𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐘'𝐒 𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 - rvec mustang million entry

[caf.]

KASEY
she/her // 22
sticks and stones // riot // mare // 4

My mother had a stroke in the early spring of 2014.

I found her on the kitchen floor as I bounded down the stairs to meet a client for a horse sale. Had I not misplaced my keys, I might well have missed her entirely. Just like that, all of our hopes and dreams and successes caught flame in the fear that I might lose….well, everything.

Thankfully, Judy Cavallo is a fighter; she came out of the hospital with difficulty speaking and moving, but her old personality remained fully intact. Still, after a few weeks of recovery, it became clear that the farm life wasn’t for her anymore. Oh, how she cried, walking with hackneyed steps down the barn aisle and leaning her head in close to each and every one of her beloved horses. We both knew that even with the years of experience I had managing various aspects of Cavallo Combined Training, there was no way I’d be able to keep all 18 horses afloat.

Despite having plans to travel to Europe, as she’d always dreamed, to move in with friends and kick back in comfort, she refused to leave the farm until she was certain that each of her magnificent mounts was to be taken care of. Thankfully, there was a great market for the majority of the animals; we watched a number of ambitious young riders walk away with a number of them, the same riders I’d been showing against for ages.

After three weeks of intense advertising and sales, we had but five horses left; Atlas, our elderly cream draft stallion, and the four feral horses I’d been training for years. My mother advised me to just keep them and let them roam in the largest paddocks on the property; Atlas and Soda could live out the rest of their lives in peace, and the other three, having once been feral themselves, could enjoy time spent in a true herd. All I had to do was make sure there was plenty of hay and grass available, maintain the integrity of the run-in sheds, keep the water troughs full when the pond dried up, and bring them in for worming every now and again. She took in her last view of the four stallions romping as the cab came to whisk her away to the airport.

For two years, the farm rotted. While the paddock where the remaining horses roamed remained relatively clean and cared-for, the once-magnificent barns started to deteriorate, weeds and animals beginning to take over the dirt paths and buildings. I took up a work-from-home job to make ends meet, and another when I lost that one, since the leftover money I’d been left wasn’t going to last forever. When I wasn’t working or trudging down the fenceline, I laid in bed, too exhausted to sleep. I wouldn’t admit it to myself then, but I was depressed, horribly so. I watched my connections to the outside world start to die the same way the farm did. Even the horses, in a way, seemed like they were already gone; I rarely saw them anymore, since they spent much of their time at the pond in the far end of the pasture. It was almost comforting to watch the property blink off the map.

It was raining something horrible the fateful night I went into town for groceries. Like any other food trip, I took the backroads, always having hated the busy city streets. Had I been more focused on the road, I might not even have noticed the white blur leaning listlessly on one the barbed wire separating cow pasture from shoulder.

She was a grey mare, an Arabian, and with her was a black Tennessee walker. Both were shivering and starving, clinging to one another. I called up the nearest horse rescue without hesitation, standing close enough to evaluate their body conditions without frightening them. I waited with them until the trailer arrived.

Even though I knew the rescue was reputable and that both horses would be taken care of, I couldn’t get something about that white mare off my mind. It felt childish and stupid and superstitious, but I tossed and turned in bed for ages, something about her face branded into my mind.

After two days spent resting my hands lifelessly on my laptop’s keyboard - something I now referred to as “working” - I finally decided to go to the rescue and see the mare for myself. Maybe if I saw her as what she was - a skinny, whipped horse - instead of a wavering figure through sheets of rain, her strange importance in my mind would fade.

Of course, nobody at the rescue recognized me, but when I asked about the grey Arabian mare they led me right to her. I froze. She had a look to her, the same one I’d seen when I first saw her but hadn’t recognized until just now; skittish, neurotic, tainted by harsh hands but not yet ruined. The exact same look Soda had to him when I first bought him. It lit something up in me, something that’d been there since I was just a kid. What was I put on this earth to do?

Rightly so, the adoption protocols included an inspection of my farm before I was allowed to take the mare home. Naturally, the inspector was perturbed at the state of most of the buildings, however, with the good condition of the resident horses, he could find no reason to turn me down (on the condition, of course, that I made at least one of the barns usable in case of inclement weather). I named her Gøta; I figured after letting her fatten up and get used to people once more for a few months, I’d sell her as a prospect to one of the same riders I sold my previous horses to.

I didn’t want to turn her out with Novea straight away when she came home; even though I knew my little mare was a gentle creature, I had no idea if the Arabian was nearly so good-natured. I brought her to the old isolation paddock, overrun with weeds but with the fences still in acceptable condition. It was almost therapeutic, mixing her some gruel in the feed room, lit for the first time in years. I’d forgotten what it was like to give individualized attention to each and every animal on the property.

On the way back to the mare’s paddock, I strayed from the dirt paths to cut through the overgrown median between. It was then that I tripped over a large stone, managing to preserve the feed by throwing my arms out instinctively to keep it upright. Annoyed, I kicked away the weeds and rolled over to get a good look at the offending rock. On it were carved the words:

“O L Y M P U S
1990 - 2014
The kindest and gentlest stallion to roam the Earth.
May the grass be greener on the other side.
R.I.P.”

I don’t know why running across the grave struck me so strongly, but I immediately hung my head in my hands. What had I done? How shameful was it that I’d let the once-magnificent land go to waste? That I’d even let my mother’s favorite horse become mired in weeds? I sat in the greenery and cried like a pathetic child, suddenly consumed with grief for the glory days. I don’t know what got into me; perhaps I was sleep-deprived, perhaps I was drunk (I can’t recall), perhaps my daddy issues had finally caught up with me, but I had such a longing deep in my chest to go back to spending long days under the sun on horseback, finding underdog horses and coaxing them into becoming talented, happy mounts. More than that, I had a childish, cliched urge to make that happen again. Kasey the Rider would sound better than Kasey the Desk Jockey if I ever had to explain myself to 10-year-old me.

I’m not going to lie and say that I got up the next day and went to work, tearing down rotted boards and hacking away weeds in a frenzy of passion. Rather, I paced the house anxiously all day, staring out the window at the overwhelming mess i’d created, a mug of long-cooled coffee clutched tightly to my chest. I did the same thing the next day, and the day after that. I could only manage little things at first; replacing one corroded water pipe, nailing two boards back into place, filling three stalls with shavings. Some days I couldn’t even manage that; those days I just took care of the horses and spent the rest of the day staring off into space in a folding chair outside of Gøta’s paddock. She became quite used to my presence from these sessions.

Even with the achingly slow progress, things started to come together. Often when I’d complete a project I’d become so filled with joy I’d immediately move onto the next one, and the next one after that. I never was able to put enough of my pride aside to go to therapy, but in a way, the construction was therapy in and of itself. Once, I even pulled Soda out of the paddock and threw his old saddle on him for a quick ride in the newly-completed arena; he was understandably tense and concerned after not being extensively handled for years, but I surprised myself with how I settled into the tack as though my last ride had been yesterday.

I made my first post on Facebook in ages that night, a photo of the new sign hung at the front gate:

“CAVALLO STABLES
FERAL & RESCUED HORSES”

I never finished all of the projects, since new ones cropped up constantly, but gradually I shifted my attention from the farm to the horses themselves. I was out of shape; I heaved and wheezed after rides. I ran, lifted weights, did exercises at home to build muscle. I read all sorts of forums and articles online to brush up on my riding. Every now and again, when I was feeling brave, I took one of the horses to a clinic. I started taking in boarders and leasing parts of the property to bring in a steady income. I even found another horse, a cheap nokota filly with potential on the cross-country field, to add to my stock. Maybe I could have a foal again, that would be nice. Why not?

I have my off days, sure. I’m nowhere near where I used to be in skill-level, either. Still, when I saw the Mustang Million being advertised, I just couldn’t help myself. Who was I if I wasn’t going to go find the crappiest horse of the bunch and make myself a confident little mount? I’ve been back in action for a year now, relearning and revising the training technique that has created countless athletes before. I might crash and burn, might have to scratch, but auctions starting at $125 are hard to pass up.

I hope my mother will be proud when I tell her.

[caf.]

table of contents

introduction
unloading
haltering
tacking
gentling
training 1 (legends + specialty)
training 2 (legends + specialty)
training 3 (legends + specialty)
training 4 (legends)
training 5 (legends + specialty)
training 6 (legends)
training 7 (legends)
training 8 (legends)
training 9 (specialty)
training 10 (legends)
training 11 (specialty)
training 12 (legends + specialty)
training 13 (specialty)
training 14 (legends)

[caf.]

Admittedly, she wasn’t my first choice.

I spent quite some time in a bidding war over a pretty, skittish little tobiano; it was only when the bidding crossed the $500 mark that I finally called it a day and stepped away from the laptop for awhile. I made myself a coffee and stepped onto the porch, gazing out over the admittedly peaceful farm. The fences had been raised to a full six feet in height and all the boxes were checked in terms of requirements for taking on a feral horse; I’d gotten sloppy and let some of the boards fall previously, but I would hate to be turned away because of a bad pasture now. Already I had some criteria set out for the horse I would buy, to ensure I was at least somewhat sensible about my purchase. It should probably be a mare, since I already had too many studs on my property. It should be at or above the 15-hand mark so that I didn’t look ridiculous hanging my five-and-a-half foot frame off of it. It should have decent hindquarters and clean legs. I probably didn’t need another eventer, though, since I had western saddles to spare, so maybe a more western-built animal.

Admittedly, the selection of horses was quite beautiful when I logged back on after a few hours of feeding horses; several had very unique markings and most looked well-built and clean. I laid eyes on her after briefly checking out a couple of youth horses.

She was everything my mother would discourage me from if she were here.

In the photos the mare looked skittish and hot, ears flattened, nostrils wide, eyes rimmed. She galloped and trotted frantically along the edges of her enclosure, much too animated for me to judge her build. The only photo of her standing still was blurry, but anyone could see the mischievous light in her eyes. She was going to be a handful. I placed a bid.

Compared to the tobiano, her auction was a bit slower and came out to around $400. I suspected many coveted her for her pretty spotted blanket and her high energy. Either way, the probably-too-little bay mare was officially my mount for the Million, second thoughts or not. Pickup day would come in two weeks, and then it was off to the races to have her tamed and show-ready.



Ty’s pickup day wouldn’t technically arrive until Tuesday, but they volunteered to come on mine in order to get a feel for how pickup and unloading could go. My farm had already been checked out and approved for three feral horses, so all I needed to do was arrive with my two-horse with a removed barrier and the rest of the work would be done by the BLM crew.

I opted not to have my mare shipped with a halter; even though the paddocks had been thoroughly vetted for potential injuries, I hated the idea of her being trapped in an ill-fitting halter or getting herself caught on the fence. Ty and I hung on the fence as they carefully cut her away from the swarm of panicked, dirty mustangs. She looked every bit as rangy and hot as I remembered her, diving against the workers in hopes of finding a weak spot. Luckily, all of the staff were quite well-trained, so within minutes they’d managed to work her into the chute and slam the gate behind her. She reared and called out, clearly alarmed by the entire ordeal, earning a few confused whinnies in response. As usual, however, once she realized calling was useless she set to pacing along the fence and keeping a keen, nervous eye on the crew surrounding her.

“They’re not all like this,” I assured Ty, as I could tell her antics were alarming them. They nodded, but seemed somewhat unconvinced. I resolved to show them the video I’d taken of Bourbon unloading to prove my point. That mare was still very skittish, but she’d been polite enough to daintily step off the trailer before panicking.

After coaxing the bay mare into crashing into the trailer and slamming the ramp behind her, the staff double-checked with me that everything on the papers was correct and then sent me on my way. After all, nobody wants to hold a feral horse in a trailer for longer than absolutely necessary, especially the monster I’d picked out. I think I saw pity in the eyes of the staff member that checked me out.

On the way home, I talked quite frankly with Ty about everything they’d need to do to succeed. Mustang Million was always an intense competition, and this year would be no exception. I hadn’t even looked at the horse they’d ended up with; for all I knew, they chose one even hotter than my mare. Instead of shrugging me off as I expected, they listened very earnestly, mentally noting everything I had to say. No wonder I’d liked this kid so much when I first met them.



The mustang didn’t even consider ceasing her tireless pawing when the truck rolled to a stop outside of her new paddock. I’d chosen to put her in one of the two paddocks flanking the round pen; while I was unsure of her interacting with the other mare through the fence, I figured it was better than having to lead her to the pen at first.

After backing the truck into the round pen and securing the gates to ensure her only option was to run into the paddock, it was time to lower the ramp. I brought it down slowly, careful to ensure she didn’t become skittish of it, and briskly jogged to the fence to climb to safety and watch the scene unfold.

Unlike cautious, dainty Bourbon, this mare exploded out of the trailer, tripping over her own feet in her mad dash for freedom. I’ve known several horses to fall flat on their butts trying to turn around in a trailer it isn’t physically possible to do so in; it looked like she was no exception. She pranced around the paddock with her head high, tail flagging in the air, snorting and bolting suddenly at a moment’s notice. The mares, who I’d placed in the barn so I could gradually phase them into the paddocks next to her, called out excitedly, causing her to stop for a glorious second, eyes wide and nostrils flared. She proceeded to dig three inches into the ground with a monstrously overgrown front hoof before taking off again at a hurried trot, every bit as agitated as I’d predicted she would be.

“So what are you going to call her?” I could tell Ty asked to shake off some of their concern; clearly they felt like they’d bitten off a bigger chunk than they’d expected.

“Riot,” I responded. It seemed fitting; I’d decided on it the night prior. They nodded in agreement. Luckily, her riot didn’t seem directed towards people at all; while she was extremely hot and nervous, she wasn’t terribly perturbed by our presence and seemed familiar with hay and water troughs. I knew after another hour or so of this nonsense she’d settle and start to nibble at hay; she’d still be spooky for several days yet, but horses don’t have the energy to panic for that long unless someone’s actively chasing them.

I told Ty to go home after we’d watched her for a few more minutes. All I was going to do was keep an eye on her, after all, and they needed to rest for their big day tomorrow. They thanked me, told me they’d arrive bright and early with their trailer, took one last look at Riot before they set on their way.

I sighed when I could no longer hear tires on gravel, resting my elbow and chin on the middle board of the paddock fence. Riot stood stock-still, staring off at something in the distance. There was plenty of good horse in there, I could see it; even though her exterior was rather harsh and frightening, she was in essence a nervous, overwhelmed soul. My job now was to teach her trust.

Some horses really do need someone to hold their hand as they navigate life, but I don’t see that in her. All she needs is some direction, a job to do. I think she’ll be a brave thing when I’m done with her.

[caf.]

Ever since Riot arrived I gave her the same treatment I gave shy Gøta when I first brought her home. I sat outside her pasture for many hours a day, choosing a different spot every day, not really interacting with her but rather just working. Filing taxes, bills, whatever could get done that didn’t require movement nor electronics. After a few days of that I settled myself in her pasture under one of the shade trees, figuring she’d accept me as part of the landscape.

From her brief time spent in the holding pens, she’d learned that human hands meant gentle scratches and treats, so for the most part she ignored me and occasionally stepped to cautiously sniff at me from a few feet away. When I didn’t react, she usually nudged my hand and earned herself some neck scratches before deciding I was boring and finding something else to occupy herself with. Even my papers didn’t much bother her after a couple of exposures.

It had been a week and I knew I needed to get a halter on her, but for once I didn’t feel rushed. She was plenty used to me, after all. So, today, when I set myself up in that paddock, I had a forest green nylon halter with me.

Personally, I do understand the use of the rope halter. It’s lightweight, meaning it feels more natural, and provides additional control over a young and feral horse through the knots on the noseband. I get it. It’s just a personal preference that I train all my horses in a flat-buckle standard halter, so that my mounts get used to weight on their faces and the pressure that comes from it.

I gave Riot some treats when I walked in, rewarding her for hanging around me as usual. After she quit gently mugging my pockets (the little turd was already all too used to people after a week of me continuously feeding and petting her, though that was pretty much the extent of her domestication thus far), I slowly transferred the halter to my right hand, placed a couple of treats on top of it, and slowly held it out to her.

The mare snorted but, knowing thus far that hands generally meant food, very delicately lipped at the chunks of carrot (something she’d rapidly developed a taste for). Nonchalantly, I took the hand with the halter and slowly raised it towards her shoulder, as though I simply meant to pet her. To be honest, I’m sure the only reason she didn’t bolt off was because she was very confused by the entire situation.

I’ll be honest, it took me about ten minutes to slowly work the halter up her neck, rubbing her with it and treating her anytime she seemed to relax and accept it. A couple of times, she got bored, arched up her neck and trotted off, but all it took was a couple of snacks to bring her back to me.

I wasn’t sure if I could halter her that day, but she seemed acceptant enough that I could try it. With my free hand, I started rubbing her muzzle, slowly easing the halter off her neck and towards her nose. Of course, this process took another ten minutes, with her routinely spooking and running off or, later, deciding this whole thing was tedious and walking away. She was starting to take longer to lumber back over; time to get something done.

Carefully, I eased the noseband up her muzzle, slipping my other hand over her poll and quickly clipping the headstall into place before she had a chance to dart away from me. She didn’t seem too surprised at first, taking a few carrots from me until she realized the pressure on her face wasn’t my hands.

Mila, the arguably saner two-year-old, watched with amusement as Riot got her giggles out, throwing her head and bucking. Truthfully, I don’t think she was afraid as she was irritated. I planned to leave it on her overnight to get her used to the pressure, take it off in the morning, and then begin working with her on leading and, eventually, tying (which surely would be quite the adventure).

After about five minutes of silliness, Riot stopped to stare at me, eyes bright. Slowly, she began to approach me, looking for a reward. As she got within a few yards, I extended a hand, secretly overjoyed that she was starting to seek me out.

Just like that, she wheeled and bolted, bucking in true bronc fashion. I rolled my eyes but, honestly, it was in good nature. What a turd. She was going to be a fun one.

[caf.]

(forgive the rustiness of this, it has been months since i've done acrylic on paper but i wanted to try this gorgeous girl in the medium
i've enclosed a WIP gif of this piece at the end of the entry!)

It’d been about twenty minutes since I’d managed to, inch-by-inch, saddle and bridle my unpredictable little mare. I’d been familiarizing her with the bridle and the girthless saddle all week, but this was the first time I’d fully tacked her and made her rideable. Naturally, as soon as I drew up the girth, she decided she was finished with me, pulled away from me, and trotted off. It took her a few bucks and sprints around the round pen before she decided to come back to me in hopes of getting a reward, and a few more moments of frustration before she finally quieted enough to earn one.

To be honest, even though she was striking, I’d never thought of her as a particularly beautiful mare. She had a coarse head and wonky oversized feet, and her movement was average at best. It surprised me, then, that seeing her profile gorgeously silhouetted against the sky somewhere between afternoon and evening, I almost saw an attractive filly.

I’d chosen the right bridle, I could tell. The rubber bit sat comfortably in her mouth, and the thick noseband and crownpiece didn’t seem to miff her much at all. The old, forward-cut saddle I’d dug out of my garage, however, had to go - for one, it was brown, an unprofessional combination. As well, it’d be nearly impossible to ride dressage with my ankle about a foot in front of my body. I’d probably ask Ty if I could borrow their black Wintec all-purpose, seeing as it fit their similarly-sized paint horse.

It was time, I knew. I had to pick up the pace with this mare. We hadn’t quite figured each other out yet, but it seemed we didn’t have time left to waste.

[caf.]

I was practically raised on the phrase “horse time.”

It was a philosophy first preached by my second trainer and later parroted by my easily-swayed mother. As a young child I was constantly told that a horse has no concept of a clock or a schedule; he does things when and only when he is ready to, and if you intend to work with him you must understand and heed this.

It follows, then, that I have spent years mastering the art of knowing when to push a horse and when to give it a rest. Often this makes my training process very slow, but with my hesitations about futurities this has never negatively affected me. That being said, no matter how many feral horses I have trained, I have never attempted to gentle one in the strict timeframe of the Mustang Million.

I didn’t intend to back Riot so soon; I’d progressed to the point of lightly leaning on her back but I still felt as though I needed more time, always more time. She caught me off-guard, then, when she started getting bored.

You could see it in every move she made when I was working with her; no longer did she eagerly seek out rewards, rather nonchalantly taking treats from my hand and rarely putting in much effort to please me. I tried to get her engaged in the little games she used to find interesting; taking the bit, leading around, walking over poles, trotting on a lead, skills she’d need in her competition life. Still, this was all old news to her. It’s boring, after all, to play cards with someone who hasn’t a chance of beating you.

I really don’t like to call people, but I felt horrible that I hadn’t spoken to Romero since the sale of Mallory. Our interactions since then had essentially consisted of liking each other’s Facebook posts and sharing each other’s sale ads. So I called him out of the blue, because I didn’t really want to watch Riot start tearing at the boards of the round pen nor did I have anything better to do.

Naturally, he was worried when he picked up the phone; I usually don’t call anyone unless it’s an emergency. When I told him I just wanted to talk, he immediately switched to making fun of my “lonely, pathetic” lifestyle. He was mean, but then I was too. I suppose a more sensitive person wouldn’t have dealt with me for as long.

We talked horses, of course, so the discussion eventually turned to Riot. While the Brazilian man wasn’t very familiar with feral horses, he knew my training program intimately and understood my frustration. I bounced ideas off him, perhaps buying her one of those treat balls or checking the rules to see if I could turn her out with the mares instead of just interacting through the fence. He sounded incredulous.

“Kasey. Just get on her.”

“What?” To be honest, it took me a second to realize he meant backing her. It sounded ridiculous.

“She’s ready, she’s telling you that. You yourself were just telling me about how understimulated she is. Horse time, girl.”

He was right; horse time didn’t just apply to horses that took things more slowly than expected. To be honest, had I been younger or had Romero or my mother been there to help me, I’d have seen it way sooner. My nervousness and hesitation just had to go out the window; it was time to turn this feral disaster into my new riding horse.

The key to keeping a horse (that trusts you) calm in a new situation is acting like it isn’t new at all; if you say it’s nothing special, then your horse won’t think so either. So I didn’t try anything different with Riot when I saddled her that evening; I showed her my helmet as if that was the biggest thing I had planned for that night, which she accepted without much interest. I set her up next to the mounting block as usual, bridled her as usual, rested my hip on the black Wintec as usual.

I’d already sat down before I realized I hadn’t even bothered to lower my stirrups.

She didn’t scoot right then, just stood for several moments in shock, looking at me as though I were an idiot. To her credit, you had to be a certain kind of idiot to get on a freshly-tamed mustang - or even to get on a horse, for that matter.

She promptly set to trotting around and bucking like a yearling colt; luckily, her small size made it difficult for her to even remotely unseat me. I sighed, resigning myself to jumping off as soon as she gave me the chance; I knew I shouldn’t have taken advice from someone who’d never seen her.

Finally, she came to a halt, snorting and putting a little hump in her back as she dropped her head. I stood in my stirrups and almost dismounted until I saw the look in her eyes.

I have no formal training in equine stress signals, but I know a distressed horse when I see one. Riot’s eyes were relaxed and wide, her nostrils only slightly open from the exertion of her little adventure, her lips neutral on the bit. Just like that I was taken back to those dressage tests on Olympus where he’d rear up or buck in sheer zest for life, full of youthful vigor. Atlas, too, still pulled the same nonsense at age twenty-three.

She had a funny way of showing it but, at least in that moment, she was a pretty happy horse.

[caf.]

For someone my age, I’m awfully stuck in my ways as a trainer.

Like I’ve previously said, I’m a serious classicist in terms of horse training, building infallible fundamentals on which to construct a well-rounded horse.

That’s a fancy way of saying that I spend way too much time lunging Riot.

I’ve never bothered with a lunging cavesson since with a whip she free lunges just fine - it’s one of the first things I taught her, since I consider it a valuable lesson in attention. Still, she’d never seen side reins before, and I don’t exactly know what I expected.

It certainly didn’t shock me that she wasn’t exactly pleased about her new situation; side reins are certainly nice in that they give the exact amount of pressure the horse needs to learn to take contact. To Riot, this was infuriating. I had the reins loose enough to allow her to stretch out, but she still hit the bit several times with her incessant head-tossing. The rubber mullen mouth, of course, was not terribly harsh, but I could tell this game was harder for her than the ones we’d tried before.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do besides encouraging her to calm down and try something different. She would figure it out eventually, but I didn’t want her panicking before that could happen. I spoke to her soothingly, mumbling nonsense as I followed her quietly with the lunge whip.

Riot’s developing muscles were starting to drip with sweat in the Texas heat. I almost wanted to quit, but I didn’t want to end on a bad note with her confused and frustrated. Just as I was about to drop the whip, she dropped her head.

It was likely an attempt to buck, but I hurriedly marked and rewarded the behavior anyhow, allowing her to approach me to receive one of the carrot chunks she so adored. Still frustrated with her predicament, she chewed vigorously, bobbing her head and flicking her ears every which way in confusion.

Still, as soon as she went back on the circle, she lowered her head, eyeing me expectantly. I marked her and allowed her to come back for another treat. It took me perhaps an additional five minutes to solidify the behavior before she was doing it about 70% of the time - which, for the first time in side reins, I considered pretty impressive.

The combined negative and positive reinforcement training was making its mark on her. Now, it seemed, it was time to see whether the lessons she was learning would stick.

[caf.]

It seems my little mare isn’t terribly given to dressage.

Like most event trainers, my horses are given a strong foundation in dressage off which the other disciplines can be built to make the sport low-stress and natural. I’m not even sure, truthfully, when I decided Riot would be an eventer - it just felt right, with her build. Still, she was making my job interesting; even though she was doing an acceptable job of picking up the movements, her way of going definitely left something to be desired.

I’d spent a few rides teaching her the basic walk-trot-canter-halt aids, which she found intuitive and engaging. The next step, then, was to begin with training her in just a tiny bit of impulsion; pulling her hind legs underneath her body and pushing from behind. I figured she was plenty sharp enough to begin the next step after a few rides.

Of course I began training at the walk since her trot and canter were still a little unbalanced and discombobulated. Keeping my hands soft and lifted over her withers, I sat back on my seatbones and used my inner thighs to effectively “pull the saddle forward,” an expression used to teach younger riders how to engage a horse’s hind end. Even though I’ve relatively perfected sports including reining and hunters, my talents have always rested in dressage; at least in this discipline, a lanky build and soft hand serve me well.

My mustang’s head still stuck straight up in the air in front of me, still reluctant to accept any form of contact. I could tell, though, that she noticed my aids; her ears flicked back and forth from me, clearly turning it all over in her head. Suddenly, I felt a quite sharp pain in my heel as my mount roughly shifted her weight. Turning around without releasing my legs, I realized that Riot had cow-kicked me, annoyed with the pesky pressure on her side.

She continued setting up this kicking for the rest of the 30-minute ride, reluctant to lift her back even slightly to allow her legs to stretch underneath her. For a few moments, she seemed to almost understand me, momentarily dropping her head only to attempt to strike at my heels once more. By the time I felt like she was even remotely starting to understand, it was far too hot and she was far too sweaty to continue.

Currently my plan is to continue lunging her in side reins so she begins to understand where her head should be, as well as riding and lunging her over poles to encourage her to become aware of where her feet are and begin lengthening her strides. I’ll keep up with these rides, too, though they’re likely to be fruitless and unproductive until things click for her, which could take several rides.

While I’m at it, I might as well try to trim her feet; the monstrosities aren’t making her job or mine any easier. Actually, maybe I should try padding my heels as well.

[caf.]

I really do sympathize with Riot, in a sense - even though I don’t like to anthropomorphize, I can certainly understand that being taken from the mountains and thrown into a dressage ring in just a few months must be quite a disorienting experience indeed. To be frank, every feral horse I work with does better than I expect them to, and the little appaloosa is no exception.

This all being said, dressage training frustrated Riot to no end. It did not come naturally to her the way it did to Winter or Comal; I may as well have been speaking a foreign language. She was still making relatively adequate progress in terms of the upcoming competition, but I could tell it just wasn’t quite clicking in her head; I had to constantly remind her of things she’d been learning since day one. I really was starting to wish I’d gotten an older horse; I almost wondered if I’d have been better off keeping Bourbon.

Bend training had been at least a little easier for her; yielding to pressure was a pretty basic skill for most horses. While her actual bend wasn’t horrific, her awareness of her hips and shoulders...left something to be desired. She drifted all over the arena, dropping her shoulders every which way and allowing her hindquarters to swing out to the point that I wondered if she wasn’t accidentally performing some kind of screwed-up lateral movement.

Today I brought a pair of whips when I went to ride her; even though I definitely did not want to use them in competition, I figured an extra nudge in the right direction might benefit her. I have watched one child attempt to hit a horse with a dressage whip, and I told that child to get off my property and not return until she could explain to me exactly what a dressage whip was for and how to use it. She returned the next week for her lesson with an apology note and a carrot for poor Oliver (who was probably a little young for her anyway, but at the time Olympus was injured and Atlas was carrying too many lessons), and explained to me how a dressage whip was meant to be an extension of the rider’s limbs, lightly touching the hindquarters and/or flank in order to gently encourage engagement or lateral movement (not, of course, in that exact language). I considered this more than suitable, and I continue to use it as a teaching moment in my lessons (including for kids that rely too much on their reins or their stirrups); if you can’t explain what the tool is for, you have no right to be using it.

Possibly my favorite moments in the training of any horse are the sudden revelations they have when something suddenly clicks; Olympus when he learned the canter pirouette; Soda when he finally learned to jump; and, of course, Riot, when she learned to bend. The physical barrier of the whips suddenly made the exercise click for her, and while her back was still relatively depressed and her hindquarters trailing somewhat, her walk was notably softer and had a swing and rhythm to it that wasn’t there before.

I tried bringing her to the trot, which was somewhat more tense but much improved, and the canter, which as usual became discombobulated due to her reluctance to move forward (which, naturally, led to a string of frustrated bucks), but the session ended on a good note at the walk; she even performed a mild leg yield, which is definite progress.

She’s starting to get more and more interested in riding; her mind needs to be constantly engaged, so all of the new concepts are very beneficial to her mindset. That being said, Riot is still young and very easily distracted; it’s going to be a stretch keeping her going at the pace I need her to go to make it to competition time.

[caf.]

To train a Legends mustang solely in a dressage ring would be a disservice to both horse and rider; if a horse fresh off the range is to face a crowded stadium, dozens of other horses, and a difficult competition course, he needs to face any and every experience he possibly can at home. Of course, in my tiny corner of the Texas panhandle, we don’t generally have super-stadiums, so the woods running next to the highway would have to do.

I elected not to ride the first time we took this trail; Riot was still somewhat unfamiliar with riding and I’d hate to make it anything but a positive experience for her. I spent awhile lunging her in side reins to warm her up, then removed the surcingle, put on her halter, and took her for a walk.

By now, the spotted mare had accepted leading as just another part of her life; she walked alongside me quietly, grazed when allowed, took treats from my hand politely (for the most part). I permitted her to prance and snort at the end of the lead rope and stop if she got overwhelmed; all of these, I felt, were important channels for her communication with me. So long as she didn’t pull, didn’t run me over, and didn’t stop unless it was an emergency, she could make her walk as exciting as she wanted to. As a result, she danced on her (ever-growing, monstrous) feet and arched her neck as we stepped into the woods; something told me she was more excited about the freedom from the paddocks and arenas than the trees themselves, but nonetheless we stopped several times in the first few minutes to allow her to calm down and sniff things out.

Nothing makes me prouder than watching a horse apply its learning to something similar but still new; seeing Riot stepping over logs like ground poles elated me, at least internally. I would be totally satisfied only ever training green horses; fresh, new, blank, never tainted by human hands. Feral horses are awful good for that.

Several times Riot spooked; three times at passing vehicles, once at a squirrel, twice at bugs zipping too close to her awkward mule ears. Each time she reared and pitched away from me, twisting at the end of the lead rope and contorting her body in the air. The explosions were always so sudden I could rarely follow her fast enough, but each time I did my best to avoid putting pressure on her face without losing my grip on her lead or running at her too quickly. With Riot especially, you could not escalate the situation by punishing her or she would explode; she was very prone to very dangerous tantrums. As such, all I could really do is speak to her lowly until she settled and praise her when she finally did.

When we finally walked into a brighter clearing, she lowered her head and started plodding along like a normal horse, occasionally trying to sneak a nip of grass when she thought I wasn’t looking. I let out the length of the rope after halting her to let her graze, since the area was quiet and far enough from the roadway that she wouldn’t spook.

To my surprise, the little mustang dropped to her knees and rolled rather gloriously in the tall grass, still dewy even as the sun broke over the treeline. Most of my horses flop rather anticlimactically onto their sides and halfheartedly rock halfway onto their backs, but the bay lived up to her name, thrashing her head back and forth and groaning with pleasure as she rolled from one side to the other over and over again.

When she stood, I really saw for the first time her body condition, her awkward coat flattened by the moisture from the grass. She had gone from a ribby, awkward, hollow mare to...well, not exactly anything special, but her looks had still mightily improved. The muscles along her topline were now defined and strong, running along her back in unified parallel. Her hindquarters, too, had begun to round out, fat and muscle packing onto her body. Even her feet had improved (not without plenty of sweat and a broken pair of nippers on my part) - she almost looked like a balanced, athletic horse.

I led her back to her paddock uneventfully, turned her out and watched her canter to the fenceline, trying to attract the attention of the mares nearby. I still had yet to integrate her; I worried I might have to sell her after the Million. Already it looked like young Mila would need to be sold since Ty had effectively stopped showing up; I didn’t know the details exactly, but they’d lost one of their horses and were deeply grieving the loss. So I continued with my duties for the day, knowing I had not a minute to spare on Riot’s training or on farm work.

I fixed up the isolation paddock for the arrival of my new Banker Horse mare; I rode Cider, Moon, and Yarraman; I contacted the AI bank in hopes of getting a shipment of straws. All the while, I mused over Riot; what I would have to do to prepare her for showing, how much time I had left, whether I had the funds to keep her. I couldn’t admit it to myself yet, but I’d really fallen for this mare. I was enamored with her high spirit; I felt like she could potentially be a really great mare.

She wasn’t great yet. The mustang was unpredictable and strong-willed; only the most experienced of riders could currently interact with her safely. I barely had time to transform her into a competitor, let alone a winner. Still, she had to do well for me to justify keeping her; time would tell whether she would come home in my trailer or someone else’s.