Eastwood---"Woody"

 

 

When I returned to North Carolina after six horseless years I couldn’t help eyeing every horse I passed on the highway, mentally window shopping.  Soon my eyes were caught by a pasture full of four or five appaloosas with another, more nondescript horse.  More interestingly, this farm had one of those renta-signs out front, the kind that lights up and has flashing arrows running around the border which said, “Horses and Pinestraw for sale”.  Who could resist an offer like that?  Besides, I couldn’t help thinking of all those Appys.  Surely one of them would fit me.  At my inquiry the farmer who seemed not too knowledgeable informed me that the Appys were a stud, a mare, and their offspring---a two year old, a yearling and a weanling.  Hmmm.  That was kind of startling.  Apparently he’d bought them from an acquaintance who was tired of horse owning, and the other horse was just thrown in.  The appys were all so narrow that their front legs seemed to come out of the same hole in their chests.  Up close, none of them really appealed to me.  The farmer suggested I try the lone gelding, informing me that the others beat him up a bit, that he was hard to catch, and that since he wouldn’t load they’d had to lead him home.  Tempting, isn’ t it?  With a sigh I grabbed a bucket of sweet feed and a halter and headed out into the field.  The whiteish horse was suspicious at first, but eventually came to the lure of food and I was able to halter him.  Up close he was very poor looking, ribby, and raw boned with a ewe neck, a back long enough for a horse and a half, and a coat that had never shed out though this was August.  But I liked his long legs and there was something about his distrustful eye that drew me somehow.  I felt like there might be something in there looking for a chance.

  I saddled and bridled him easy enough but had to mount him on the run, and it seemed apparent that he was used to being cowboyed for he was very nervous. When I say “cowboyed” I mean no disrespect for real cowboys and girls, they are some of my favorite people and can be the best horsemen.  What I mean was he was used to “hooting and hollering” and being roughed up, and was thoroughly nervous and jumpy.  In twenty two years together I never did get him to where he was a rock to mount, although we came to an agreement about it.  Off we went at a fast walk which pleased me immediately.  This horse had places to go and people to see.  Up around the fields, across the road and around more fields.  He pulled toward each road or trail that branched off and never slowed til I turned him around to head back.  I love a horse that wants to go and see what’s over the next hill.  His trot was fine, but his canter was rough and fast, breaking down to a hard pounding trot when I insisted and after the canter he incessantly pranced, clearly anticipating more running.  One thing I noticed was that while he didn’t have much of a flat walk ¸ or really even halt, jigging in place, his front end never felt the least bit “light”, and I never felt like there was any danger of him rearing, despite the almost constant pressure I had to keep on his mouth to keep him from going any faster.  Touching my legs to his sides only sped him up.  But his willing attitude and spirit captured my heart, as his headshyness and clear mistrust told me he’d had a hard life.  The price was eight hundred and being the shrewd horse trader I am when I want something, I offered them eight hundred.  I know, I’m sure they saw me coming.  “Frosty” as they called him for his winter color was coming home with me!

 

His papers came with him but knowing nothing about Quarter Horse bloodlines all those “Poco this” and “Jet thats” meant nothing to me. 

 

Over the next few months I concentrated on getting him to slow down and flat walk.  For the first two months all we did was walk, as I tried to show him that his days of being run and roughed up were over.  Even a  short gallop (he had no canter) would blow his mind, reducing the rest of the ride to endless jigging and leaping in place.  After joining several family trail rides we were politely asked if we wouldn’t like to go home til he settled better as the shouting and cutting up and racing enjoyed by the men reduced him to caprioles, scaring the mothers and children.  I rode him in a hackamore, needing the strong feel but wanting to stay off his mouth.  We gave up cantering entirely for the first several years after I discovered his incredible, ground eating trot could easily keep up with my friend’s thoroughbred’s canter, and Woody would happily and calmly trot by the cantering youngster.  I did a lot of lunging with him because I like voice commands and I found that they helped me stay out of his face.  Woody was so tuned to them that he never needed more than a whisper.  The quietest, slightest cues I could give him made him the happiest, although it was many years before a gentle request would slow his canter. 

 

 

On the lunge Woody learned to jump without the distraction of me on his back, and he loved it! It wasn’t long before I found we could jump anything up to three feet from a trot, and with my best friend we enjoyed hunter paces, although I know we were a humorous sight, trotting fences beside the cantering thoroughbred.  Woody loved jumping so it go to the point where I didn’t dare point him at anything I didn’t want to jump, which made him unsuitable for beginners, although he was fine for kiddie rides and seemed to enjoy the small humans who loved to give him carrots, peppermints and pats.  It wasn’t all smooth sailing, he had an impressive drop-shoulder-jump-and-spin shy that put me on the ground quite a few times, but he got bolder as we explored more and more.  What an engine he had!  His favorite speed was faster, and I think that’s why he loved foxhunting so.  We cubbed for several years, preferring its informality to the regular season, and I think it was the most fun I’ve had in my entire life.  The first year we kept almost completely out of sight of the hounds, where the horses could hear but not see them, only getting  closer as we trailed the tired horses and field back to the kennels.  My friend was bringing along her three year old and was quite determined to give him a quiet education, and the next season we stayed at the back of the hilltopping field, where the most excitement was an occasional trot, and seeing the “first flight” as they flashed colorfully by, galloping over their fences.  The third year our horses were so seasoned and accustomed to the pageantry that they calmly but eagerly joined the main field, and Woody could often be found leading a reluctant horse over an intimidating fence or ditch.

 Being into eventing at the time, I had hoped to be able to compete again someday.   I knew dressage was going to be a nightmare, chiefly because it has to be done in a snaffle and the best “English” bit I’d found for Woody yet was a type of kimberwicke that had slots so the reins could be set for different amounts of curb or plain snaffle action.  Guess what slot we used.  The first trainer/teacher I went to hated him.  “Get rid of him, he’s awful!” was her opinion, although when I persuaded her to let us try some stadium fences she thawed a little.  Still, I knew it wasn’t the right match for us, and the next trainer was able to at least get us to where we could compete in a boucher snaffle, which had some leverage, though it worked more on the poll.  The only question was whether or not we were really going to  “Halt at X”, or just carry on straight over the little ring fence and on past the judge.  We competed with little success but enormous fun for several years, only placing or winning when all the other competitors wiped out through jumping faults.  But we ran and jumped to our hearts content, and eventually I was lucky enough to find a trainer who could teach me to ride Woody in a plain, large, loose ringed snaffle for the dressage.  This was like a miracle to me, and to this day, with this training, I think there’s few horses that cannot be brought to work successfully in such a mild bit. 

 

After that, my friend and I broke Woody to drive and Woody found a new love in it.  I think he knew there was not going to be any cantering involved, so his mind stayed relaxed, his tail swung, and his head stayed down, with his mouth soft and happy.  It was the one thing he was suitable for a beginner to do with him, and he gave several young drivers their start in the sport. 

 

 

Over the years there was hardly anything we didn’t try, and Woody was up for all of it, from distance riding, to competitive trail, lead pony to bouncy obstreperous race horses, therapeutic riding, parades, and cutting.  The only thing he voted “no” on was polo, and that was because my eyesight’s so bad I kept hitting him with the stick.  It’s the only time he ever pulled toward the gate.  I figured he was entitled to his opinion on it, and I had no coordination, so I bowed to him on that one.  During the twenty years I rode him, Woody never lost that drive and interest that had so captured my heart in the first place.  Not to mention a sense of humor that prevented me from ever being able to turn him loose on the lawn to graze.  You could never turn your back on Woody if he was loose, no matter how happily he seemed to be munching on our rare grass.  I’d hear hoofbeats, and look up and he would be disappearing down the trail, on his way to who knows what.  The day we euthanized him due to crippling tendon injuries I tried it, and even hobbled by lameness, he still left.  It was a good laugh he left me with. 

Woody was one in a million.  He was a saint to put up with me and all my strange ideas and requests, and the best possible partner for my middle years.  He’d be too much for me now.  Woody came along at just the right time for me and together we did it all.  We rarely achieved what most people would call success, although I treasure the few blue ribbons he brought me like gold.  They were all the sweeter for their rarity.  Memories to cherish for a life time.