Semifinals in Ocala: Sunday

After nursing my intense headache I had developed on Saturday at about the same time that my team momentarily forgot how to ride like superstars, I slept like a rock in my hotel bed (other than a moment at which I had to open the door in my pajamas and politely-yet-nastily ask the man having an animated conversation on the phone right outside my door to take his business elsewhere.)

In Alfred style, we arrived at the show grounds about an hour earlier than we needed to and sat in the cars for a few minutes, waiting for the host staff to turn on the lights in the arena so we weren’t sitting in the bleachers in the dark. As the team slowly trickled into the stands, Harry and I lingered next to a palm tree outside the show office to discuss the previous day. Most of what we discussed was our lack of regret: so what if the previous day hadn’t gone completely as we had hoped? So what if our riders made a few mistakes? One difference between this year’s team and last year’s team was a lack of prior experience: about a third of the riders we had brought with us were first-year students completely new to this caliber of show and this kind of showing. We still had faith that the team we had selected was the team we wanted to show, the team we would continue to stand proudly behind and support.

Our first rider in, again, was our reiner–this time riding for the team. Bolstered by her confidence from Saturday’s ride, she and I found the horse she drew getting prepped by his owner and walked right up to ask questions. The woman was gracious enough to give our rider a brief rundown of his “buttons” and wished us luck. I scurried off to the in-gate to watch the first rider in the class: the girl we had marked down as our toughest competition from the day before. I took note of some dragged leads and a break of gait which left the class still wide-open for us to win.

“Good luck,” I called as our rider entered, looking considerably less confident but still prepared. She started her pattern off according to the owner’s instructions, and Harry and I watched, delighted, as she laid down perfect maneuver after maneuver. After she had completed her final spin (more than redeeming herself for the previous day) we were sure she had done her best.

From the stands, we watched the next riders like hawks. There were one or two that I thought could have beaten our rider, and I waited for the results from the edge of the mounting paddock, assuming that at best we were second and at worst probably only as low as third. When the announcer rattled off placings up to second I let out a cheer. Our girl had won it. And suddenly, Alfred was back in the running.

We sent our individual intermediate riders into the ring with high spirits; one made it the finals and eventually placed sixth. The next flurry of activity surrounded our beginner walk-jog rider, a sweet young woman we had drafted out of my Western I who was also riding for the hunt seat team.

I continue to be impressed by this rider’s nerves of steel. Ultimately, I agree with her opinions: what IS there to get so worried about, anyway? At the same time, it’s unnerving to look up and see her completely casual expression as she rides into the biggest show of her life, completely cool, focused, ready and yet mellow.

She put in a very good ride–not the best, but enough to earn us fifth. As our final rider mounted, my very reliable and versatile captain and the only boy rider we had brought with us, I frantically added and re-added the point totals to make sure I was getting it right. I must resort to another cliche to describe the tension in our section of the stands–thick.

We were currently in a three-way tie for third. Our reining victory made up for some lost ground and our lowly-seeming fifth place had bumped us into the running for the Nationals bid. The top three teams qualified–so it came down to this, the final class. I circled the riders from our other tied schools in my program and stood railside to wait. Our rider needed a constant stream of talking in his ear to keep the weight of his responsibility from crushing him alive.

As he jogged and loped by I muttered continual nonsense–but one line of truth. “You’re having the best rail ride out there.” It was true–his position never wavered. While perhaps he was taking the show a bit too seriously, he was a competitor, and he knew his job. I felt a rush of pride as the team captain gave the judges a nod after completing his pattern–he had just put in one of the best rides of his life.

Harry stood alone at the top of the ring, checking off our competitor schools as their riders were called. When the second of the tied schools was called out at fifth place, he cheered and punched the air. Our rider was second. We were going.

Except were we? We had forgotten about the fourth place team, whose rider had just won the class. Amidst my celebrating team, I quickly jotted down the point totals and then raised an eyebrow.

We were tied, again. Mercifully, the tie was for second place. No matter how the tiebreaker fell, we were still going to Nationals. I knew the first tiebreaker was the number of firsts–and surely Michigan State had two.

They didn’t. They had one. They also only had one second place, as did we. The third tiebreaker was highest team reining score.

Hello, victory. Or, at least, reserve championship. As we stood in the team line-up, the Alfred banner held proudly by my riders, all showing solidarity in our new team shirts, I was pleased. The last time Alfred had won a reserve championship at the Semis I had been a point rider. Now I was the coach, and things were coming neatly full-circle. I have to say that I enjoyed standing there with my team as coach much more than I ever did just as a rider. I had brought them here, and I look forward to seeing them through.

Semifinals in Ocala: Saturday

While I hate cliches like “feeling the tension,” there’s no better way that my tired brain can think of to describe the sensations among the team as we filed into the bleachers on Saturday morning, the first hints of sunlight beginning to show in the east. It’s amazing the way one can feel the emotions in a group without having to say anything or even perceive a change in action or expression–I could simply feel that my riders were tense with anticipation, excitement and nervousness.

The brief coaches’ meeting before the first draw boded well for the rest of the weekend, however: there was no funny business mentioned about the scoring of the reining nor anything too overly complicated and fussy as we had experienced at last year’s Semis in Missouri. Instead, the relaxed-but-imperious Peter Cashman simply wished everyone good luck, laid down the rules, and did not open the floor for debate. Done, and well done.

Our first rider was our individual reiner. As luck would have it, we were riding Pattern 3, one of my favorites for the way it tests the rider’s ability to read and put together a pattern and use the arena space wisely. At Alfred we call it the “Victory Lap Pattern.” As we stood in the in-gate and watched the first rider perform (our rider was the second draw) we noticed suddenly that she seemed to be in the wrong end of the ring…no victory lap. In a moment of panic all three of us lost our heads, forgot the pattern, and sent me sprinting madly through the mounting paddock and down the side of the arena to check the posted patterns. Thank goodness for the Cornell coach who ran to meet me halfway to let me know that no, we weren’t crazy, the first rider was just off-pattern. Too bad for her, but good for us. After holding up the show for a few moments while I dashed around the facility I sprinted back out to where our rider and Harry waited on pins, and she went in to ride.

She put together an absolutely beautiful ride…until she got to the spins.

Before entering, the horse’s donor was gracious enough to demonstrate and teach our rider exactly how to ask for the spins. The horse had a particular way he had been trained, and as we’ve all preached in the IHSA, it’s all about riding the draw as it wants to be ridden. Our girl understood, comprehended, thanked the donor for his generosity and headed in…and had a brain fart and forgot. Alas. On the other hand, the rest of her performance was stellar enough to earn her fifth place and bolstered her confidence for her ride on Sunday.

Once the show began, it got rolling slowly but unstoppably, like a very slow boulder going slowly downhill. Our riders all started to show promise–both of our Advanced riders made the finals and our Team Intermediate rider placed third. But after that, we began to make silly errors–just little breaks in stride or unthoughtful placement on cones–just enough to take our riders out of the top four. Neither of our team riders in the later classes placed, and the highest individual placing we earned was fifth (the top four qualified for Nationals.) By the end of the day, a black wall of thunderstorms was rolling in and we were last out of eight for the team standings. Our shot at qualifying was essentially gone, and our riders were not looking their best. We headed to dinner, sprinting across a flooded parking lot in the drenching torrents of rain, trying our best to get out of the storm.

Semifinals in Ocala: Friday

I just got back from the IHSA Semi-final Championships in Ocala, Florida. While it’s going to be one very long story, I feel like I should write everything down to make sure that someone somewhere has this trip recorded:

At about 2:40 AM on Friday morning, I drove to the equestrian center, my thoughts busy with the day’s itinerary: drive the two hours to Buffalo-Niagara International, fly into Tampa, rent vans and drive another two hours north to Ocala.

In the meantime, the bright lights inside beckoned me in, where I found the eleven individual and team riders waiting for me, not yet completely awake but already excited for the journey ahead. Once everyone was gathered, we had packed an overstuffed garment bag full of rhinestone-encrusted shirts for me to drag through the airport and the bus arrived, we loaded up in a surprisingly smooth and efficient rush and headed for our first stop: Cuba, New York, the homeplace of Mr. Harry Hurd.

He was waiting for us at the end of his driveway, looking very much like a weird old-man version of a boy waiting for the school bus, a single carry-on clutched in his gnarly old fist and a clipboard/briefcase tucked under his arm. The entire figure was capped with the ubiquitous cowboy hat that he tipped towards us as we pulled up for him to board.

At the airport, we efficiently managed to get thirteen people and all of their associated baggage checked in which took less than twenty minutes, even with our individual walk-jogger forgetting her ID on the bus and having to call the driver to circle back around so she could dash out and find it (thanks, John!) My preaching on letting oneself be herded about the airport and not thinking like a unique and special individual clearly paid off, as the team, a group of extraordinarily unique and special people prone to saying every single thought that came into their heads let Harry and I direct them through the check-in counter, bag check and security without discussion. The flight to sunny Tampa was uneventful, though somewhat disappointing as Florida was almost the exact same weather that we had left in Alfred–warm, bright, humid, welcoming. The only difference was the constant appearance of flowers and palm trees, immediately putting us all in the mindset of a vacation.

Fun fact: you need to be 25 to rent a 15-passenger van. That’s all I will say about that, other than Harry’s plan to drive only cargo and foist off a van full of 11 chattering passengers on me was unfortunately foiled. I quite enjoyed my drive to Ocala with our reining rider and two freshman recently graduated off the IEA team–I called them Thing One and Thing Two for most of the trip. I will also mention that Thing Two fell for my deception that the minivan’s volume and radio controls were voice activated (thank goodness for buttons on the back of the steering wheel, haha, Thing Two.)

Full of high spirits, we enjoyed a very giggly and sleep-deprived lunch and then drove into the ranchette country between Dunnellon and Ocala. Imagine city blocks, only ten times as large, populated not by houses or commercial buildings but tidily sprawling little homesteads with pastures all around them. One of these belonged to Harry, and we pulled in to take a quick tour (and, of course, do a little yardwork for him. What else to do with 11 sets of hands?)

On the drive from what I started calling the “manranch” (Harry and our only male rider would be staying there for the weekend) we all gazed longingly over massive pastures full of horses or cattle, training tracks, white or black fencing as neat as you please, and miles and miles of property that turned out to be Live Oak, a huge farm and show grounds.  After checking in briefly at the motel, we headed to the Ocala Equestrian Complex, one of many equestrian centers and show grounds in Ocala. We watched the horses school–a lovely set of horses, all in all.

The grounds were lovely: the warm-climate equestrian centers can take advantage of the mild weather and build open-air indoor arenas with two open sides. The pen was lovely with decent footing and the warm breeze circulating through the bleachers where we hung our Alfred banner gave everything a lovely and relaxed feel. The show was put on by Florida State University, who put an amazing amount of work into creating a lovely environment and fairly smoothly-running program. Perhaps it was the warmth, perhaps it was some sort of relaxed semi-Southern approach to showing, but everyone was polite and happy to help. We left the show grounds after watching all of the horses perform optimistic and excited to show the next day.

Circles

Playgirl was horrendous yesterday: any hint of my left leg closing on her and she would launch into the air, shaking her head, slapping her tail and her hind legs kicking out in all directions. Harry and I can’t decide if she’s sore or not–most of the time I am tempted to say it’s her terrible attitude, compounding a slight soreness going to the right. She is unhappy with either leg being closed on her, but worse so to the right, where she tends to drop out and refuse to move her hip over anyway. If she is in fact slightly sore, the only thing to do is either give her a lot of time off and see if it gets better (tried that, it doesn’t) or work her hard enough to make what’s vaguely sore obvious enough to treat. Chances are she’s just naturally less flexible to the right and doesn’t like to work on it. Attitude.

So after yesterday’s fun-filled experience, I headed right to her stall this morning, saddled her up and headed to the very wet outdoor arena. After riding for about forty minutes there was improvement–moving better off the leg with less resistance and getting quite soft on the bit. I called it a day.

She had mud caked all the way up all four legs and mud through her tail; mud spots dotted her chest, flanks, hindquarters, neck and face. I had mud dots from my ankles up to the very top of my helmet–from the ankles down, my jeans were soaked and heavy with mud, kicked up from half an hour of loping. My saddle was crusted and no one could tell what color her boots were supposed to be. At least we looked like we had gotten something accomplished, or, alternately, like we had been galloping madly through the backcountry chasing wayward cattle.

 

The last thing I did today was teach Kalcy a reining lesson; Kalcy is our reining point rider for the Ocala show this coming weekend as well as our AQHA High Point rider and the star of a HorseNation post of mine a few weeks ago (see “The Crossover Challenge.”) We had what I felt to be a very productive hour discussing all sorts of things, from the way to sit a transition into a slow circle, issues with what might seem like common sense during a reining pattern, and basic geometry:

I have had increased success riding reiners by NOT spurring them into fast circles, but instead sitting low and deep and simply allowing them to roll along. When it comes time for the small slow circle, rather than grab their face, I add outside leg and sit up, allowing the horse to collect and meet me as I sit up and tighten my core.

Common sense would dictate that the leg goes on in the fast circle and comes off for the slow circle. But when you take into consideration that in training the leg goes on to pick the horse up and bring it into the bridle and collect it, adding leg to slow down starts to make much more sense. (And yet we don’t teach the students this…instead we change the horses’ training fundamentals to fit what’s easier to understand…don’t get me started. One change at a time.)

“How do I give her that much rein without having to drag my arm all the way out…here?” Kalcy demonstrated while trying to start a spin. Why, by picking up your hand, of course, and removing all the slack rein, allowing the rider to easily drop the hand and give all the slack back. I love easy teachable moments in which we figure things out all at the same time.

 

If you haven’t already checked out HorseNation today, my latest article was posted, as well as a lovely write-up in Wylie’s “Morning Feed.”

Micro Monday

Becca, Jenn (a grad student boarder who helps us fudge the line between student and teacher) and I are standing around the horse-drawn manure spreader, an interesting (if you are into that sort of thing, like I am, and I suspect Jenn and Becca less so) and antique piece of equipment, banging at the singletrees with a variety of less-than-useful tools.  We need the singletrees off the spreader in order to give Dan, the assistant farrier who is stepping in to teach my driving class on Friday while I am in sunny Florida, the equipment he needs to do some horse-drawn logging (aka dropping saplings on my students, with horses.)

We chat, gossip, laugh and continue to uselessly flail at the equipment with tools. We get little accomplished but we have a great time. While we are giggling, Sage runs wide circles around us, flat-out, having the time of her life. It’s sunny out and we have nothing better to do.

Tres and the Perfect Day

My scheduled practice for Friday afternoon wound up being only one rider, our Advanced team selection who we jumped up from Intermediate. On a whim I decided to ride Tres outside and teach from horseback, something I think is a great teaching tool that we definitely do not take enough advantage of at Alfred. I got pretty good at doing so during the first half of Western IV, riding Playgirl or something else in need of work to demonstrate a lot of the training exercises I wanted the class to learn. In the other classes, where I am constantly holding horses for people to mount or fixing stirrups or picking things up that people knock over or needed 100% of my attention focused on people not falling off, riding while teaching is much harder. Practices are too quick and focused to allow me much time to ride either.

Tres now comes to the gate when he’s called, which is a great trick when the pasture is as muddy as it’s been–I don’t need to get my boots dirty hardly at all. He stood nicely while I refastened the gate and ambled into the barn behind me, mellow enough to actually follow me all the way into the tackroom, turn himself neatly around and stand there, looking extraordinarily out of place but quite happy to be blending in among the saddles.

We mostly sat in the sunshine watching my rider work through some patterns and exercises, enjoying the rare warm breeze and bright sunlight. After a very productive 45 minutes of practice, the two of us and another student of mine who had been watching from the back of her old barrel mare headed out for a little wander around the barn wherever it wasn’t too deep and muddy. Eventually we followed the sounds of very loud classic rock down to the shop where Justin and his work-study minion were converting an old draft wagon into a new water trailer. Tres calmly stuck his head around the corner of the bass-pumping truck and into the garage, watching the boys at work. From there we ambled back up the hill to the barn, happy and sleepy in the hot afternoon sunshine.

And that was it for Tres. I untacked him, ran the shedding blade in a half-baked effort to remove some hair and turned him back out. A grand total of about twenty minutes of actual work. For him, and me, the perfect day.

Back in the saddle

I finally had time (read: made time) to ride Playgirl again last night for the first time in at least three weeks: the sun was still in the sky, the air was warm, and everyone else around was happy–that light, carefree attitude that comes with spring weather.

She was, of course, sassy as anything, spending a good amount of time corkscrewing and leaping above the ground for the first half hour, but did remember a good number of things I taught her earlier in the winter. She gave me a great pair of lead changes and then bucked through the rest of them–I feel like those are going to be something best left alone since they do go well the less I fuss with them. Playgirl turned around fairly well, though she’s still a little reluctant to move off my left leg. These things will come with time, I suspect…but as I always think I will have more time than I end up having, we’ll have to see.

On one hand, it was nice to be back on my own horse again, something I essentially started myself–she was pretty greenbroke when I got her and knew very little of anything. She has one of the most comfortable lopes I’ve ever ridden and she’s remarkably athletic on a cow–she’s just fun to ride.

On the other hand, she is stubborn, has a bad attitude and fights as much as she learns. I find myself arguing with her–with myself, out loud, really–and battling over a number of things, her ears pinned and her head raised. She’s been thoroughly checked over by both a chiropractor and masseuse, so I don’t suspect a pain issue any longer, just attitude. Becca and I have discussed on multiple occasions how we are harder on our own horses than the school horses, more demanding, because they are representatives of ourselves.

Except that Harry tells me I don’t push Playgirl hard enough, and I certainly never pushed Peppy hard, nor do I really push Tres (if anything, I baby him, and I’ve ridden him a total of ten times perhaps.) So do I actually push her? Or does she push my buttons? Maybe I should work her harder? Working her more often is obvious, an area where I’ve completely dropped the ball.

In the end, it’s very nice of Harry to give me such an expensive project–a project for my own benefit, not as much the filly’s. I’ll continue to figure things out, screw them up, fix them and move on. Back in the saddle again.

Spring fever

The weather has a taken a sudden turn for the lovely, so to celebrate the miniature passing of the season, Rebecca and I rode outside, the last thing we did at work today.

Becca was mounted on Sugar, a new black reining mare, who momentarily lost her head at the idea of fresh air, while I was riding palomino Wow yet again, attempting to make him remember that he was pretty broke at one point. I don’t know how much more I’ll really be able to coax out of him, but I’ve grown to like him a lot more than I used to. The leg yielding at the lope and other fun tricks helped. Riding outside helps too.

We didn’t do much–Becca just worked Sugar down to the point that she didn’t have an enormous hump in her back and I worked Wow enough to get him a little warm. Then we simply stood the horses in the middle of the ring and enjoyed the air, the sky, the warmth, the light breeze: everything we’ve been missing.

 

Sage has been a little nuts this evening, barreling madly from one end of the tiny house to the other, sliding on the kitchen floor, scrambling to turn, and then flying back across again, the whites of her eyes and her little teeth all showing, ears flat back to her head as she scoots. I think she’s got some spring fever as well, though she’s probably too young to know why.

It’s coming! It’s too late to go back now–if the outdoor ring freezes up again no one is going to be very happy about it. I don’t recall ever having so much desire for warmer weather before.

As luck would have it

Today was the IEA hunt seat Regional championships, which meant it was the last chance to get everyone gathered together before the post-season starts. In other words, it was also the last chance to horse around in the parking lot with the kids, get gag gifts from Tammy (I got an entire handful of tiny plastic MINIONS!) and have kids spray whipped cream in my face. I’ve become a kid person, somehow–I know lots of people saw this coming and will now be smirking and saying “I told you so.”

On the way home, in the balmy sudden onrush of springtime air, I rolled the window down, opened the sun roof and didn’t feel the need to mash the gas and get home in a hurry. Halfway down Lake Road, I suddenly remembered the tire weight Peter had found in the driveway and our suspicion that it had fallen off of Rebecca’s or Johnny’s cars. I had meant to give it to Rebecca to take home but must have gotten distracted by the whipped cream or something.

So instead of continuing down Lake Road I turned right at the four corners, heading down Randolph Road so I could continue a loop back to Rebecca’s house. I don’t normally take this route home; the last time I drove this way with any regularity was probably at least four years ago. At the top of the hill the vista is beautiful: you can see over the entire valley, and Jerry Snyder’s Sunny Cove Farm makes a very picturesque setting where the road flattens out: barns, meadows, a handful of ponds and his sugar operation. I’ve done a few projects as an undergrad on Jerry’s family, farm and philosophy, as well as patronized his on-farm shop for beef, milk and maple syrup. He always waves if you drive by, and he comes out to say hello every time we take the draft horses to town.

As I slowed down at the bottom of the hill to avoid roaring through the farm at fifty miles an hour, I noticed a heifer staring at me from the shoulder of the road. I slowed faster, and then noticed nine more of her companions milling around outside Jerry’s barn yard. If he was in the process of moving cattle, the farmer himself was nowhere to be found. Something was up.

I pulled off the road and turned on my four-ways and then got out of the car, craning my neck to see if I could find Jerry anywhere. His barn cleaner was operating at full bore, flinging cow manure into the spreader in his barnyard. The man himself appeared out of the door to his milkhouse a few seconds later, dressed in his characteristic navy-blue Carhartt coveralls and knit cap. (I’m pretty sure he even wears this in the summer.)

“Oh hello!” he waved cheerfully. “I said ‘I think I’ve got one outside!’”

I nodded with a smile that clearly stated I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You know, people who pull up to look at the animals. And then I realized it was you!”

“Are these yours?” I gestured to the little herd of ten who was nose-to-nose with Jerry’s cattle over the fence.

“Oh!” Jerry turned to inspect the cows. “You know what…these are Uncle Harold’s.” He gestured vaguely towards the woods down the hill from his meadows. Harold Snyder operates Edgewood Farm just down the road.

“Well…do you want help herding them back?”

Jerry sent his son to call Harold to let him know his cows were out, and then proceeded to jog down the road, calling to the cows the entire time. The nine heifers and one young bull jogged after him, with me bringing up the rear to encourage the reluctant drags, my spurs jingling on the pavement (sadly without a cow horse to be riding.) I imagined how odd we must look: the farmer in blue, running and chanting to a band of trotting dairy cattle with a girl in cowboy boots trailing behind, a few hundred yards down the road.

What were the chances that I would happen to be driving down the road at that particular moment? I never take that road home. Go figure that the one time I do, I manage to help a neighbor (and be able to help him with something for which I have a little bit of experience!) Had it been a “city” person driving down the road, who knows–they would have rushed right by, honked the horn, or, heaven forbid, hit a cow. Jerry, a deeply religious man, probably called it some sort of blessing that I was there. I call it a fun coincidence, the kind of thing we’d do half for work and half for fun out on the ranch.

I could think of worse things to do on a lovely warm afternoon.

Hanging with the Bros

Because neither of us can read and process an email, Becca and I spent the last hour and a half of our work day feeling rather guilty and trying to make up for it.

Essentially, we were reminded last week that we were supposed to help the work-study student feed lunch and switch turnouts, and then assist her with turning in the horses at the end of the day. We didn’t remember this at all (though to be fair neither did our supervisor) which meant that when we strolled into the barn at quarter to four after a Student Affairs meet and greet (we did not meet much of anyone, though we did greet some people and compliment the boss of everyone’s shoes. Misplaced modifier. She does not boss our shoes, she bosses us. While wearing great shoes.) we had forgotten and the poor girl had turned in everyone but the last four horses all by herself.

The same situation had occurred at lunch time–fortunately we were quicker with the assist, which meant that I got to get dragged back to the barn by SOMEONE’S sassy little black pony who had her tail arched over her back, snorted like a dragon and stood up four or five times like a miniature Black Stallion. Whoever could have donated such a wild beast? I have no idea. Blame it on the weather.

So to reduce our guilt for swanning about eating pineapple while our poor solitary work-study student slogged about in the mud, Becca and I offered to feed the outside horses, put their blankets back on, and therefore get the student a head start on feeding.

Five minutes later, I was shrieking and running away from Gustav as he bore down on me like a slow-motion freight train crossed with a large and stupid shark. Bio stood somewhere behind him with his tiny piggy eyes blinking in the warm winter-spring sun, his mouth full of Lite Balance (food formulated for fatties!) as Tres booked it out of the vicinity (what a loyal friend.) Duckie, meanwhile, was running Becca over again and again as she attempted to get him dressed while he attempted to both eat his mountain of food and crib on everything.

I introduce you to the Bros.

Duckie: The love of Becca’s life. Some sort of Warmblood…is he Dutch? He is lovely, perhaps a bit dim, un-cuddly, talented but harboring a little bit of PTSD about things like horse shows and jumping for anyone except Becca.

Bio: A Belgian-Appaloosa cross. I hope he was an “oops” baby but it’s hard to tell. He’s actually quite talented except that he’s also morbidly obese. He’s afraid of almost everything if he thinks he can use it to his advantage.

Gustav: I forget what specific variety of warmblood he is, but he’s quite large and pretty rude, especially when food is involved.

Tres: The Quarter horse we know and occasionally love. I needed his stall…therefore he lives outside.

Three warmbloods and a Quarter horse. We have the Bros. They hang out, eat a round bale, pick on each other, stand around, and generally act like a pack of laid-back frat boys. For as much as we like to pretend sometimes that they don’t exist, they’re pretty great, a walking circus, reliably unreliable and full of personality. In short, they are horses, and no matter what, they’re loved.