Trials of a Horse Crazy Thirty-Something: We're Just Going to Look!

It's all my mother's fault. Everything is her fault. It's her fault that we had horses when I was a kid, and it's her fault that I got back into it when I was 32. She started everything.

The problem is the Horse Gene. You're either born with it, or you're not. If you're not, you might like horses, but they won't be a problem. I tried and tried to make my daughter into a horsey girl, but she just doesn't have the Gene. She likes the idea of horses, but she's scared and just doesn't care enough to get over her fear. If you have the Gene, God help you and everyone around you. It's a sickness for which there are no support groups, no twelve-step programs and no government grants.

I carry the Horse Gene. I got it from my mother. I've lived, breathed, and slept horses for as long as I can remember. A banner day in my life was when I was nine and my mother said to me, "Jenny, we're going to go look at a horse today." I couldn't believe my ears. Finally, a horse!! A horse to love and ride and feed carrots and brush and clean up after. "We're just going to look," she said. "Right," I thought.

We went to look at Dolly, a yearling half Arabian, half Quarter Horse. She had fallen down and hurt her shoulder so she was lame, but the seller assured us that she would heal in no time. Given that my parents had horses when they were kids, this lame yearling was obviously a great choice! We took her home, "home" being a boarding stable in Cupertino, California. What did we do with this lame yearling we'd bought? Well, we loved her and took her for walks and fed her carrots and brushed her and cleaned up after her, but missed that all-important "riding" aspect. So, off we went to just look at a second horse. By the time ten years or so passed, we had just looked at about 20 different horses who all came home with us. Several of those were "my bestest friends in the whole wide world," carrying me hither and yon over hill and dale and to many ribbons and plastic trophies and cheap silver trays.

However, little horsey girls grow up and their parents stop footing the bills. Horse Gene or no, horses are expensive creatures. When I moved out of the house at the ripe old age of 23, I realized that it was time to sell my last horse until I could "afford" this hobby again. During the years that followed, I dreamed of horses, I read about horses, and I cried over my pathetic lack of horses. I moved to the Big City of Sacramento, and I knew where every feed store and tack store was in town. In truth, Sacramento is more of a town than a "big city," but to a recently expatriated country girl, it really seemed like a big city. I kept my old saddle and it followed me from house to house, just in case a horse might come by that needed riding. My husband, whom I'd met somewhere along this horseless desert of my life, didn't quite take this seriously. He likes horses well enough, but he isn't cursed with the Gene...he doesn't really know what it's like.

The horseless desert came to an end on Thanksgiving Day in 2004. We were at my brother's house in Rough & Ready, California (don't know where that is? It's near Penn Valley), admiring my niece's pony. That was my mom's fault, too. The Horse Gene somehow skipped my daughter, but made its way into my horse-hating brother's daughter. How did that happen? I tried to argue that they were switched at birth, but no one bought it since they're a year apart...but I digress. Jordan has the Gene. She's lived, breathed, and slept horses for as long as I can remember. Mom and I heartily encouraged this, giving her horsey toys and books at every opportunity while Horse-Hating Brother Martin groaned and rolled his eyes until we were sure they'd stick (they didn't, but it was a close call). Finally, Mom convinced him to let her give Jordan riding lessons for Christmas. From there, his life as he knew it, as he planned it, was over. The next thing we knew, my horse-hating brother was shuttling his daughter to lessons in their new truck and trailer. He was paying the mortgage on a horse property. He was building an arena (with sand and jumps and everything), and owned not one, but two ponies! With two daughters, he never had a chance. Luckily for him, Taylor is a few years younger than Jordan so he has a slight reprieve before things get really bad.

On that fateful November morning, my brother helped me haul myself up onto Shadow, Jordan's eventer. I rode him bareback, at a walk -- too chicken to trot -- but I was the happiest I'd been in nearly 10 years! Right there and then I did a mental budget and decided that I could "afford" a horse again.

My husband's first reaction was to laugh. He actually thought that I was joking. It took a few minutes of convincing before he realized I was, in fact, serious. His reaction then shifted to disbelief. How could I possibly afford a horse?

"They're expensive!"

"I'll get a cheap one," I reasoned.

"Where will you keep it?"

"There's a place nearby that boards for $200 per month. I can swing that!" I countered.

"What will you do with it?"

"Love it and ride it and feed it carrots and brush it and clean up after it," I explained.

I told him that I had no aspirations of showing "since it's so expensive." (It turned out that I was wrong about that: I competed in 10 shows in 2006 and am making plans for Nationals in 2008. Oops.) "It'll be fine," I said, "just wait and see."

I began my search by posting a want ad on the Bay Area Equestrian Network. "Wanted: horse for under $1000 or free lease. I can afford upkeep but don't have money saved up for a big purchase. Arabian or cross preferred, at lease 15 hands. Prefer not green broke." It occurred to me some time later that this, surprisingly, was probably not the best method of finding a horse. I probably sounded a bit like a horse crazy teenage girl, among other things. But, I was determined! I would have my horse!

I received several responses to my ad, but one in particular was from an Arabian breeder. "I have a horse you might like, $500. Black bay, three years old, green broke. She's 14.3." Not exactly what I had in mind (one out of three ain't bad?), but I'm a sucker for bays. I saw a picture of One Hot Lady on the breeder's website, and I was sold. I knew from that picture that this was my horse! I made an appointment to visit her and told my husband, "We're just going to look." He apparently didn't know what that meant in my family, so, dutifully, he went.

When we arrived and saw the mare, I thought "Wow, 14.3 was a lot taller when I was a kid." I thought it must be the same effect as when you go back to your childhood home and it's smaller than you remember. We measured her later and she was actually 14 hands, although now she's had a growth spurt and has soared to 14.1 ½. Despite her size, or, perhaps, because of it, she was adorable: it was late December and she had a winter coat, her mane and tail and forelock were long and full, and she had the sweetest eyes. "She's perfect," I thought. "We're just looking," my husband informed her owner.

The breeder had warned me that she'd need a tune-up before riding so we agreed that I would not ride her that day. We turned her out in the arena so I could see her move, and I melted -- this really was my horse! She was so elegant, so graceful. She had such a twinkle in her eye as she galloped and bucked and tossed her head! "She's perfect!" I whispered to my husband. "We're just looking," he reminded me.

I wanted to play with her some more, so we put her on a lunge line to see how she handled. She was still wound up from her run and continued running and bucking on the lunge line until she pulled the rope out of my hand, making an excellent effort at taking my finger with her, and ran to the other end of the arena. "She's perfect," I said through my teeth, nursing my newly sprained finger. I somehow managed to write a check, much to my husband's surprise and chagrin, and we picked her up the next week. It never even occurred to me to get a vet check. After all, we were meant to be together, right?

One Hot Lady, aka Molly, has taught me much over the past two years, and all I've suffered has been the aforementioned sprained finger, a few bruises, and one concussion that I currently recall. She's coming along in her training and so am I. My chiropractor and I have become very close. I think I'm the luckiest girl in the whole world, but my husband just shakes his head. Next week, my instructor and I are going to just look at two Thoroughbreds in need of rescue...just don't tell my husband!