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The ownership of horses, and our subsequent riding trail business, started out more like funny business. Our first purchase was a one-year-old standard bred, named "Nibbler". At first he did not know he was a horse. His constant whinnying and huffing at being lonely, lead to the suggestion from my husband that I just take a sleeping bag outside to sleep with the poor dear. I suggested we get him some horsy company. My suggestion won out. Horses need the kinship of their own kind. This next step, in owning more than one horse is called "turning up the laughing gas".

Nibbler's first pasture mates were a mother and daughter team, Sheba and Star. Sheba, had "kid sense", meaning she would let a kid ride, helping the kid right itself, by bumping her hip from the side to keep him centered. She was our nanny horse. Star, on the other hand was a rubberneck, obstinate, crow-hopping horse. Like her mother, she did not mind the kids on her back, for a short time span. After time was up, she would stop, and lay back her ears and you could not kick start her up again. One day, I had to knee her sharply under the belly, as she was heading, saddle and all, for the ground. Soon, she learned the trick of holding her breath to make the saddle slide. I uexpectantly ended up riding her bareback one day.

Next, we added Fancy, a regal acting Tennessee walker. The first time I had to walk her down for my farrier, he tried to hide his laughter behind his hat. An hour later, he finally got to meet Fancy. We had to walk her down for all the years we owned her. It ended up being a good pre-warm up excercise to the actual riding. She was a good horse, and became a favorite among our riders.

A Quarter horse named Kitty put some serious hurting on me over the years. I started notching the saddle horn, one for her, one for me. I did not believe it until I had experienced it for myself; Quarter horses do the bunny hop better than bunnies. One day during some playing around at the barrels, my husband found himself sitting on her rump, still holding the reins, she was that fast at the start up. Experience taught us, barrels was about all she really loved to do.

Then there was Baby. Baby was the world's best Tennessee walker; she never broke her stride, sweet as sweet feed and a real lady's horse. She was the only horse my husband could not ride. She would stand there with a stony look on her long face, as if to say, "Insert quarter for ride". He would eventually get off her in disgust, mutter something about "me babying her too much." She just did not care for male riders. All our women riders always asked for her first.

"Grace under Fire" blew into our lives around that time. A Racking horse with a fiery intention of showing you everything she could do, including going zero to sixty without being asked to do so. I will never forget my inopportune meeting with that satellite dish. She was a head thrower, and could make you think someone just dropped an ACME anvil on your head.

Jake was my husband's choice. The former owner would sit on his back stoop and share his beer with his horse. The girth we ordered for that horse was a forty-two. Jake was a stocky, sturdy horse that looked to be between a draft, and a Morgan. I learned the hard way how dexterous his lips had become from maneuvering beer bottles. He liked to make you think you were in control, then run with the bit. I think he just got a kick out of the woozy feeling he got from being hauled into tight circles, since we had cut him off from his beer.

Jake ended up wearing the biggest bit guards ever made for a horse. On the rides, he looked like a big dog lumbering around with Frisbees stuck to the sides of his face. The only other additional change of our tack with him was using extra long reins. These were for quick pops on his hunches whenever he thought a puddle mistakenly looked big enough for him to lie down in. The last I heard, he was giving about six kids at a time a ride on his back at a riding camp designed for children with disabilities. Not a bad job for an ex alcoholic equine.

Merry Legs, the Shetland, was in there somewhere with her initial goat like appearance. The day I decided to shave her sun burnt coat was the best decision I ever made. For one, she turned into a beauty of a dapple-gray and two; it clearly showed me how neurotic Kitty really was.

I sat up shop with clipping Merry Legs, nearby Kitty, who was still sulking after her fight with the water hose and me. The tiny tuffs of hair rolling around on the ground was just too much for Kitty's suspicious nature to take, and she flew past us with part of the hitching rail attached to her lead rope, headed for the hills. I finished up with Merry Legs and sent my husband to track Kitty down. I gladly sold her back to her former owner.

Merry Legs, was a hoot. She arrived at our house in the bed of a pickup truck. I was worried that the other horses in the pasture would seriously hurt her when the pecking order got underway. My husband exasperatedly asked me if I really thought Merry Legs would be happy tied to a tree for what little years she had left in her. I reluctantly let him put her inside the pasture, and hoped she would be ok. She kicked butt.

The dust swirling tricks, ears disappearing into stubby mane, squealing, gnashing of teeth, and name-calling specialties, she excelled in. Short as she was, their hooves flew over her head, and her own little sharp digits popped them one by one on their unsuspecting fetlocks. That old gal had great timing. Soon, she was queen of the pasture, and even the biggest horse backed down when she turned her little pudgy backside towards them.

In the end, we pastured thirteen horses, and had some dedicated, respectful riders coming down almost everyday to ride, for several years. With all the funny quirks of those horses, I am happy to say we never had an accident.

Learn more about this author, Elizabeth Mcgill.
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