The Stables

Belle's Stall A true palamino, Belle shone like gold. She was a splendid example of everything an American Quarter Horse should be. Her mane and tale as I recall, were silky and my riding teacher always kept her perfectly well groomed. Her gait was so smooth, even at a trot. Hardly any bounce, and to ride her at a canter or lope was like sitting in the most comfortable of rocking chairs. My teacher Miss Patty rode her in barrell racing events and often took first. Belle had the sweetest temperment, but so curious! Horses are by nature curious (that's something I love about them), but she was exceptional in that regard as in others. I remember her playing for a full half hour with a red plastic bucket. She couldn't leave it alone because it was different from the metal ones she was accustomed to. She didn't leave it alone until she'd torn it completely apart. (A good reason to use metal buckets with horses, don't you agree?)

On Belle's gilded back, I learned to keep my toes in and to relax in the saddle. I also learned that horses are as individual as humans. The other horses I rode there I do not remember well. Probably a reason for that as I do remember one giving me an undeserved nip on the forearm! Belle would've never done that. She was special, and I still picture Miss Patty on her tearing out to round the first barrell, then the second, then the third in such rapid succession. I also picture them loping around the arena with the Stars and Stripes billowing behind to the tune of the national anthem. Now that's Americana! Flagpole rooted firmly upon the stirrup, "Oh say can you see..." and Missy Patty's crown glittering like stardust from her western hat. Belle was a horse fit for a Rodeo Queen, and she even deigned to teach a little eight year old girl to ride and feel confident about doing so.

Star Star was a sorrel quarter horse standing no more than 15 hands high, the perfect height for me. I'm rather petite, and with her, I needed neither a leg up nor a bucket to mount her. My husband bought her for me at a horse sale. There were many others, but she appealed to me most, and he plunked down the sum of $400 before the auction even started because I was afraid someone would buy her. One thing I liked about her is that she didn't make me chase her down. I walked through the gate, and she followed. Yes, most of the time she was thinking "Oh good, time to eat" but even when I pulled the tack out, she didn't run. I never had to tie her to saddle her. Not once. She was quite affectionate, too, pressing against me, demanding to be stroked and brushed. I'd always oblige.

Given by her previous owner, her name was only somewhat deceitful. With a brush, I could fan out the little spot above her eyes into a white star. One quirk was that she didn't really want anyone standing directly in front of her and doing anything at all, so this was a bit of a trick. So it usually stayed just a spot!

One problem: She was barn sour. The only way to treat that, I was told, is by riding them out and away from the pasture as often as possible. I was just beginning to break her of this bad habit when she in fact "broke me". In several places. That morning I saddled her, I could tell she wasn't in the best of moods. We rode out to my father in law's house where I wanted to take a trail I liked. We found him working away on a car, the hood up, and I said "Good Morning" as she was dancing around like she had ants under her saddle blanket. Catching me off guard in conversation, she was about to high tail it to her pasture. I managed to redirect her.

"You might better walk her back. Ride later," he advised.

I didn't dismount, but I did see the wisdom of riding later, so I reluctantly turned her toward her home. It was a struggle to keep her from running, but I managed... for a time. Taking a wooded short cut by a pond, a rabbit ran in front of us. That and the icy cold muddy water she'd sunk her hoof into was quite enough for her. No amount of pulling back on my part had any effect. She was going HOME! At top speed, too. If you know quarter horses, you know that they have a great burst of speed in them, and she used it. Trees went by in a blur, and by luck, before she reached her gate, I saw looming the guide wire that held my husband's grandmother's TV antennae up. In took less than a split second for me to decide I'd rather hit the ground than lose my head. I hit the ground shoulder first. X-rays later revealed a VERY broken clavicle, fractured ribs, and sprained neck. I still had my head, so I think it was a bargain all in all. A year or so later, and not for that reason, we sold her to a neighbor and I didn't see her again.

Gallivant Gallivant is the horse I'd like to own now. He's a horse that lived long ago, and exist in my mind. He's a Scots Galloway. He's as black as pitch, solid built and shiny and has a neat blaze of white on his pretty little head. He's smart and trustworthy. Quick as lightening, he can take a hill and be down it again. He could speed through muck and mud while other breeds faltered. Gallivant is the bravest little pony- he's scared of nothing, and looks down on any horse that is skittish or jumpy.

But I can't have him. His breed is extinct. I'm convinced by a lot of what I've read that his breed were the perfect pony. I read something once that eluded to the possibility that some of is ilk were used to create what we now know as the American Quarter Horse. I like that notion, and I cling to it, though I don't know that it's really true. The Scots Galloway was overused to strengthen the breeds that exist in the United Kingdom today. The Scots Galloway were, for lack of a better term and ironically, bred right out of existance because they were so excellent.

I wonder sometimes, with all this experimentation with cloning and genetics... Do you think that we might one day find in Scotland the burial site of one of these splendid ponies and extract some DNA from the marrow of it's bones? Then we could do sort of a Jurrassic Park thing, and recreate one of them, and then another? From there, let them reproduce to a sufficient number? I'm sure I'd never be able to afford one, if we did, but it would be enough for me to know that they were again running over hills and into glens carrying Border Scotsmen women once again. But then, do we deserve to have what we failed to hold on to? Something to think about, something to dream about.

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