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My RL riding diary: Act mature, don't be a Peter Pan
14 years ago
Sometimes I hate being mature. Sometimes I hate acting according to my age. And I hate it especially right now.
Can I haz horsie? Pleeezeee?
Last weekend I went to see my parents. They live 400km (250miles) from my place. Of course I like to spend some family time. But I also had a second plan: A woman in my parents’ town was offering an eleven year old Shire horse gelding. Yes, I am hunting for a horse again. Not because I actually need and want a horse at all costs; no, I just feel like looking for Mr. or Mrs. Perfect because I can. And somehow I have the feeling that this perfect horse will be of Shire breed.
For the first time a Shire
Saturday came. My father insisted to accompany me when having a closer look at the gelding. I think horses are one of the few things I know a lot about and he nothing. Maybe this is why he is so fascinated by the fact that not one of his daughters but his only son caught interest in them.
When we arrived I could see Raf’s silhouette against the deep hanging winter sun. My God, was he huge, easily 1,90m, that’s 6.23ft, kids, and he was more than a ton heavy. But I am afraid that was all that was amazing about poor Raf. He stared at us with tired disinterested eyes. And it is just now that I am writing this down that the right word comes to my mind: He looked broken. Sure, he would follow his owner across the riding corral. But he was lacking every bit of enthusiasm, joy or at least curiosity.
The ground was too hard to actually test all his gaits. But as he was walking I had the feeling that Raf was protecting his right hind leg by setting the left one in a way that it would support most of his weight. Then again I am not a professional. So I couldn’t really proof it. But what worried me even more was the fact that he was unwilling to let me inspect his hooves.
“Oh, he never did that. That’s why we are cutting his hooves the natural way. As you can see we allow it to grow until the lowest parts are spreading apart; and then we cut them off around the hoof. That way he doesn’t need to lift the hooves and did I mention that this is the natural way?” A twelve year old gelding who doesn’t know such a basic thing? The owner’s words did little to reassure me.
I think I had seen enough by then. But the owner offered me to take a little ride on Raf’s back and as I’ve never ridden a Shire before I just couldn’t resist. Ali, my schooling Hannoverian mare, is easily 1,70m (5.6ft) tall. But riding her did not prepare me for this English tank on four hooves. Let me tell you this: a few centimeters can make a huge difference. Later my father told me that for the first time I had actually looked small, while I was riding.
Once Raf moved I felt perfectly save. His enormous weight and gentle movements made me feel like sitting in a Mercedes Benz. And he was listening very carefully to the aid my shanks gave him. Good boy. But Mercedes Benz or not – Raf was clearly not my Mr. Perfect. I hope he’ll find a good home and somebody will take good care of him.
Best buddies 4ever
On Sunday it was time for me to drive home again. But I decided to make a little detour. Early that week I had the luck to came into contact with someone who knew someone... well, to make a long story short: There was a 70year old man. For the last twenty or so years he always had had at least one Shire horse. He had always been a big fan of driving curricles and carriages.
But last year his wife got cancer. He did his best to support her and naturally time was suddenly short to work with his horses. His horses were a nineteen year old black Irish Cob gelding and a twelve year old Shire gelding. So when the owner’s wife eventually got better they realized that time might grow short on them. She had always loved traveling, something both of them hadn’t done in years because there were horses to take care for.
So in the end he decided to sell the two boys. Actually his plan was to offer the Shire and give the Irish Cob for free, as the two of them were inseparable. That and I think he wanted to be sure that the Irish Cob would get the promise of food and care in old age. Thanks to my contact I was the first one to gain knowledge about his wish to sell the two.
I arrived at their place in the middle of Germany on noon. The ground was still frozen but the sun was shining down on us; a wonderful cold but light day in late January. The owner was already waiting for me in front of his house with the two bears. Yes, these boys were no horses but bears. He kept them on a pasture with run-in shed the whole year, so naturally both boys had grown a thick teddy fur.
The Shire was huge, not as big as the one I had seen the day before. But he made a much friendlier and open impression. He was immediately interested in me but never to a degree you could call him brash. His whole exterior looked just perfect even though you could clearly see that he could need some exercise. The Shire willingly gave way as I got into his way and all in all gave me the impression that he was well mannered.
The black Irish Cob on the other hand was a little more reserved. I couldn’t help but he gave me the idea that he was eyeing me, the stranger, very suspiciously. It was clear that it would take some time to win his heart. As for the exterior: even though his spine hung visibly he still looked like being in good shape. Not necessarily well enough to carry a full grown human. But for sure he would pull a carriage without any effort.
It’s hard for me to find the right words. I spent an hour around the two boys. They were real heartbreakers, I can tell you. Guiding them back to their pasture was an experience on its own. I held the Shire and even though he was friendly enough to follow my guidance it was more than clear that he could easily pull me wherever he would have desired. When I removed his headstall I had to laugh: it was super heavy thanks to the thick leather straps it was made of. “You can’t stop a Shire with a common headstall. He would just tear it apart”, told me the owner.
The owner was just fabulous. He invited me to his little home bar in his basement and told me a lot of stories about his horses. It was more than clear that he had a hard time sell his two boys and that only his love to his wife made him do this. And maybe it dawned him that with the age of seventy it’s no longer that easy to handle two horses.
In the end it doesn't really matter
When I eventually left them, I had a four hour drive home to think and dream. And in the end... well... in the end... I had to make a decision. And even though I hated to do it I knew the answer, just as I had known it even before leaving my parents that Sunday morning.
Yes, I have the money to buy the two of them.
Yes, I loved them both from the first moment and could spend just hours and hours with them.
Yes, I even have a place where I could keep the two under the conditions they need.
Yes, I even earn enough to pay for food, vet, blacksmith and what not.
But... will I find the time to train both of them?
The Shire hasn’t been ridden before and would need a lot of training before he would be able to be a supportive teacher for a beginner like me.
The Irish Cob would need a lot of extra time and I’d need to learn to drive a carriage (let alone buy one) to make full use of him.
As I said in the beginning: I hate being mature. I hate acting according to my age. I wish I could act like a twelve year old boy. But instead I will make the decision that fits to me being three times older than that.
Would you excuse me now? I need to call the owner and tell him that I am deeply sorry for not being the one to give the two boys a new home.
Find some pictures of the two boys here:
http://www.furaffinity.net/view/5184366/
Can I haz horsie? Pleeezeee?
Last weekend I went to see my parents. They live 400km (250miles) from my place. Of course I like to spend some family time. But I also had a second plan: A woman in my parents’ town was offering an eleven year old Shire horse gelding. Yes, I am hunting for a horse again. Not because I actually need and want a horse at all costs; no, I just feel like looking for Mr. or Mrs. Perfect because I can. And somehow I have the feeling that this perfect horse will be of Shire breed.
For the first time a Shire
Saturday came. My father insisted to accompany me when having a closer look at the gelding. I think horses are one of the few things I know a lot about and he nothing. Maybe this is why he is so fascinated by the fact that not one of his daughters but his only son caught interest in them.
When we arrived I could see Raf’s silhouette against the deep hanging winter sun. My God, was he huge, easily 1,90m, that’s 6.23ft, kids, and he was more than a ton heavy. But I am afraid that was all that was amazing about poor Raf. He stared at us with tired disinterested eyes. And it is just now that I am writing this down that the right word comes to my mind: He looked broken. Sure, he would follow his owner across the riding corral. But he was lacking every bit of enthusiasm, joy or at least curiosity.
The ground was too hard to actually test all his gaits. But as he was walking I had the feeling that Raf was protecting his right hind leg by setting the left one in a way that it would support most of his weight. Then again I am not a professional. So I couldn’t really proof it. But what worried me even more was the fact that he was unwilling to let me inspect his hooves.
“Oh, he never did that. That’s why we are cutting his hooves the natural way. As you can see we allow it to grow until the lowest parts are spreading apart; and then we cut them off around the hoof. That way he doesn’t need to lift the hooves and did I mention that this is the natural way?” A twelve year old gelding who doesn’t know such a basic thing? The owner’s words did little to reassure me.
I think I had seen enough by then. But the owner offered me to take a little ride on Raf’s back and as I’ve never ridden a Shire before I just couldn’t resist. Ali, my schooling Hannoverian mare, is easily 1,70m (5.6ft) tall. But riding her did not prepare me for this English tank on four hooves. Let me tell you this: a few centimeters can make a huge difference. Later my father told me that for the first time I had actually looked small, while I was riding.
Once Raf moved I felt perfectly save. His enormous weight and gentle movements made me feel like sitting in a Mercedes Benz. And he was listening very carefully to the aid my shanks gave him. Good boy. But Mercedes Benz or not – Raf was clearly not my Mr. Perfect. I hope he’ll find a good home and somebody will take good care of him.
Best buddies 4ever
On Sunday it was time for me to drive home again. But I decided to make a little detour. Early that week I had the luck to came into contact with someone who knew someone... well, to make a long story short: There was a 70year old man. For the last twenty or so years he always had had at least one Shire horse. He had always been a big fan of driving curricles and carriages.
But last year his wife got cancer. He did his best to support her and naturally time was suddenly short to work with his horses. His horses were a nineteen year old black Irish Cob gelding and a twelve year old Shire gelding. So when the owner’s wife eventually got better they realized that time might grow short on them. She had always loved traveling, something both of them hadn’t done in years because there were horses to take care for.
So in the end he decided to sell the two boys. Actually his plan was to offer the Shire and give the Irish Cob for free, as the two of them were inseparable. That and I think he wanted to be sure that the Irish Cob would get the promise of food and care in old age. Thanks to my contact I was the first one to gain knowledge about his wish to sell the two.
I arrived at their place in the middle of Germany on noon. The ground was still frozen but the sun was shining down on us; a wonderful cold but light day in late January. The owner was already waiting for me in front of his house with the two bears. Yes, these boys were no horses but bears. He kept them on a pasture with run-in shed the whole year, so naturally both boys had grown a thick teddy fur.
The Shire was huge, not as big as the one I had seen the day before. But he made a much friendlier and open impression. He was immediately interested in me but never to a degree you could call him brash. His whole exterior looked just perfect even though you could clearly see that he could need some exercise. The Shire willingly gave way as I got into his way and all in all gave me the impression that he was well mannered.
The black Irish Cob on the other hand was a little more reserved. I couldn’t help but he gave me the idea that he was eyeing me, the stranger, very suspiciously. It was clear that it would take some time to win his heart. As for the exterior: even though his spine hung visibly he still looked like being in good shape. Not necessarily well enough to carry a full grown human. But for sure he would pull a carriage without any effort.
It’s hard for me to find the right words. I spent an hour around the two boys. They were real heartbreakers, I can tell you. Guiding them back to their pasture was an experience on its own. I held the Shire and even though he was friendly enough to follow my guidance it was more than clear that he could easily pull me wherever he would have desired. When I removed his headstall I had to laugh: it was super heavy thanks to the thick leather straps it was made of. “You can’t stop a Shire with a common headstall. He would just tear it apart”, told me the owner.
The owner was just fabulous. He invited me to his little home bar in his basement and told me a lot of stories about his horses. It was more than clear that he had a hard time sell his two boys and that only his love to his wife made him do this. And maybe it dawned him that with the age of seventy it’s no longer that easy to handle two horses.
In the end it doesn't really matter
When I eventually left them, I had a four hour drive home to think and dream. And in the end... well... in the end... I had to make a decision. And even though I hated to do it I knew the answer, just as I had known it even before leaving my parents that Sunday morning.
Yes, I have the money to buy the two of them.
Yes, I loved them both from the first moment and could spend just hours and hours with them.
Yes, I even have a place where I could keep the two under the conditions they need.
Yes, I even earn enough to pay for food, vet, blacksmith and what not.
But... will I find the time to train both of them?
The Shire hasn’t been ridden before and would need a lot of training before he would be able to be a supportive teacher for a beginner like me.
The Irish Cob would need a lot of extra time and I’d need to learn to drive a carriage (let alone buy one) to make full use of him.
As I said in the beginning: I hate being mature. I hate acting according to my age. I wish I could act like a twelve year old boy. But instead I will make the decision that fits to me being three times older than that.
Would you excuse me now? I need to call the owner and tell him that I am deeply sorry for not being the one to give the two boys a new home.
Find some pictures of the two boys here:
http://www.furaffinity.net/view/5184366/
