Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Zydo's New Home...

For weeks now, I have been deliberating on whether or not I should move Zydo to a new location. Preferably one with ground suitable for riding a horse on. Fortunately for me, my riding coach happens to have a spare stall in her barn for the next six weeks, and so that is where Zydo is currently living.

I've been contemplating this for ages. Can I handle driving every day to see my horse? Can I handle having him away from The Ranch? What if he gets hurt on someone else's property? But, after hours and hours discussing the topic, I decided that my parents should take the plunge and move my horse for me. They moved him last Friday.

I was far, far to riddled with anxiety to be on the premises of The Ranch the day that Zydo moved, and as a result, I went to a little town about eight hours away. The train ride was tedious, the beer was delicioius, and my heart was pounding so hard by three p.m. on Friday that I nearly stopped being alive altogether.

I spoke with my coach's husband at three, and he informed me that the move itself had gone smoothly and that the horse was still, in fact, alive.

Once he had settled in to the barn, and met the Chestnut Trakheiner named Stetson, Zydo proceeded to terrorize his new farm. I received a text message at around nine, after not nearly enough beers, that said: Your horse is behaving like a damn Arab. Call me.

At that point, all the matter in my stomch nearly spewed out of my eye sockets, because I bought this horse SPECIFICALLY because he does not behave like an Arabian. He is an elderly, arthritic THOROUGHBRED, and that is what I expect him to behave like.

Zydo did laps of the entire farm after pulling himself away from my coach as she led him to the ring. He ran, he cavorted. My coach owns a three year old who attempted, briefly, to run and cavort with him.

She couldn't keep up and gave up racing around the pasture after three laps. Zydo continued and ran another two, just for good measure. He was so sore by the next day that he could hardly trot.

And this is what I love about my horse: He was achey and hurt-y, and still, once I threw the saddle on, he was desperate to please me. He wanted to work, he wanted to pull himself together and work off the bit. He tried and tried in everything I asked him to do. He aims to please his rider, and sometimes I wonder: does he know how much I love him? Does he know that my heart melts when he licks the palm of my hand and he nuzzles into my shoulder?

Regardless, my horse now has a new home for the time being, with a sand ring and jumps and other horses to frolic with. I can ride him every day of the week except Sunday.

My heart is happy.

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