       Laura
                    Billy Root                                           
               Dr. A. Brown Horse
                    stb Morgan mare                                 
           chestnut mare
                    unknown                                             
               stb Morgan mare
                    unknown

History:
An intensley line-bred mare of the old Vermont families, there is little record of Artemisia's life prior to her purchase by the U. S. Government farm. She was briefly owned by A. Fullerton Phillips, whose breeding program produced many of the foundation horses of Robert L. Knight's "Lippitt" horses.

An excellent producing mare. Artemisia's foals were to have an enormous impact in the Government breeding program. For all that Bennington became one of the principle sires of the U.S. Government Farm, Artemisia rightly stands beside him as the dam of his noted get. All but three of her thirteen foals were sired by Bennington, including the notable sires Mansfield 7255, Querido 7370, Ulysses 7565 and Canfield 7788, as well as productive mares Redfern 04360 and Willys 04622. Interestingly, her son Ajax 5302 was exported to Japan. The only of her other three foals whose line survives today is that of her daughter Agatha 02680, sired by Croyden Prince.

Competition History:
There is no known competition or work history for Artemisia: her contribution to Morgan history has been entirely through her outstanding foals. The catalog of her produce is as follows:

Name	Reg. #	Gender	Color	Year	Sire
Agatha	02680	mare	chestnut	1913	Croyden Prince
Ajax	5302	stallion	bay	1914	Donald
Donaldson Jr.	7040	stallion	bay	1917	Donaldson
Mansfield	7255	stallion	chestnut	1920	Bennington
Palmyra	04223	mare	bay	1922	Bennington
Querido	7370	stallion	bay	1923	Bennington
Redfern	04360	mare	chestnut	1924	Bennington
Slydell	04385	mare	chestnut	1925	Bennington
Topsham	7514	stallion	chestnut	1926	Bennington
Ulysses	7565	stallion	brown	1927	Bennington
Willys	04622	mare	bay	1929	Bennington
Artiben	7702	stallion	chestnut	1930	Bennington
Canfield	7788	stallion	chestnut	1932	Bennington

References and Related Links AMHA Registry CD, Volume I
The American Morgan Horse Association

AMHA Morgan Archive Cards
The American Morgan Horse Association

Algranti, Laura Stilwell; A Blue Hen Mare: Artemisia
The Morgan Horse Magazine, July 1986

Longmaid, Dale; Government Notebook: The Mares and Foals Part V
The Morgan Horse Magazine, December 1984

Mellin, Jeanne; The Complete Morgan Horse
The American Morgan Horse Association
Shelburne, Vermont 1992

Owen, Mabel; Gold Star Mares
The Morgan Horse Magazine, September 1967
reprinted, The Morgan Horse Magazine, December 1986

The Hazard of Versatility

[posted to Morganlist, 30 June 1997, not long after making the switch to reining from dressage/eventing/hunters]

...is the occasional cross-training bobble. To wit: I was doing some fast, extended lope work in the jumping ring: it has far and away the best footing on the property for reining work. Since Corey was wanting to hold back a bit on the extensions, to encourage him I had lifted my rear end out of the saddle in more or less an approximation of my usual eventing seat. (Heels down, legs relaxed and loose at the horse's side, backside just slightly out of the saddle, weight balanced and carried on thighs, rolling with the horse's motion.) Worked great -- he really zoomed out on the extensions and zipped right back into collection as soon as my seatbones were back in contact with the saddle, asking for a slower cadence.

The trouble came when I turned on a circle in such a fashion that for a brief instant we were lined up on one of the jumps in the ring. Those foxy little ears snapped forward in target acquisition mode, his hindquarters sucked up underneath, forehand lightened, and every fiber in the little horse's body was fairly giggling "FENCE! ohmyohmyyesyesFENCE!" In the normal course of things a 2'3" jump is no big deal, but I am still less than rock-solid in a western saddle, and the thought of going over anything other than tiny X's in one makes my blood run cold. To forestall what looked like a real disaster in the making, I gave a half-halt, sat down on the horse and and made my seat very slow. Unfortunately, what I got back translated to "Wheeeeee! BIG fence!" and a powerfully collected and forward moving horse. At this point we are four strides out and in Do or Die mode. A slightly stiff outside rein and a goodly shove with the outside knee managed to snap him off the line to the jump... thank the Powers That Be. We continued on a long diagonal and did a couple of jog laps until Corey no longer seemed, by some perverse gravity, to be sucked into a line on every fence we passed.

The burning question that remains in my mind is have any of you experienced similar, unexpected training cross-overs with your multi-discipline horses, or is this merely my Guardian Idiot in action?

Silly things dressage judges say

[Edited from a rec.equestrian post, Tuesday, June 14, 1994]

I don't know that I would so much call this silly as kind...

Back a few geologic ages ago (I was 6 years old) a local club in the Phoenix area started sponsoring open dressage tests. After making a fulsome pest of myself about it, I wore down my father into agreeing to haul myself and his old school horse to one of these events. (Pauvre papan- a rider all of his life, given the best training Saumur has to offer, and stuck with a daughter who wants to ride for a "real" dressage judge.) I suppose his thinking was that an elderly schoolmaster that had trained dozens of riders all the way through haute école could be relied upon to safely cart his offspring around the field...

So -- much schooling and excitement later, The Day arrives. I don't recall the actual pattern of the test: the US tests were much different then, but as is traditional, it began with a trot down the center line from C with a halt at X to salute the judge. Having spent a rather short lifetime hearing my father exhorting students to "boldly and completely ride the horse to the halt" I was determined to do exactly that: mindful of my driving aids, I rode old Avatar del Sol right up to X and asked for a full halt. Ever obliging, he did indeed halt, and then some -- I found myself aboard a horse performing a fine, if slightly arthritic, levade...

I was in a state of almost complete panic -- I had NO idea what I had done to bring this about, so I froze, fearing the least -twitch- on my part could let loose a barrage of bouncing courbettes or caprioles. CENTURIES later, Avatar calmly lowered his forehand, stood himself up, and waited for his rider to return to a state of sentience. Somehow, I managed to salute the judge and complete the ride -- of which I haven't the least memory.

...Later...

Standing under a tree, still mounted, my father examing the pair of us with an expression generally reserved for small obnoxious animals. This unhappy and silent tableau was broken by Kevin (my father's partner in the farm) whistling up to us, golliwog grin spread across his face and a piece of paper in hand. Mon papan reads the paper and hands it up to me. It was the test score sheet- and the judge's comment for the first movement of the test was:

"Good cadence and impulsion; over-collected at the halt."

On horseback in the California Swine Country

© Phetsy Calderon 1995
[from email August 9th, discussing chance encounters with wildlife while horsecamping]

[Me:]..Wild hogs! Yikes, but feral pigs can be horribly dangerous!

...Yup--in fact, I did an excellent imitation of a wall-eyed, spooky wild mare when my friend from Massachusetts, and certified loca (ex-eventer) casually mentioned "wild pigs."

"Wild pigs?! Do you mean wild pigs, or do you mean wild hogs (javelinas)?"

"Oh, they're pigs."

"Are they feral domestic animals, or are they really wild."

"They're wild."

"Excuse me?!! WILD HOGS? DO YOU KNOW WHAT WILD HOGS DO TO HORSES?"

"Yeah, they come over & the horses snort & then they share their alfalfa."

[aside:] Holy Santiago, do you do non-Catholic horsemen?

"No, that's not what wild hogs do. They outrun horses and disembowel them if they aren't in a good mood."

Well, I called, did some checking, felt it was safe to proceed, and we did spot some porkers. If they were wild hogs, they were the biggest such to walk the Western U.S. I think they were many-generation feral. Worst thing that happened was the reaction of my friend Cassie, who was camping, first time, with her horse. We were sitting around enjoying an excellent camp meal (many-veggie stir fry, chicken breast slices, topped with a wonderful tamarind chutney over brown rice. Good zinfandel on the side). Suddenly Cassie yelped "It's a pig! It's getting in the food boxes!"

"Oh fuffle," I think, "I'm not quite finished with my zin."

"Phetsy! What do we do?"

I'm not really in a hurry to get up close & personal with this thing, but...my morning coffee stash is over there somewhere. "We go see if this is a pig or a hog--slowly & carefully."

We approach. We stay well out of the pig's threat space. It's a sow, with her trotters in our tortilla chips. And it is obviously not a javelina.

Aw hell, I think, we're gonna have food scattered from here to Fresno. So Cassie & I went into the stomp-whistle-yell routine that you do to rid the vicinity of undesirable alien animals.

Sow looks at us, thinks "Eh. Usual Ineffectual Two-legs," goes back to rooting in the Doritos.

I'm wishing my mom were around with her .38 (she once dropped a wild boar in a German forest with a pistol), Cassie is getting exercised. "Phetsy, she's not leaving. How we gonna get rid of her?"

"I dunno, but if she gets in my coffee supplies, we're havin' fresh bacon for breakfast & my pocket knife's gonna be dull. Hey, Cassie, where'd you go?"

Cassie had grabbed a folding chair. She heaved it at the ol' pig & beaned her right on the snout. Pig snorts, squeals, starts scrambling away.

Then she stops & looks back at us--Cassie standing in front of me (she's got the lantern).

"Phetsy, she's looking at me."

"Well, shoot, Cass, if a cat can look at a queen..."

Cassie starts backing up. Into me. She's a couple inches & 15 pounds bigger, and not ethereal in her conformation. She's moving me back toward the hitching rail where her 15.3 TWH is hiding behind my 14.2 Arab.

Her horse kicks. And his butt sticks out past HRH Prince SquirrelFoot.

"Uh Cassie..."

"God that's a mean looking old sow...What if she comes back? Omigod what if she runs at us?! What about the horses?!!"

"Cassie, she can't see this far. See, she's heading to somebody else's food. Cassie? Cassie?"

Cassie is Not Receiving. She backs me up farther.

So I calmly stuck my right index nail in her flank and said, "Pass left, pass left, goood girrrl Cassie, pass left, Whoa."

She did a beautiful transvers to halt.

Only other thing that happened were a few Arab snorts--HRH Prince SF thought piggies stink--and the old sow came & rooted at my emergency tools kit, which was sitting under the pickup tailgate for the night. I yelled at pig to "Go away & let me sleep." She did. Oh, & SF undid both himself & Cassie's horse Rusty on 3 different occasions, so I ended up tying the buggers on bowlines & threatening SF with no ride if he did it again. He may not know English but he recognizes the I Have Had It tone...

Boink!

© Susan Evans Garlinghouse 1997

Date: Tue, 23 Sep 1997 18:45:57 -0700
CC: ridecamp@endurance.net
Subject: Re: Night Riding

Hi,

Well, trust me to have some dumb story for all occasions, even including night riding. The only time I did a ride at night was the '93 Western States 50, where they started you at 1 p.m. to do the last 50 miles of Tevis about the same general time of day (and night) that you theoretically would be doing it a month later at Tevis.

I rode most of that day with Jeff Wall and Rushcreek Rawhide, he was getting ready for the North Am. Championships and I was getting ready for Tevis. We both wanted to do as much night riding as possible, so we squirreled around all afternoon long, taking 45 minutes at 15 minute holds, meandering along, etc., which not only used up alot of daylight but also totally baffled both Rawhide and Cato as to just what the heck we two yahoos were doing messing about like that. Around sunset, both horses finally were totally fed up with our wasting time and took matters into their own hands and went roaring off down the trail like scalded cats. Big fun.

Going down through the California Loop at night, even though there was a full moon, you were riding underneath deep shade from the trees and without light, you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Neither of us were riding with flashlights or glowsticks or anything else, but the horses really moved along at a big trot (asking for canter, please) and neither ever put a single foot wrong.

Anyway, the last few miles of the WS 50 was along an old quarry road alongside the American River, where alot of whitewater river rafting trips were going on that weekend. The rafters camped at night alongside the river and apparently two of these happy adventurers felt the urge for a little more privacy and one-on-one camaraderie and so carried their sleeping bags up behind the camp where, lo and behold, there was this lovely flat bit of trail where of course, no one would bother them out here in the middle of nowhere, right?

Hee hee. Wrong. By this time, Jeff and I and about a dozen other riders all came roaring down out of the California Loop. All the horses were feeling really good, so we were letting them loose, running along baying like a bunch of congenital idiots at the full moon. Jeff was in the lead and all of a sudden, Rawhide gives an almighty spook, leaps something dead smack in the middle of the trail and keeps scampering on. Jeff, being a gentlemanly sort and never at a loss for words, turns in the saddle and shrieks back, "YO! BOINKERS AHOY!!!". Well, you'd warn other riders of a hole in the trail, wouldn't you? I was fifty yards behind him and sure enough, there the two little love birds are, except pretty much all you could see in the moonlight were giant staring eyes...well, all right, you could see alot more than eyes, but let's not get too graphic here. Feel free to refer to imagination and anatomy books, because it was all on display, though as far as I could tell, not very productively or impressively at that point. And of course Cato, who is a little light on Genteel Manners in the Face of Vulgar Public Display, just HAD to slam on the brakes, snort, stare like he's never seen such a thing (which he hadn't), prance past with his tail flipped up over his back, then spin and go scampering off like he thought he was being chased by the Great White Hiney. Talk about Riding In Denial---try riding this scampering imbecile and urging him to GO ON ALREADY while trying to nonchalantly look the other way and pretend you've noticed nothing, nothing at all, REALLY, and oh, look, isn't that the Little Dipper? To make things even more difficult, other riders are also now slamming on the brakes, more horses are piling into them from behind, lots of swearing, comments on "If THAT's all you've got to offer, fella...", and a ring of horses all staring, snorting, stretching out their necks to get a better look and making rude comments to each other. And one horse who had been apparently waiting for such a break in the festivities all night long and took the opportunity to stretch out and have himself a nice comfy splashy pee right next to the sleeping bags. AND so another rider could whip out her flashlight and turn it on to check the color and quality. Of the pee, that is. We already knew of the physiological condition of anyone else of interest .

Nobody got hurt except I believe to the egos of the river-rafters and eventually we all managed to drag the utterly riveted horses away and on down the trail to the finish line. Potato of course said that if he'd known they were gonna be there, he'd of sent someone down to hang a glowstick off whatever appendage seemed to be the most available.

Happy trails,

Susan and Cato, Who Has Now Seen It All

Merchant of dreams...

[farm advert from 2000 Diamond Jubilee horse show premium]

Return postage -- guaranteed!

[10 June, 1998: breeder's discussion group -- problems with getting semen shipment containers back in a timely fashion]

It seems that most people put some kind of ID tag on their Equitainers -- return labels, etc... The best one I heard about was a Standardbred breeder who had nice large, badges printed up with their farm logo encircled by words to the effect of "Auntie Mae's Bucket O' Love". Bet those got returned promptly -- dropped a lot too.

Runaways while driving

[from a private discussion list, 16 March 1998]

Oh yes indeed, I have had a runaway while driving. Amazingly enough, no one was the worse for wear when it was over. What makes this amazing is that the entirety of my (tiny) driving ability is restricted to fine harness horses, race horses and horse-drawn farm equipment. I live in awe of all you carriage driving people. Just so everyone here knows what kind of an idiot I am, this is what happened...

Some years ago I had a friend with a talented Ladies Fine Harness gelding who really didn't like being put to a show cart, and would get really strong with her at shows. (Good argument for getting out the four-wheeler at home more often, to my mind.) The upshot of this was during shows I would jog Chubs Commando (AKA the Bay Bomb) in the morning for Julie. One morning at Del Mar I was up at horrible A. M. getting Mr. This-Thing-Is-Going-To-Eat-Me sorted out. At this time, the backfield of the Del Mar race track opened directly unto the warm up area for the show barns. Hopping back in the cart after popping the check with a thought towards a leisurely cool-down stroll in the direction of breakfast, Chubs sticks his nose and tail in the air and takes off like a shot. Lovely, one of those mornings. Taking a feel on the lines gives back the reading "tied to an iron post." The good news was we were pointed down field, and the better news was the backfield gate on to the track was open, and it was a pretty straight shot. So I figure why not -- let's treat this right, and we go roaring out on the track as though the hounds of hell were running under the axles. While we're blasting out of the far turn, some early morning (TB folks are crazy- why else would they breeze horses at 5am?) workout people headed back to the barn catch sight of this nonsense and come hotfooting up to the rail... to watch.

Checking to see if I was still tied to the iron post, (affirmative), my mind is divided into many parts, foremost of which is working on setting up the last turn into the homestretch in a fashion that will avoid miring a wheel where the track is a bit cut up... another is thinking too bad this sucker isn't trotting because this boy is fast... finding the presence of mind to nod to the nice man who waved as we went flying by... trying to see if we still had four shoes on up front, and lastly the perpetual grump is mentally measuring the sofa for a bay slip cover in case the cinnamon rolls are gone by the time this bit o' fun is over... all while womanfully working to ignore thoughts of what it is going to be like if Speed Demon up there flips this rattletrap over with me wearing not a whole heck of a lot more than a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, dock shoes and a pair of Ray-Bans.

While trying not to obsess about all the things mothers tell their daughters about appropriate intimate attire for engagements at the emergency room, we get through the turn, no thanks to me. A lift of the inside hand gets a glimmer of eye, but no decrease in velocity. Good thing Del Mar has a big endfield, because we did a really wide, two-wheeler that brought all of that maternal advice back to the forefront of my mind. A few lengths out of the turn, Mr. Happy decides on a breather and drops to a big ol' trot. Doing a quick check to be sure he is not blown, lame or missing a shoe (negative on all counts- pretty darn perky, in fact) and that there is indeed a rate-able horse between those shafts (finally!) I do the necessary thing and give a swat and move him off again. Nothing loathe, Chubs picks up the pace, although with somewhat less speed and a great deal more control. This time the nice man nods, and I wave.

By the time we were in sight of where we started, it has once again been established that the human is the part of the team who sets the pace -- always, no matter what, no exceptions -- all without recourse to thoughts of injury, ambulances or underwear. Returning to the backfield, I noticed the warmup areas have gotten pretty busy. Chubs, seeing all the people , decides somewhere in the depths of his murky little horse brain "oh, it's show time!" and worked the last bit of the track in what was probably the best trot of his entire existance, the idiot. Who says show horses have no endurance?

Clopping up to the barn, Julie, (who is usually not sentient until after a pot of coffee or the gate opens on her first class, whichever comes first,) gives us a really fuzzy look and asks "Good workout?" The plate of cinnamon rolls she was holding out was the *only* thing that saved her.

Moral to this story? Not only is it possible to survive what looks like sure disaster, but anyone who thinks Saddlebreds are dull obviously hasn't been to shows with me.

Training Gone Wrong: Incident No. 12 --