Looking Back: Ten Years with my Annabelle

2005

2015

 

May God bless my future husband, because I remember everything—dates, events, details, etc.—and usually have the evidence to back it up.  Start praying for this unnamed fellow now.  He’ll need it.

I mark today because it is the day that Annie (short for Annabelle) came into my life.  People who haven’t had the bonding experience with a horse don’t know why this matters so much, but to someone who has, looking back on it makes you realize that it was the day that life started, the day that the colors of the world became more vivid, the day that you found yourself in a set of deep brown eyes and a velvet nose.  I feel like telling the story, so either stop reading here and skip to the last paragraph, or sit back and put on your fuzzy socks because I’m going to tell this one for myself.

I was sixteen and a sophomore, having been driving (legally) for about a month.  I think that I was just finished with track season and winding down the school year, headed for another blistering hot summer at the horse farm where I worked.  

On the twenty-eighth of April, I went to school as usual.  It was nothing special.  We’d just come off of an extremely successful One Act Play season where we’d advanced to Area along with our friends and favorite rival, Rising Star.  We’d been through three rounds of contests, but had always performed after Rising Star, meaning that we had not been able to see their show and I remember that we were all really curious to see it.  That afternoon, I left the house bound for Rising Star to see their final public performance.  I remember meeting a few of my cast mates there and watching the performance of Asylum. (To any of my RS friends who might be reading this, I remember your play very well and thought you did a fantastic job with it!)  It was definitely a show that I found needed to be picked apart for meaning as I drove, so I was sufficiently busy thinking about that when I got home.

As I turned into the driveway, I remember seeing my employers’ truck and horse trailer in the yard and both Connie and Robby walking with my parents through the yard with a sorrel horse.  The horse resembled their horse Rio and I wondered why they’d brought him over.  A closer look showed me that this was not my Mr. Rio, but a snotty-looking, awkwardly-proportioned, two-year-old sorrel mare that appeared to be copping an attitude.  Connie handed the lead rope to me and told me that they had been on their way home and had brought their new horse by to show her off to me.  She told me that the horse's name was Annabelle.  My first thought, honestly, was “That horse farm needs another horse like we all need a hole in the head.”  I think the farm had something like 15 or 16 horses at the time and I was responsible for feeding, bathing, grooming, and exercising ALL of them except for the ones Connie and Robbie worked regularly (they still got baths and food from me).  I led her around the yard, watched our tomcat rub up against her back legs without being launched by a swift kick (Annie didn’t bat an eyelash), and I dodged a couple of snotty little nips from her.  

Connie and Robby finished visiting with my family, closed up the trailer, and got in the truck.  It had taken me a minute to realize that they weren’t taking the little snot with them.  I dragged her over to the truck and asked Connie if she was forgetting something.  She said, “Oh no.  She’s yours.”

Pause for a second.  At sixteen, I had this idea of what my perfect horse would be like.  It wasn’t Annie.  Not even close.  I wanted something flashy—a paint, an appaloosa—anything but a plain little sorrel and I had sworn to myself that I would NEVER have a mare.  Mares were cranky.  Mares were hormonal and nasty.  Geldings were the way to go and I knew it.  Annie was the last horse on earth that I thought I would have picked for myself.  This is when the lesson about how “God’s choices are always better than mine” began.  

Annie had come from Jeff W., a family friend and customer of my parents' business, who'd taken her in just because she'd been starving at her previous home.  I'm pretty sure that he'd taken her as partial payment for a job he'd done for the previous owner.  Jeff had no history with horses, but had just felt sorry for her.  Upon my dad's next delivery, Jeff tried to convince my dad that his horse-loving daughter needed her own horse.  Dad thought about it and took Robby with him to look at this little horse of Jeff's.  I was told that Robby said, "If you don't buy her, I will." You already know the rest of the story. 

She spent her first nights in the cattle pens while we prepared her little pasture.  My dad thought that she would be fine with the cattle, so he turned her out on 100+ acres with his cows while I was at school.  She ran his herd all over that pasture and all of them dropped a fair bit of weight from the exercise.  He sent me out to catch the brat and it took me 2+ hours to get a halter on her because he’d conveniently forgotten that I didn’t have her trained for open field catching.  Needless to say, she was confined to her pasture away from the cattle to protect the beef profits for a very long time.  

Annie is a mess, but she’s my mess.  She’s my “Holy Terror”, my “Anna Banana”, my “Little Vicious”, and a whole slew of other nicknames—some more repeatable than others.  I thank God every single day for bringing her, and later Mocha, into my life and for letting me love some of his most beautiful, powerful, and affectionate creations.   I am so, so very blessed.

Remembering my Favorite Old Cowboy

It’s been a difficult couple of weeks, but I’m back and I think I can put this down without “losing it” too terribly.  I lost my grandpa the day after Christmas, so today, I think I’m going to give you a few stories in his memory. 

I’ll never forget the day my grandpa met Annie.  It was the end of April.  I’d had Miss Annie all of, maybe, a couple of days.  I was sixteen.  Annie was two.  Papaw was sitting with my mom on the tailgate of one of the pickups in the driveway and I was showing off my new baby to my favorite old cowboy, who had brought me a new saddle blanket for my little mare. (I still use this blanket every time I ride Annie.)  I showed him what we had been working on in her ground training (of course, my bratty two-year-old mare was showing him just how much she liked to resist and misbehave).  Papaw reached out and asked to see her up close.  I led her over to him and handed him the lead rope.  My little snot of a horse (who had been testing me and throwing a fit for the last few minutes) lowered her head and rested her star on his chest and closed her eyes.  She sighed deeply more than once.  He rubbed her face and talked to her.  My heart melted.  My mother has recounted this story many times, and I love the way she describes it.  She’ll say, “It was like that horse wanted to crawl up in his lap like a cat, curl up, and go to sleep.”  I’ve always heard that horses are a good judge of character and that they know a good old horseman when they see one, but actually witnessing my little horse fall in love with him was one of the most beautiful moments in my memory.

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My grandpa came from a ranching family in the next county over.  He, his brothers, and his father broke horses, rounded up and worked cattle, rode their horses to school, everything.  (One of his brothers is in the Texas Cowboy Hall of Fame for his years of old-fashioned cattle round-ups on Fort Hood land, going well into the 1980s.)  My mother had shown me pictures from the time I was young of my grandpa and his brothers working cattle on horseback.  I’ve seen several pictures of him and his horse, “Paint,” and asked him about his days on horseback.  Now that I think about it, I don't think he ever called Mocha by her own name, as she was always "Paint" to him.  Half of the time, I catch myself calling her by that name now, though her name will always be Mocha.  Calling her by his preferred nickname for her carries something special in it--a piece of him.   

*

Between instruction from my dad and my grandpa, I learned how to pull and back a trailer at the tender age of sixteen, which was not a huge problem since I’m a country girl and have been driving around the ranch since I was six.  Papaw went with me on a couple of trips and gave me pointers on pulling the trailer.  He never raised his voice or criticized.  He’d speak gently, saying things like, “Now you really don’t want to pull this open trailer over 55.  Part of it is that it’s a bumper-pull trailer and it can get squirrely on ya.  The other part is that those horses probably don’t need a 60 mile-per-hour wind in their faces.” 

*

He’d feed them treats that I wouldn’t allow anyone else to even think about giving them.  I remember him giving Annie a soft peppermint stick one time and a powdered donut (of all things) another time.  The day he gave her the peppermint stick was the first time that she and I had made the two-mile ride over to his house.  She was convinced that she was exhausted after such a long ride and having to carry me, so I tied her to a branch in the front yard and went inside to visit.  While Papaw and I were talking, I’d get up every few minutes to glance out of the window to see if she was okay.  Annie had this awful habit of pawing and “digging a hole to China,” in Dad’s words, and I have gotten in more trouble with him for her hole-digging in the last decade than I have for anything else.  On one of these checks, I had to wave Papaw over to look out the window at Annie, who had decided that she was too tired to keep going and had managed to stretch out enough slack on her lead to lay down in the yard, flat on her side, and go to sleep, saddle and all.  I remember him laughing as we opened up the door and yelled “What are you doing?!” at her.  She raised her head and looked at us like a guilty preschooler before jumping back up on her feet.  Apparently his yard was as comfortable as his lap. 

*

There are so many more stories about Papaw that I just haven’t been able to recall tonight that may find their way onto my blog in the future, but I felt that these few deserved to be shared.  I know that he was always there when I needed him and he was certain to be sitting in front of the post office with his little dog and his camera if we rode the horses in the Fourth of July parades or out on his John Deere Gator helping us if it was time to move cattle across the ranch.  Every time I look at my horses, at my saddle and my purple saddle blanket, I can’t help but think of him.  Even though the horsemanship methods that I use were too “new fangled” for him to understand (he said), I could tell that he took pride in my love of horses and the western tradition that comes with being a horseman.  So, here’s to running the good race and finishing well, Papaw.  I’m proud of you and I hope you’re proud of me.  Thank you for blessing me with my love for horses and for being a strong, Christian man and father. 

For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time has come for my departure.  I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.  Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

2 Timothy 4:6-8

 I even have this theory that God sends angels to cowboys in the form of good horses, so maybe he’s run into a few familiar faces in the last few days. 

Horse and Soul - An Introduction to Mocha

Note: I wrote this awhile back and thought it was worth sharing.  Consider this a little bit of soul-baring from a lazy blogger who forgot she had a horse blog.  Mocha is my 8 year-old paint mare.  She is a right-brained introvert (RBI) according to the Parelli Horsenality assessment, which means that this left-brained extrovert (LBE) human took a long time to figure out how best to work with her.  She is an amazing horse for her beautiful heart and her quiet affection.  So, without any more of my wordiness, my story:

Mocha has the most beautiful, deep brown eyes.  There is something about the way she looks at me--into my soul--that sends chills running up and down my spine.  Her quiet, studying gaze carries the weight of wisdom and understanding well beyond her eight years of spoiled pasture puff life.  Whenever I choose to introduce an activity that Mocha finds displeasing, more often than not, she will lower her head in submission and watch me silently through those deep eyes (and maybe an occasional sigh) while I go about my preparations.

There have been dozens of occasions over the past seven years or so in which I've found myself to be emotionally overwhelmed.  With tears streaming down my face, I've fled to the one place where I could find comfort without someone trying to offer reason: the horse pasture.  My girls are usually at the farthest point from the gate and waiting calmly for me to come to them (unless I have treats or some new, curious item to be checked for palatability).  Annie's fireball personality and her short attention span don't really work well with the tearful "I need a good long hug and a cry" mentality.  Usually, Annie is two minutes and out on the sad stuff, pulling away and turning tail for the nearest thing that appears to be edible.   Mocha, however, is almost always a willing participant in a long neck hug, with tears and face being smeared into her beautiful, soft neck.  She'll stand still, solid and unwavering, until I've managed to cry myself out.  More than once, with my hair and face a full-out mess, this horse will put her black, velvet nose right in my face and breathe on me.  Her warm, slow breathing is comforting.  It's almost like she's saying, "Are you going to be okay now?  I don't know why you're upset."  Those deep eyes look straight into mine and I know that she can see my bare soul and she knows the answer.

People who have never experienced a true partnership with a horse just don't understand the deep emotional ties that horses and horse people share.  They don't comprehend the absolute trust that the horse has for his/her person and the lack of barriers between them.  Horses and their humans keep no secrets from each other.  My girls have been with me through the very best days and the very worst--joys, triumphs, failures, heartbreak, embarrassment, the whole lot.  To be absolutely honest, I am pretty sure that, without my girls, I probably would have struggled with depression.  The thing is, horses have the God-given ability to heal the deepest wounds and comfort the most troubled heart.  God put them in my life to save me from a world of pain, insecurity, irresponsibility, and destruction.  Daily, my faith is reaffirmed by two beautiful horses that know me inside and out and love me anyway, just as Christ does.

I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for. (Jeremiah 29:11 MSG)

Background

First off, I must start by stating that I am no horse whisperer.  I've never tamed a wild mustang or managed to break that one impossible horse that no one else could ride.  I am your run-of-the-mill hobbyist trail rider who occasionally makes her horses earn their keep by checking water sources in hard to reach parts of the farm or by helping Dad move the cows from one side of the farm to the other.

When I was little, I used to think that other little girls who obsessed over horses were the dumbest things in the world.  They'd come to school with their little pink pony backpacks, glittery pencils, and clothes covered in horse pictures and I would sit there and think, "That's so stupid.  She doesn't even own a horse.  She's probably never even ridden one.  Why does she like horses?  I'll never have anything with horses on it."  Yes.  I've eaten those words many times over.

It's funny how God works through some of the most random, unplanned events.  Annie was my first horse.  She came to me as a surprise: an awkwardly-proportioned, overly-opinionated two-year-old mare only a month after I'd gotten my driver's license.  We were both trying out new freedoms and both thought we were the boss of the other.  Needless to say, we definitely had our share of arguments in which I would ask her to do something and she, as a left-brain extrovert mare (which means she's overly-opinionated, not afraid of me, AND hormonal) would either bite at me, swing her butt toward me and threaten to kick, or rear up threateningly.  Despite her bad behavior, I loved her anyway.

My first real experience with horses happened on Valentine's Day, February 14, 2000.  A new family had moved into our area from California and had brought their horses with them to set up a non-profit therapeutic equestrian center.  As I have a younger sister who is developmentally-delayed, they had contacted my parents with the opportunity to come visit to discuss my sister being the pilot rider for their therapeutic program.  That day I rode a beautiful black horse named Lady.  She was a gentle horse with a big heart but fairly rough gait.  I left with some saddle-soreness in my legs, but I had been incurably bitten by the horse bug and there was little chance of recovery.

I started my first summer job at that therapeutic center in 2002--the summer after seventh grade.  My job was to bathe and groom the horses (all 24 of them) as often as needed.  As the summers passed--eight of them in all--I had the opportunities to learn to train and ride some of the horses.  The most rewarding part, I think, came from helping with the lessons for some of the riders.

I've seen horses change lives.  Some of the riders were children and adults with mental or emotional challenges who  would not reach out either emotionally or physically to others before they began interacting with horses.  For those, often simple interaction from grooming and providing care to the animals was therapeutic.  Some were physically weak or unable to walk or balance at all.  Riding, sometimes with another rider sitting behind for support or with sidewalkers and a leader, allowed the horse's natural motion to help strengthen their core muscles in a way that was much more gentle than other therapies.

There is something almost magical about a horse's God-given ability to heal and strengthen humans where we need it most--be it physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual.  My younger sister was two when she became the pilot rider at Rising Star Farms.  She was developmentally-delayed, had severe mental retardation, autistic tendencies, and weak muscle tone among other things.  She could not walk or even sit up on her own.  After only a few months of riding, she was sitting up AND walking on her own.  Now she is a vibrant little teenager who is still mostly non-verbal, but is very expressive and knows how to get her message across.  She is incredibly intelligent despite her developmental issues, and knows how to raid the fridge or pantry whenever she is hungry as well as how to sit quietly in church on Sunday.

I know without a doubt that horses, especially my two, were gifts given to me by God to teach me about his love, mercy, forgiveness, and strength.  Please pardon any disorganization in my writing as I write, because this is purely something that I think God has brought me to share and it comes as more of a stream-of-conscious thought rather than as an academic composition.  Like I said:  I am no horse whisperer; instead, I think that God gives horses the ability to whisper truths about him to us through their personalities, their actions, and their astounding ability to trust and bond with us humans.

His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse, nor His delight in the legs of a man; the Lord delights in those who fear Him, who put their hope in His unfailing love.

Psalm 147:10-11

There is so much more that I want to say on the subject, but it will take many, many more of these posts to ever convey what I am thinking and understanding at the time.  Thanks for reading.  Questions and comments are welcome and appreciated.