Let the Name Be a Guide

Let the Name Be a Guide

A Rose By Any Other Name…

A horse by any name might be a clue…

I have lamented about the difficulties of horse hunting, the discomfort of trading in sentient beings as if they were a commodity. Let me also say that horse hunting is a risky business. I round pen and do the ground work with a strange horse. Do we communicate? Achieve join up? Is this horse looking for a leader or a herd? The owner rides first. I watch someone ride the horse, while I study the cues, the technique and also observe the horse’s movement and form. My butt doesn’t touch the saddle until I’m sure the horse is a willing partner.

Even then there are hints, foreshadowings along the way, and the savvy shopper is wise to heed the warnings. An early prospect of mine was a 4 year old quarter horse gelding named Renegade. Cute, friendly, horsanality (as the Parelli’s say) plus. I got bucked off. Hmmm….I thought, Renegade. Reminds me of a friend’s horse, Rocket (bucked her off ); or another friend’s horse, Rebel, bucks. I detect a trend with those “R” names. Now when I see a horse for sale listed as Rogue, Ronan, or Ricochet I move on. But not just those “R” names, any name indicating a ride I don’t wish to take, Tornado, Whirlwind, Bull, Firecracker. I’m looking for Pastry, Sugar Buns, Lambikins.

When Rope-A-Doc, aka Ajax came along I felt real comfortable with that. A lovely, grey 7 yr old qtr horse. We round penned him first, I was second in the saddle. Well, I think it qualified as a ride, not even a full lap around the arena when he decided my nickel was up. Ha ha, “up”, funny I should use that word.

He gave a test buck, my daughter, June, the photographer, captured the fateful moment on my face, @#$%^&*() (I have the picture and I will attempt to get it posted here) and then he put his full, round quarter horse rump into it and gave me a rodeo ride. No time to grab the horn, hang on, pray. I went straight up, saw the view, knew I was way too high for this to end happily…

My lead butt came down like a stone balloon, but a barrel broke my fall and I slid off the edge and slipped to the ground. Pain, pain, pain. I did manage to stand and give a hearty “Whoa!” But getting back in the proverbial saddle was out of the question. I could barely walk to the truck.

“Next,” I said as we drove away.

After contacting the chiropractor and takikng a naproxen, the jokes began. First, my husband, Russ said, “I should have listened to the chickens. They were warning me. Buck, buck, buck. Buck off!” Then, “His name wasn’t Ajax, it was Eject!” For the forty-five minute drive back to the R-Wild Horse Ranch, my new name became Big Air Beggs, Hindenbeggs, Aerobella.

That horse put a world of hurt on my right leg. It took six days for a bruise to manifest, but when it did…I took the family title. That sucker was the size of Russ’s hand, black, blue and angry. Hardcore.

I wouldn’t ride again for about three weeks. In Oregon.