Anna Blake - Barn Dance: Nickers, Brays, Bleats, Howls, and Quacks. Tales from the Herd.

Barn Dance

Anna Blake

Other books by the author

Stable Relation

Relaxed & Forward

Barn Dance copyright 2016 Anna Blake

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the email address below.

Cover design and formatting by JD Smith

Published by Prairie Moon Press
All enquiries to

First published 2016

Smashwords Edition

To my family such as they are:

Before Noahs Ark and across time,
some of our relations were always meant
to have fur and feathers and scales.
I think that was always the plan.

Contents

Horse/Human Creation Story

In the beginning, humans ate horses. Some Neanderthals still do. About 25,000 years passed and one day a humanI personally think it was a womanheard a voice in her head that she didnt recognize. It was a deep soft voice, like Barry White, only 5,956 years too soon. The human looked for the cause of the voice and saw a horseI personally think it was a white horse. The human was a bit unsettled, so the horse took a deep breath and exhaled, and sure enough, the human mimicked him.

The horse thought there might be a chance that this frail human had a soul, so he offered his help.

And thats how humans domesticated the horse.

What Other Women Do on Saturdays

It was years ago now. A riding friend and I had been invited to an art showing in the home of a mutual friend. The hostess had a lovely home with lots of charming detail and my friend was particularly enthralled by some dainty cheese servers with ceramic floral handles. Where did the hostess find these curious little things?

I informed my friend, with a sophisticated, worldly, and slightly sarcastic tone, that other women shop on Saturdays. They call a friend, go to lunch, and then shop for these sorts of things. Its what they do instead of going to the barn. She rolled her eyes but we decided to give it a try.

We picked a rainy day and let the barn rest. We had a leisurely lunch of salads and white wine, in clothes that were still clean by noon. We went to Printemps, a French department store that was in Denver at that time. Its displays were works of art, each and every one. It was the kind of store that can transport you to a different world for a while.

So, we gasped at Hermes scarves with familiar equestrian images. We fingered cashmere sweaters and flimsy under-things that wouldnt survive one ride. We finally landed in the shoe department where I tried on some delicate sky-blue suede pumps with squatty heels. They were ethereal, like walking on clouds. As I admired my feet in the mirror, I remarked to my friend, Not great barn shoes.

The saleswoman was very professional, impeccably made up, and expensively dressed. She turned to me and with a British accent, asked, Oh, do you keep horses?

I knew her question was meant to be light and conversational, but it struck me funny because she was so right. I had to answer in the most literal way. With a big smile, Yes, I keep them. That is what I do, I buy them as babies or rescue them and I keep them till theyre ancient. I never sell them, I keep them. My friend gave a snort.

Im not sure why I remember this interchange so vividly all these years later. It was a small moment. My friend and I finished our day of shopping. We were back at the barn the next Saturday and have spent hundreds of happy weekends there since. Printemps eventually closed its doors. Still no cheese knick-knacks but our homes are decorated with photos of past equine companions and were generally pleased if we dont have too many bits and stray gloves lying on the kitchen counter.

I still have the horse I was riding at the time of our shopping excursion. Spirit is retired now, with worn-out legs and crippling arthritis. Our list of past accomplishments is long and hes a faithful friend. The sort of horse whose heart had always been so big that anything was possible. Not one penny was squandered, not one Saturday was wasted. Spirit doesnt turn heads now; he looks like any other old horseexcept to me.

Eventually, I bought a small property where he could retire in peace. Our best years are probably behind us, this old campaigner and me. And lots of difficult choices are ahead. For now, he shares his barn with a family of horses, donkeys, and the occasional goat, all secure in their future. Sometimes at the dawn, if you squint just right, the light turns this old white horse pink.

As for those silly frail shoes that I tried on that day, I didnt buy them, in favor of the less stylish steel ones that my horse wears. When I think back to that Saturday spent doing what other women do, I have no regrets. Im a wildly lucky woman. I keep horses.

The Barn Rat Release

First, lets get our terminology straight. A barn rat is a child who might answer a thumb-tacked ad at the feed store with the headline Horse-Crazy Girls Wanted. (Yes, almost always a girl.)

The Infinity Farm barn rat is nine years old. Elana got here the usual way, begging and badgering parents who dont ride. Through extended connections, she showed up one day for a lesson on Max, to be paid for with her birthday money. The thank-you note she sent had all of us in tears, and the rest is history.

Sometimes the barn rat arrives to the news that she cant ride that day. Elana is just as cheerful about mucking as riding. She weighs a fraction of a full muck cart and grunts like a linebacker when lifting a shovel of manure. Shes working off part of her lesson and if its horse related, its important.

Sometimes she helps me doctor a wound, applying the ointment with small gentle fingers. Sometimes she holds horses for the farrier, examining hoof trimmings and old shoes. Last visit, Max got a bath that cooled all of us off. If you ask her to fetch something and theres a horse between her and the object, know that it will take her a while to get it done.

When its time to tack up, Elanas grooming process begins with a step I didnt teach her. She stands at Maxs shoulder and places both hands, palms flat, on his shoulder and flank. She moves her hands in small circles, swaying silently. I timed this part during her last visit. After twelve minutes, I quietly suggested it might be time to start with the currycomb.

Finally, time to ride; she speaks firmly, loves a trot, and does her very best. I teach her that when her horse is good, she should reward him with a release; a kind word or a scratch on the withers. She does fail at that. Her release is nothing short of a full body hug on his neck. But the old horse whisperers say that the release should be bigger than the ask, so thats fine with me.

We are a barn of mainly adult riders. I notice that the quality of the lessons I give always goes up after a barn rat visit. Thanks for the reminder, Elana.

The Perfect Purse

Thats what I called my first truckthe perfect purse. It could carry all I needed for work and barn, and if folks didnt want to be up front with me and the dogs, they could ride in the shell on backalong with assorted saddles and art supplies, boots and feed. The dogs were here first, after all.