I met Jenny while hellhounds and I were out hurtling today. Some of you will remember Jenny. She has a horse farm/stables/yard at Ditherington. I rode her gorgeous mare Connie for—was it about a year? I’m pretty sure both the beginning and the end were recorded in this blog—until the ME started letting me know in fairly graphic terms that I couldn’t ride regularly, week after week . . . and there’s no frelling point to riding any other way than regularly. At least not at my age and when I’ve done enough riding and hanging out with horses in years past that I’m not interested in anything less than a relationship, and preferably a training relationship, with an individual horse, in which one or the other of you and probably both are learning stuff you didn’t know before. I miss riding. I miss hanging out with horses, but while Jenny always says I’m welcome to stop around any time, it seems so pathetic when I can’t ride.
I miss Connie.
Connie was lovely. She was a Connemara/thoroughbred cross, which is a popular breeding because it produces a lot of good horses. She was one of them. She could do anything if you asked her nicely—she was positive and willing and clever, a ‘schoolmaster’ (or perhaps schoolmistress), as they call such horses, without being a push-button robot. She paid attention, and if you didn’t ask correctly, you didn’t get what you thought you wanted. She also needed your help: she couldn’t do it alone. She engaged. She was right there for you.
She had an accident out one day in the field, no one knows what or how, the same harmless, as-much-as-anyone-ever-can-horse-proofed field she spent all her days in. And had to be put down.
She can’t have been more than her mid to late teens. She should have had another ten years of teaching humans to ride—Jenny’s son was due to have her when he outgrew his pony—and some years after that of being a pasture ornament.
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