by Maureen Bordelon

Created on: May 14, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

I climbed aboard my first at age six, half petrified and half in wonder of the sheer beauty and grace of these very large creatures. It seemed that the horses that I was to come in to contact with in my younger years were all made of gristle and bone, with a single minded determination in assisting me to find another hobby. Bucking, biting, running away with me became second nature. I was undaunted and horses have always been a consistent golden thread that wound their way throughout my life.

Not too terribly long ago, at age thirty five, I sat in the darkened living room, close to midnight, with only the flicker of light from the television set to keep me company. I had stayed up way past my usual bedtime because I knew there was a "horsy" program that started at the witching hour (which of course the obsession with all things equine demands that you do). I felt like a kid, sitting cross-legged on the floor, my eyes and ears attuned to the set. One of the segments revealed what seemed to me a ballet on horseback. It took my breath away and tears welled as the sheer magnificence filled my heart. I learned that it was called dressage, and I knew immediately that it was my calling.

Being a western rider, the conversion was, at times, difficult to say the least. I had an old style bulldog type of Quarter horse who was completely insulted by the thought of direct rein contact, much less the sissy saddle he stoically endured. After two years of trying to make him into something he was not, I decided to sell my best buddy. It was one of the hardest things to do, but it was done and the horse search was on.

Patience, I kept telling myself, is a virtue. The search for a new partner took an immense amount of patience. Combing the papers, looking on the internet, it all seemed futile as the seemingly suitable horses were out of my price range. I knew I couldn't afford a Warmblood and wanted either a Thoroughbred or an Appendix Quarter horse. It was an early Sunday morning when I spied a tiny little one-line ad. The advertisement read,
Registered Appendix Quarter horse mare, 3 years old, 16 hands, red, $1000 and gave the phone number. As I wondered if she had three legs or four, I crossed my fingers, called and arranged to check her out. She was cheap, way too cheap.

There she was with a lovely head, nice clean neck, long legs and every bit of sixteen hands. However, she was painfully thin. Her backbone, ribs, and hips were protruding, her eyes had no spark, the poor girl

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