The Good ol' days

I'm eternally grateful to my clients, their horses, their trust in me and my past life. That being the case, I miss my other life, and I feel guilty for missing it--the one I had when I was young, poor and working my ass off to make ends not only meet, but ever-hoping they'd at least be near enough to share a wave of acknowledgment. Why I was feeling that way today, and I don't really know, but I found myself missing the old times. 

I never had a barn to work out of; I didn't want one. My theory was the owner of any horse I worked
needed to learn what to do and how to read her horse and they both needed to work at home, in the environment they'd ride regularly. I'd save on expenses like insurance, hay, employees, and other overhead and the client would save in board bills.

Back then, I drove a truck that barely ran and was equipped with only the original AM radio
capable of capturing exactly three stations, and only one not in Spanish. This truck, a 1971 F-150 named Gus was tan with an at-one-time white roll bar that is now more dotted with rust than not,
 and got roughly the same gas mileage as an RV; an old RV, not a new fancy one. I'd get up by 5:30 or 6
every morning, grab a cup of coffee and then rush to finish my chores before getting my dog and my tack into Gus and driving off to my first client of the day. In the summer when the rains had stopped, I could leave my saddles, bridles and brushes in the back of Gus thus allowing myself time for another cuppa coffee before bolting out the door.

Back then, my days were brutally long in the summer months. Hot, rushed, dusty-dirty, and
full of unexpected surprises that could mean a more fun day or a much longer and more difficult one. Each client and each horse was different and each horse-human pair needed things from each other and from me that made my days speed by as I drove from one to the next.

I allowed a half-hour between appointments and sometimes, if the barns were near each other, I'd have time to shovel in a handful of sunflower seeds to go along with the bottomless Cokes I drank back then. Between the caffeine and the sugar in each can, I didn't eat much and didn't need to. 

Winter seemed to linger in the Colorado foothills even in the middle of summer, it seemed, so time to slack off wasn't any more real to me than a trip to Tahiti.

Then, before I knew it, when my body ached each morning from working without a break, winter would hit and I'd starve. Pretty much literally, because without an indoor arena, riding would halt until spring. In the early part of every year, during the long lull between winter and spring, I'd rest up, ride my own horses, and watch eagerly for any sign of spring, green tufts of grass, birds, bugs...anything that would indicate the cold and lack of work would end.

So why do I miss it?

I don't. It's not that part of my other life I miss. It's the horses. The young ones, the 'broken' ones, the discarded ones, the babies.

I miss re-schooling and helping a horse become a better citizen. I miss the life of training those horses. Not the good ones that needed to be tuned up for the show pen; nah, I slept through working them and ultimately stopped taking any show clients at all. But those renegades, those rank, bad problem horses--this is how the people would describe them to me--every...single...time--them, I miss helping. I miss the adrenaline tinged with a dash of dread at getting on one for the first time that I'd taken weeks to convince that I was a good trustworthy person and a friend; all the time knowing that they were ready and it would be okay and that soon, our time together would end because my job was done.

I miss the foals and the mares. I miss the breeding shed chaos of collecting stallions and running labs on semen to see if it was viable or if I needed to re-collect or re-order. I miss palpating and knowing early on, without ultrasound that yes, this mare was pregnant. I would try to beat my record on every mare--my earliest detection held at Day 15. And I knew I was right when I felt her bulging uterus. This was not a guess or a wish, but the absolute truth of a left horn pregnancy. Back then, ultrasound was still fairly new and we didn't use it to determine when to breed or whether a mare was pregnant or not.

Hopefully, there is a young Tanya out there somewhere struggling, hungry, and busily learning from every horse and each student. She is likely hating the industry right now and is sick of the hot summer, the clients that argue or won't listen to her advice. She may even be willing winter to hurry up and get here while simultaneously dreading the thought of her income being slashed for the next six months.

She may have to take a non-horse related job to make it through the hard times, but she'll be right back in the saddle trying to help more horses and people to become better together. She's an independent sort and prefers exploring new techniques learned, not from some guy on a video or at a clinic--though those are good, too--but from the very horses she's playing with every single day.  And she does look at the career as "Play" not work. 

​I wish I could pass on to someone all they, the horses, have taught me.

Other-Tanya, if you're reading this, give a shout, I'll give you any help I am able.