My Half Broke Horse

This is Stan the Man.

 Four years ago I was gifted a horse on my birthday. I knew this horse, he'd been born fifteen years before on our farm.

His mother, Lady, had been a gift to my Grandmother from my Grandfather. Abused most of her life, she came pregnant, the sire being a well known Clydesdale to my Grandpa.  Shortly after he was born, I wanted to name him Ziggy, with the way he zigged and zagged on his gangly foal legs. But it was grandma's horse, so grandma's foal and she chose Stanley.  

Stan in his youth.

He grew nearly as big as the percheron in the stable and was eventually broken to draw, which he does with a bit of trepidation, but takes a bit, bridle and harnesses draped across him and hauling no trouble. Once this was done though, he received little use, due to the ready to go grey team we had already.

For a long time when I was young I wanted to do horseback riding, but a teacher when I was young put me off. English riding was too ridged for me, and her constant shouting and lack of actual teaching made it difficult for me to progress or really develop an enjoyment of riding as it used to be, not a show sport, but a way of life for everyone. So I quit.

In my final year of university, I was given the opportunity to study socioeconomic history. I chose horses. The study resurged my interested and when my birthday rolled around and my Grandma saw my interest in horses growing again after years of disinterest and gave me Stan.

With school done I returned home in the spring. When I'd left Uni and few friends took the time to maintain contact.  My heart had been broken. I found solace in the shoulder of this soft breathing gelding I put all my time into him. He was my refuge at the end of the day, my challange.

I was determined to ride him.

My grandpa, since he was 14 has worked with horses, usually draft, but our farm started as a riding stable and he was the instructor. While he now suffers from short term memory loss, he managed to still give me pieces of advice and commands authority when it comes to working with animals. He fixed my mistakes when I made them, teaching me.

Slowly, patience, exercise and lots of brushing, Stan warmed to me. After a month I was mounted and took slow walks around the farm yard. I even blogged our progress on another site! It was a lot of learning for the both of us, he was half broke and I'd never done anything like this before. Its one thing to train a dog, another to train 1500 pounds of muscle with a clumsy step. 

I'd been on short little horses before and narrow horses, but I enjoyed Stan's size, he inherited his Clyde bones and build. He was built like the white chargers knights would ride on. And yet he made me laugh with his very un nobleness.Your supposed to wear heeled boots when ever you ride. 1500 pounds of horse flesh made me opt for a pair of steel toed boots. A little clumsy, like he's off in his own dream and a ardent fear of puddles.

You should be able to ride in any foot wear in my opinion.

But my training pain wasn't just limited to my toes. Once I took a dive off his shoulder when he got spooked, I sprained my shoulder but it never scared me like before.

Another time I nearly fell off, but managed to hold it. We rode through the cow coral, which he wasn't used to, and I was watching the road when he bolted back towards the gate. Cantering anxiously, I tried to rein him into a walk, at the same time realizing my sunglasses were slipping from the top of my head. I gathered the reins in both hands, hauling as I slid the shades back in place.  To the cars slowly driving by we must have looked bad ass.He fumbled to a stop at the closed gate, both breathed ragged a sigh of relief.

Lunging Stan. I think this was the hardest thing for me to learn to do, and him. He kept getting dizzy,and so did I.

I rode him all summer, and into the winter.Through knee deep winters I rode along the road, covered in layers, riding a white horse over the fields, even stopping at my grandparents help.

Originally, I'd used that yellow rope for reins before actually buying him equipment. The saddle was borrowed from my best friend's Uncle, who'd been taught to ride (and now ranches in BC) by my grandfather. Photo courtesy of Nicole Vankoughnett

 I am not, and was not a great rider. But the difference between my ridged shouting lessons and this novice on novice journey was that I enjoyed what I was doing.  I enjoyed building his trust, and reaping the benefits of what trust truly is. I learned to hold myself better in the saddle, finally understanding what my riding instructor could never seem to sink in. It wasn't just the riding.

The bugger loved to roll in mud. Mind you all of our horses love the mud. But he seemed to specialize in filthy. Yet there was a great deal of satisfaction in sweeping the crusty clay from him. Every time I came home and blew my nose, it was as black as his fur had been.

My favourite thing to do was to bring him into the orchard, I would take all his tack off and let him wander free, eating the over grown grass. Yet, if I started to walk about, he would begin to follow my, ears pricked forwards in curiosity.

Stan in his orchard 

In the end, I developed depression. Not severe and nothing genetic, but enough to make it difficult to want to go outside, or even get out of bed. I was sad and no manner of horse shoulders could seem to shake me from it. I got over when I could and he still perked his ears when he heard my voice. But the place I was living was causing me a great deal of pain. Eventually I moved to Scotland, where I live now and have made a full recovery.

We had to sell him this summer. My parents are trying to make the farm a money making place and 3 horses chewing away, pooping a lot and taking up space created a lot of work for my father and brother. He and two others were sold. With me over in Scotland it makes me sad I might not ever see him again.

 For a long time, I thought I'd treated him ill by neglecting him during depressions.  Now that I sit and write this I find myself grateful. He taught me patience, perseverance, and how to build trust. I taught him how to be handled with less fuss. And perhaps I will see him again, find him happy on a farm somewhere.

He's a horse so I know he certainly can't read this, but if his new owners come across this, I hope they love him as much as I did. Thanks be to Stan the Man, my friend!

At the height of my depression, still couldn't keep his bottom clean! One of the times I made it over to barn.