Our daughter, technically the daughter we never had, works as an equestrian, doing everything from breaking young horses to training riders to mucking out stables. I, too, grew up around horses, rode a few of them, and fell off most.
Years ago, a relative showed me a snapshot of a horse. I blurted out, “Gosh, what an ugly animal.”
Just looking at the picture of a horse from long ago, sent me into reverie. Mother had bought a buggy horse called Captain. Cap, as we called him, had problems; he would bolt at the slightest provocation and scare the daylights out of Mother.
So Mother swapped Cap for Old Dick. Dick, a retired plow horse, did his duty as a buggy horse and much more. Load three kids on his back and he gladly played cowboys, Indians, and horses. Hook him to a buggy and he’d cross any prairie, plow through mud, or follow roads awash with spring runoff. He never faltered.
One day Dick permanently etched a place in family folklore. During a trip with three of us in the buggy, the nut that held the buggy’s kingpin in place worked loose, dropping the pin to the ground. We didn’t suspect a thing until our bodies hurtled over the dashboard and landed face down on the dirt road.
Behind us, the front end of the buggy rested on the road, sitting at 45 degrees with only the rear wheels supporting it. Ahead, still in the shafts, plodded Old Dick pulling a much lighter load – the front axle and wheels. The reins dangled over the axle and trailed in the dust.
Until someone caught him and brought him back, Old Dick hadn’t even missed us.
Next, I remembered Tony, my first and only saddle pony. Unable to buy a saddle, I rode bareback. On my first ride, Tony chose to race my brother’s horse back to the barn. He refused to answer my orders, pleadings, or prayers to stop. I kicked off my rubber boots and curled my toes under his belly, wrapped one hand in his mane, and hung on. He headed straight for the open barn door; if he entered, he’d spatter me across the end wall of the barn.
Tony knew better than to kill me. He stopped suddenly, and I landed on the ground beneath him. Then he waited quietly while I untangled myself from the reins and crawled out from between his legs. He didn’t laugh out loud, but I saw a twinkle in his eye. I sold him and bought a bicycle.
The most famous horse I ever knew had the name of Flash-K. This thoroughbred, owned by Charlie Wiseman, consistently beat everything in Alberta. I saw him race only once. At age 13, Flash-K should have long since retired, but Charlie had entered him in a meet at Alliance, Alberta. Charlie also entered a young horse named Jackie’s Girl.
They’re off! While the elderly Flask-K trudged along behind, Jackie’s Girl raced to the front of the pack. We all began cheering for her, a sure winner until a brown blur appeared from nowhere and crossed the finish line to win. Flash-K had done it again, but at a cost, for he came in limping severely and never raced again.
Ah, yes, the ugly horse in the picture? Believe it or not, that wasn’t Cap, Old Dick, or Tony. I held in my hands a picture of the family’s pride and joy, the indomitable Flash-K.
It just shows you: guts and determination win life’s races. Good looks win beauty contests.