by Stacie Moyle

Created on: July 22, 2011

“You’re gonna ride in that?” said the man in Wrangler jeans, a button down shirt and a palomino decked out in the finest buckaroo tack towing along nicely behind him. His eyes had shot to my slim black leather saddle buckled around my trusty dressage horse.

“Sure,” I replied flanked by my 14.3 hand high Arabian gelding.  Adorned in four white socks and a nearly perfect diamond centered on his forehead, he was every bit the elegant show horse he’d been bred to be. His floating gaits were perfect for the dressage arena as was his intelligence.  In the interest of supporting our local horseman’s association, I’d signed up for a cow working clinic.

With all the students gathered, our instructor began demonstrating small moves, two-track work he called it. Riders dispersed and sorted through the movements as the instructor offered commentary. Some were proficient cowhorse, handy in their steps, responsive to the riders, educated horses that performed well. As our instructor toured the class, he’d approve, “Yes, like that,” and draw the attention of students to watch. “Look at that horse there, the little black one how he steps over, pivots on that foot and keeps that nice bend through his body there,” he said directing the focus of the group to me.  

Well, sure they said, she’s on a dressage horse.  Dressage horses to them were by definition horses trained beyond the point of usefulness, a horse skilled in setting a perfect nail with no idea how to build a house.  Lunch came and went with a lot of supportive and encouraging comments about the quality of my training and premature condolences for the fact that it would have no bearing on my enjoyment of the afternoon session when cows would enter the ring.

The cows came in, framed between the pricked flute-shaped ears of my little horse. His nostrils fluttered and his sides quivered as he drank in the smell of the mooing creatures. We took a few steps towards them, halted, backed, and set for a spell to think about their reactions to our movements.  Then we were set to move cows individually away from the herd. 

Our beast, a creamy horned beast with a coffee stain of brown on its hip wasn’t too impressed. He’d heard this song and done this dance far too many times. Horses just didn’t impress him anymore.  It was a good slow moving cow for the girl in the little black saddle

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