How To Buy a Horse
He was a bay gelding in his teens when we met. A Quarter Horse with a bit of a downhill slant and it didn’t help that he was pigeon-toed. And he was a saint, an unsung hero, that elite caliber of a horse who could qualify as a lesson horse. I gave lessons to his owner, and she allowed me to teach lessons with him sometimes. I say with to flatter myself. Like all good lesson horses, he did all the work. I stood around reminding the rider to breathe and say thank you.
I’m currently planning an online class called How to Buy a Horse. It’s going to be fun; we’re going to pretend-shop. But instead of organizing my notes, I keep thinking of a certain lesson horse. I’ll call him Jack, the name his first owner gave him. I knew her, too.
Jack was no trouble, kept his feelings to himself, and didn’t scare beginners. He gave his riders such confidence that some stopped riding if they got switched to another horse. After Jack, other horses seemed complicated. Meanwhile, he toted riders to their first shows and didn’t toss his head when their hands bounced. He dutifully took their canter cues, and just as dutifully broke from the canter too soon, when his rider lost balance. More often, Jack filled in for his riders and made them feel a little better than they were.
He was a barn favorite, kid-safe. People affectionately called Jack lazy and teased him for his quiet temperament. He was a starter horse, they said, as they dreamed of more athletic mounts that they didn’t have the skill to ride. People misjudge stoic horses.
Jack plodded along to keep his riders relaxed while I reminded them to sit back and release their inside rein. Sometimes he stumbled. Not his fault, it’s harder for a horse to balance moving that slow, and those toes could get tangled. Then he’d get extra careful and go slower, fearful of another stumble. It was heartbreaking to watch from the middle of the arena. The riders kicked. Back then, some carried whips, so I’d watch them pull their whip hand back to tap his hind, pulling the rein at the same time. The halt/go command. Crazymaking for horses and riding instructors. Partly in Jack’s memory, I stopped correcting the riders and just took their whips away. I might have muttered learn to ride under my breath and Jack might have stretched his neck in agreement.
There was a thing another trainer and I used to do at a barn where we taught lessons. When the client’s passive complaining about the horses being nags wore us down, and we felt it was time to remind them who our lesson horses were, we’d tack up and ride. We didn’t announce it. Jack and I did the same. It might be on a busy Saturday when everyone came early to share lunch under the tree or lingered after. It was important that certain eyes saw us.
The first few strides were stiff, but Jack was just warming up, finding his balance. I’d use my sit bones to let him stride out and breathe into my legs, soft as bird wings. Soon he gave me an energetic marching walk. I’d imagine we’re going up a hill and his shoulders lifted, and his hooves glided over the sand. His trots were forward with me riding his up-stride, his canter active and I kept the beat lightly with my inside calf. Soon we were cruising through some complicated dressage movements, and I could feel his confidence bloom. He felt good in his body, the gift horses crave most.
Sure, we were showing off. I wanted Jack to get the respect he deserved. I wanted to let him show his riders he was proud and strong.
I don’t mean to blame his riders. Learning to ride well is an art. There is nothing intuitive about it and our instincts rarely give the right answer. Learning to ride is mind over matter and it takes practice. And it certainly isn’t just for kids. Too often horses get blamed for rider’s shortcomings. They are sold or sent to rescue, when a trainer and a few riding lessons are all that stand in the way of their literal survival.
Soon enough, Jack was lumbering along, dragging his toes and frustrating his riders, who knew he could do better. They still loved him, but that’s a poor trade for respect (or kind hands).
But alas, I digress. I have notes to finish for How to Buy a Horse. By the looks of it, I’ll have to do more than one session. I tell people to start by making a list. It should read a bit like a singles ad, your best features, and what you want in a partner. Then, just like that singles ad, re-write it and tell the truth this time. And for crying out loud, stop saying “just a trail horse.” It’s dismissive and unkind.
If the horse wrote an ad for his next owner, he wouldn’t care what you looked like, only how you felt in his saddle. He knows a good rider will elevate any horse they ride but an unschooled rider will pull any horse down. Try to be his first choice.
Continuing my outline, I list vet checks, kill pen scams, how to read between the lines of an online ad, and reasons to not ride the horse you drove all that way to see, even if he is a pretty color. And the list goes on.
Going horse shopping is like being a binging chocolate addict going into a Swiss candy store after missing lunch. We point at the pretty ones, and we think size matters. Some have two colors, and some have nuts. Jack would be the plain dark chocolate at the end of the row. He wouldn’t catch your eye or be the one “who picked me.” Humans are easy to trick because we fall for first impressions rather than reading the ingredients (calming signals).
Jack is still grazing through my thoughts. He says investment-wise, you should spend ten times more on riding lessons than the horse. He’s right. Go out and buy an Olympic horse if you have the cash but know that horse is just like Jack. He will only do what his rider knows to ask.
Reminiscing about training with Jack, I realize we’re old-timers now. Then I do the math, and I know he has walked on. His body would have let him go by now. But Jack would still remind you that all horses are lesson horses. They might come in a plain brown wrapper. You are the one who lets them shine.
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The How To Buy a Horse class is on Feb. 25th at The Barn School
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