In Like Flynn

I am discovering the one drawback of having a nearly perfect horse: if anything goes awry during riding, it is my fault. "The horse is perfect," I am told repeatedly; "You, not so much."

Thus I soldier on, trying to live up to my new Argentine warmblood who is thought to walk on water by pretty much everyone. Yes, Flynn has a couple of unsightly scars, most likely the result of a youth spent amidst barbed-wire fencing, as is customary in South America. Barbed wire and young horses are not a good mix, as any horseman will testify, but it's cheaper than wood fencing and therefore still used in some cultures. He has a wind puff on the right hind ankle, another cosmetic blemish. Flynn can be standoffish with folks, and he can be hard to catch in a field if he doesn't like you.

These imperfections were not enough to deter me from buying a horse that still astonishes me with his training and beauty. He is a handsome chestnut, with a heart-melting face and four fancy socks. All three gaits are lovely, especially the walk and canter. As Susan puts it, "he is a forward-thinking horse," which means that Flynn likes to move out, an enormous relief after years of exhausting myself trying to get Beau to move off my leg. For the first time, I can actually focus on my technique and not having to motivate the horse.

I owe the fact of Flynn to my friend Susan, who had her eye on him from the beginning. He was at a well-known sales barn in Pennsylvania, priced to sell in this depressed economy--only he didn't. Perhaps he wasn't marketed correctly; perhaps his aloofness put off potential buyers. For whatever reason, Flynn remained while other horses left within days of arrival. His price kept dropping. When Susan and I went to this sales barn, I was actually more interested in other horses I had seen on their web site. Flynn seemed too fancy and too expensive for me, but Susan insisted.

This horse that had frozen out other customers over the past two months, turned his head to look at me intently and we locked eyes for the longest time. He sighed, and I stroked his neck, knowing I had passed some mysterious equine test. Accustomed to advanced riders, Flynn nonetheless took care of me, patiently carrying me over cross-rails and cantering in a nice collected gait.

I returned the following weekend, this time with my friend Hope in tow (in addition to faithful Susan). Hope didn't like Flynn initially--he wouldn't look at her, staring stonily ahead--and she frowned at the wind puff and scars. Once I mounted, however, her furrowed brow smoothed and a smile broke out. "You look great on him," she enthused. Again, I did flat work, in addition to an hour trail ride. Flynn nuzzled me affectionately afterward, eating treats and inhaling my human scent. Susan joked that it was like a bad commercial with two people running toward each other in a field of wildflowers, arms opened in an expectant embrace. Truth be told, it was that bad. I don't know if horses and humans are capable of love at first sight, but something like that happened between Flynn and me.

I worried about the wind puff and fretted that the pre-purchase exam would show up some insurmountable problem. Many tests later, my fears were allayed: Flynn was pronounced to be a remarkably hardy horse given his training and show-jumping experience. Especially for a rider at my level, he would give me many years of sound work and pleasure. Both the owner and the agent were eager for the sale to go through. Flynn's owner, now living and training in France, couldn't afford maintaining horses on two continents, and the sales agent had other horses coming in. Flynn's price dropped again, making him affordable. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine being able to own a fancy warmblood with years of training, but I have Susan to thank as well as the agent, who worked very hard to make the deal happen. I know that horse dealers generally have a bad rap; this woman, though, was the consummate professional.

And that, dear reader, is how I came to own a horse from Argentina, an animal who is perfectly behaved with humans but lavishly affectionate with me alone. I wouldn't have it otherwise.

Mr. Beau's Work Ethic

Truth be told, Mr. Beau does not have the best work ethic in the world.  One hears frequently in the horse world of equines that "know their job" or "get the job done."  Alas, Mr. Beau is not one of these heralded beasts.

An opinionated horse, Mr. Beau lets me know exactly what he wants to do and when.  Best time for work (that dreaded word)?  Early afternoon, around an hour before feeding time. He likes to wrap things up before the other horses are brought in from the fields; that way, he can get to his feed bucket first, thereby maintaining his premier status. 

In hot weather, Beau's desires and mine especially conflict. Typical for this region, the horses are out in the pastures all night and brought in around 8:00 a.m. so they can spend the heat of the day in a nice shaded stall, replete with a box fan. As Rod frequently remarks, these horses live better than many people in Third World countries, to which I readily and guiltily assent.  Despite these creature comforts, Beau conveys his extreme displeasure with early morning rides; after all, he's been outside all night, which is clearly exhausting and debilitating.  How dare I expect him to do anything other than nap?  Of course, I think riding at 7:00 a.m. is far saner than attempting a hack in mid-day heat, especially in July and August--and therein lies the conflict.  I am sorry to confess that Beau usually wins through passive resistance, barely placing one hoof in front of the next and sighing perceptibly.  It could be worse: I know a woman whose horse grunts audibly whenever she gains five pounds, a veritable talking scale.

We're more of one mind when it comes to equine disciplines.  Beau hates flat work, especially dressage, which he regards as akin to water boarding. Taking a cue from George Bush, I explain that neither activity technically qualifies as torture, but Beau just doesn't believe me.  Put the old boy in front of a jump, though, and you get a different horse.  At Southwind, where I board him, his quicksilver transformation from slacker to workaholic has become an ongoing joke. Onlookers who have watched me urge Beau fruitlessly and laboriously through serpentines and 20 meter circles do a double take at the sight of the little grey thoroughbred, ears pricked, eyes alert, and body quivering with excitement, as he pops over rails.  Even slightly elevated ground poles do it for him.  I have to admit I share Beau's preference in this regard, but I keep explaining to him that dressage is good for both of us, sort of an equine version of taking your vitamins or doing push-ups.  He just gives me that long sideways glance, a combination of skepticism and incredulity ("you expect me to do that?).

If the weather is reasonable, which to Beau means anything below 75 degrees, he happily hacks through the woods and fields around Southwind Farm.  If it's muddy, humid, or, worst of all, buggy, then this activity goes from pleasant to onerous for both of us.  I've endured dirty looks, pinned ears, and truly stupid behavior that I know is deliberate on his part.  Don't even begin to explain to me about animals' inability to think ahead or make conscious choices.  As anyone who has ever owned a horse knows, they are capable of truly diabolical behavior. Beau can be lazy, but he's also whip smart.  If we're out on a day that is too humid, then Beau will suddenly "spook" at bushes or farm equipment he's passed previously with nary a glance.  He will run relay races with horses in nearby fields, going from a stately walk to a bolting gallop in two seconds flat.  He will, in short, make my life hell for forcing him to do other than what he wants.

So why do I keep the worthless beast?  Well, he's actually a very good all-around horse for a middle-aged woman: I don't need a wild eyed four-year-old.  Even when Beau bolts a few feet, he stops quickly.  He's sending a message, not trying to murder me, which is more than you can say for some horses.  Usually Beau takes pretty damn good care of me.  My former trainer Carol once drily pointed out (as I hung off Beau's neck in a crumbled heap), "Many horses would have taken advantage of your poor position."  Beau, however, feeling me fall forward as we cleared the jump, eased to a gentle walk and then stopped, giving me a chance to climb back into the saddle.  He did turn his head to shoot me a disgusted look, but as Carol observed, he had the grace and generosity to save his rider.

In our way, we've come to love each other deeply.  Beau nuzzles and licks me, even though he's not an especially affectionate horse by nature.  When we've had a good ride, he leans his chin on my shoulder, giving me a chance to drape an arm around his neck or lay my cheek against his. He sighs contentedly, proud that he's done a good job--on his terms, of course. Then there are the kisses I taught him, our usual good-bye ritual unless I've asked for something untoward, like flat work or, heaven forfend, riding in hot, sticky weather.  Last night, irritated at having to work in a lesson for the first time in weeks, Beau showed me his bottom, not his pretty nose when I came to say good-bye.  And not for the first time did I think about having a horse with a dubious work ethic.

On Studs and Studs

This is one of several reasons why I can't seem to pry myself away from Southwind Farm: one of the boarders, a good pal, recently put up a wall calendar in the loo called "Studs 'n Spurs."  Now one has the pleasure of um, sitting, and reflecting on, as the ad says, "handsome faces, sculpted bodies and surly smiles."  Sheri Thornley, owner and resident camp counselor (that is, if you consider Southwind as some sort of recreational institution for slightly deranged, mainly middle-aged women), has claimed Mr. January for her very own . . .

Speaking of studs, my adored Mr. Beau managed to lose several from his right-front hoof, thus "throwing" his shoe.  Of course, he hung onto the shoe for jumping with Meredith on Saturday.  Then he overheard my plans for a dressage coaching session with Susan on Sunday and decided, "well, I'm going to put a stop to that!"  Anything to get out of flat work.