# Sitara Chronicles



## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*J'adore*

A few months into moving to university across the country, I was browsing Facebook and feeling very homesick. I received a notification that my coach had posted a new picture in the yard's Facebook group. I checked it out, and was greeted to a photograph of a new purchase - a splendid double dilute mare. From the photograph, she looked well-built, bold and fiery, and I was instantly both in love, and outraged that my coach could have made such a purchase without me there to meet it. I told her both things, and she laughed at me. Still, I chafed at the delay, and had to wait until mid-year to meet the mare in person.

She was nothing like her photograph, and nothing like the mare promised to my coach. Far from being the 'broken-in, easy to handle' mare promised, J'adore cowered in the back of her stall, and every human move caused her to flinch. Something had gone terribly wrong in this mare's life, and it would take quite some work to reverse it.

I made it my mission to help. I would sit in the corner of her stall, reading or texting. Never speaking, never moving, just being present. She started coming over to me and nosing at my boots. Eventually, I could scratch her face. J'adore craved human contact at attention, even while she shied away from it. Even at her most gentled, she was wary and undemonstrative. For a long time, I felt as if my efforts were not enough, and making no difference. One day, I brought a friend, a long-term horse person, to meet the little mare. She approached us in the field readily enough, but when my friend reached out to meet her, the mare ducked away carefully putting me between herself and the new person. I started to think that perhaps, after all, I had achieved something, and was thrilled. 

When she was backed, after many years, I was one of the first people to sit on J'adore, and even rode her in lessons once or twice, but she was never calm or comfortable being ridden. She could throw a mean buck, was terribly reactive, and at the first sign of pressure, would throw her head up and panic-bolt. But during that time, I had made up my mind that if this mare was ever to have a foal, I wanted it. I told my coach so, and she waved it aside. But I never forgot.


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*Peanut Butter*

My coach keeps track of the horses she sells. She sold off a favourite mare of hers just after I first arrived at the barn. The arrangement worked well for several years. One day, she checked in, to find that her beloved mare was living in squalid conditions. Within the week, she had reclaimed the mare, Sweet Surprise, a kind and willing draft cross. She also came back with two other horses: a chestnut quarter horse stallion, who was soon gelded, and the union of the two horses' time spent together, a chestnut colt with his sire's colour and movement, and his dam's size and level-headed temperament. 

The quarter horse now-gelding was named Chewbakka, which seemed to be just asking for trouble, but discussions on the colt's name went on for some time longer. Eventually, my coach decided on Peanut Butter. She thought it was cute. I thought the name, on a horse who promised to grow up to be 16hh and of a striking red hue, was silly. Still, no better options were offered, so Peanut Butter it was.

Chewy was the first from the sire's line to throw me off. I was asked to put a couple of rides on him and incorporate him into the school. The order of events for new horses often goes as follows: 
New horse arrives at the yard and settles in.
Exercise rider puts some rides on it to ensure that it is not a death-trap.
Verdana rides it in the school to ensure that it is still not a death-trap.
It can then be used as a school horse. 
The exercise rider had okayed Chewy. I had ridden him in the round ring, and found him reactive and spooky, but okay. The next step was to put the horse in a group lesson.
"I'm not sure he's ready," said I.
"He's fine," assured my coach, giving me a leg up. 
As she boosted me, a couple of things happened. 300m away, a warmblood mare bucked while being lunged. At the same time, I brushed my toe lightly over Chewy's rump. Before I had even put my feet in the stirrups, he had torn the reins away from both me and my coach, and took off bucking. I bruised my coccyx, but not as badly as I bruised my pride. 

Sweet Surprise was used as a confident, weight-carrying trail horse. I was due to go back to university, but decided to go on a last outride before my flight the next morning. I had not brought my boots back home, and foolishly decided that tennis shoes would serve fine. I was assigned to a large thoroughbred mare, Queen's Messenger, but Sweet Surprise was acting up, so I offered to swap horses with the girl riding her. She bucked several times on the upward transitions, but I sat her. Right up until she bucked me down a slope, and dragged me with her. I stood up, and noted with faint surprise that walking hurt a bit, but jumped back on and finished the ride. Driving home was a chore, and that evening I found that she had broken one of my big toes. My family was less than sympathetic. 

I put some of the starting rides on Peanut Butter once he was gelded, and he turned out to be a kind, smooth, quick-learning ride, with a desire to please and natural good carriage. I soon realised that he was dead safe, and this was my undoing. One afternoon, I tacked him up for a lesson, and jumped on rather more enthusiastically than I probably should have. He is tall, and I am not, so I didn't quite make it. Hanging on his back scared him, and he took off at a gallop. I went over, and landed on my head. Stood up. Saw triple. Sat down just as quickly. Someone had seen, and kindly handed me my horse. But my lesson was imminent, and I didn't want to make a fuss. I especially did not want to admit how stupid I had been. Once my vision had cleared, I got on and did the lesson. I can't for the life of me remember what we did though. I had concussion symptoms for a good week or so. 

This is why I can say, with a mixture of shame and pride, that I have fallen off every member of Sitara's paternal line that I have ever met.


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## Luce73 (Dec 7, 2012)

Subbing! Sitara is so cute!!


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*Conception to birth*

Thanks for the sub! Hope this makes for interesting reading ^^' 

The intention was always to geld Peanut Butter when he was ready, but he was slow to develop and with one thing and another, it took a while to finalise. My coach has bred several horses, sometimes purebred warmbloods or thoroughbreds, but sometimes mixed-breed horses and ponies for the riding school. Her home-bred school horses have always been fantastic at their jobs, reliable and sensitive and all-round good citizens, who have gone on to be incredible first horses and trail horses. Before she gelded Peanut Butter, she decided to put him to a handful of mares. 

"How's it going?" I asked during the process. She pulled a face.
"I'm not sure," she confessed.
"He's definitely mounting, but he's not exactly... hitting his target each time." 
This was not a promising start. 

Sure enough, when we tested the mares, only one had taken, and that was J'adore. Which, in hindsight, is probably for the best. (Let me be the first to say that I do not condone backyard breeding, and had I been in my coach's shoes, I am not sure I would have made her choices. Obviously, for my own selfish and sentimental reasons, I am very glad she did). 

I was finishing up my degree through much of J'adore's pregnancy, and only saw her every few months. But pregnancy suited her. She stayed mild, and even became friendlier. When I finished the degree, and came home, she was showing. I spent hours in her stall with her, either grooming her or just sitting near her, and as her belly got rounder, I'd chat to the foal inside. At home, I was reading up on horse pregnancy and colour genetics. As the year began to end, I decided that, with a chestnut sire and a double dilute mare (my coach thought cremello, I suspected perlino) we could have a palomino or a buckskin. I decided that I wanted a palomino filly, and asked 'the belly' to provide such. 

J'adore's predicted due date was around late February 2016. On January 22nd, 2016, I went to fetch my lesson horse from the field, and stopped in to check on J'adore. All looked fine, but I decided to get a look at her udders. To my surprise, she was leaking. Not just wax, but something milkier. Perturbed, I got my horse, and went for my lesson, informing my coach as an aside. She waved a dismissive hand, but had the mare fetched for a look. I have never seen someone look so shocked. The foaling stall was hastily bedded down with extra straw, and she was put in. I asked if she was likely to foal that night, and my coach didn't think so.

I arrived the next morning to a mare in the early stages of labor. At loose ends, I was instructed to 'take her for a graze, but keep your phone on you. If she goes down, CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. I MEAN IT.' Which gave me some indication that things were imminent. I had to attend a function, and by midday nothing had progressed. Regretfully I left.

Not two hours later, I received the following photographs with no text or other form of explanation:
















She had waited for me to leave and foaled, as mares do. A big, leggy buckskin filly. I didn't get my palomino, but I did get my filly! There were no complications, the foal was nursing fine, and I could not wait to meet her.


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*First Encounters (of the foal kind)*

On the 24th of January 2016, I got to the barn as soon as seemed reasonable. It was slightly overcast, and everything was hushed in late twilight. I remember trying not to run to J'adore's stall, but barely able to contain myself. There was J'adore, eating peacefully, and next to her lay a pale creamy shape. As I watched, the filly stood up, one joint at a time. Apart from her tapering blaze, she had two high white socks, and I thought I spied an ermine on one foot. She tottered around and took a drink. Just regular foal things. But I was transfixed.

I almost didn't notice when my coach joined me. We watched the horses in silence for a while.
"Why don't you go in, make sure she's nursing properly? Be careful."
I didn't need to be asked twice. I went in carefully, ready to retreat. The last mare with a new foal I'd known was Queen's Messenger, a fiercely protective thoroughbred who would chase you straight out of her space if you so much as looked at her filly, Blue Blood. But J'adore walked straight up to me when I stood in the corner of her stall I frequented. She even asked for an ear scratch. She saw nothing unusual about this arrangement. I was Stall Sitting Girl, doing my thing. Once she seemed pretty clear on her lack of concern, I sat in the straw, ready to get up if she changed her mind.

The filly was interested too. She stumbled towards me through the straw, looking alert and curious. She stuck her muzzle in my face, and gave me a thorough top-to-bottom once-over. My fingers stumped her. She licked them, tried to suckle them, but ultimately decided that my shirt and boots were of more interest. Once she felt she had figured me out, she sighed, and lay down beside me. My coach was ecstatic. Did I want photos? Should she take a video? No, I was happy as I was. I inched over to her, and she lay down, and put her head in my lap, in possibly the most trusting gesture I have ever been a part of. It felt as if she was saying: 'I know you. You used to come and talk to me. It's nice to meet you in the flesh. Let's be friends.' Well, little one, don't mind if I do.

I have nothing to compare to exploring a newborn foal. I remember running my fingers over every inch of her. Her big, black-tipped ears, her soft muzzle, her pink lower lip. I stroked her short, curly mane, her sides with their bumpy ribs, her soft soft hooves and legs. She didn't budge. When she got up to feed - and did so successfully - I left as well, not wanting to overstay my welcome. 

---​
As it turned out, my coach had not been whispering in reverence to a special moment. She was sick, and by Monday she was bedridden. I wished her well, and asked if there was anything I could do to help.
'Yes please,' was her answer.
'Please spend some time with the foal, and make sure she doesn't get wild.'

Well, sure. If you insist. 

Every day for two weeks, I went to the yard, and sat with J'adore and her unnamed filly. I stroked Baby, and touched her feet, and her ears, and the inside of her mouth. She would lie next to me, or between my legs with her head in my lap. I can't remember when she started to come straight towards me as soon as I walked into her stall. Maybe she always did. But by the time my coach was back on her feet, we were firm friends, and I had spent two weeks thinking hard.

I had just started my postgraduate degree in Archaeology, which came with some travelling and uncertainty. 2020 - the year that the foal would be backed - coincided with the end of my Masters. 

"Hey, remember that time I said I wanted J'adore's first foal?" I've never been one for preamble.
At first, my coach thought I was joking. Then she thought I was mad. She said that this was a terrible idea. She listed all of the problems with having a foal as a first horse (while I have ridden consistently for fourteen years, and half- to full-leased horses for eight or nine of them, I have never been in a position to buy a horse). The expense. The four-year waiting time. The risk (because, with a foal, there is always a chance that it will injure itself irredeemably before it is ever rideable). We talked and argued and debated for the better part of three months. Slowly, she stopped talking me out of it, and started listening, and by the time Sitara was named, and ready to be weaned at 6 months old, she had agreed to let me pay board, with the intention of buying her once she had matured.

Which is how I became the prospective owner of a buckskin filly named Sitara.

Bonus baby pics:


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*Belated introduction*

Now that I have gotten down the beginning of my adventures with Sitara and her upbringing, I thought I should probably describe my own horse riding experience up until now.

I am a trainee archaeologist in my early twenties, living in South Africa. I have been riding, as I have said, pretty consistently for fourteen years. I have two dogs (in the care of my parents), an irascible cat (very much my problem), and a lifelong love of horses.

My parents first realised that trouble was brewing when I was a toddler. I would scream every time I saw a horse, stop when I was allowed to interact with it, and scream when it was time to be taken off or go away. However, it was never really a problem until I met one of my very best friends when we were eight. She took riding lessons, and invited me to watch one. I was around during feeding time, when the horses were at their most loud and fractious. She started to help, and told me to join in. I did, dodging hooves and grabbing teeth. And I was promptly hooked.

My very non-horsey parents eventually caved and let me take lessons just before my tweens (and continued to support the addiction until I turned eighteen - at which point they decided, quite rightly, that if I wanted to pursue it, I would have to do it out of my own pocket. Which I did). I learnt to ride at my friend's barn, on a whole range of problem ponies. In the week I would ride in lessons, but I really learnt to ride on Saturday mornings. My friend and I would turn up to the yard, which was a ramshackle backyard sort of place at that time, and beg to be allowed to help. 'Helping' included mucking out, grooming, tacking up and - most importantly - taking horses the kilometer or so down to the weekend paddock. This could be done on foot, I suppose, but the point was to do it on one horse and leading several others. 

The horse you were riding was bareback, wearing nothing but a halter. The lack of instructor supervision meant that there was really no limit to the horses you could sit on! Lessons were reserved for naughty ponies, but you could be tossed onto the back of the feisty thoroughbred, or the huge (at the time) 16'2 warmblood, or the barn owner's manic showjumper, and left to fend for yourself. There was very little regard given to what we COULD do, or what we KNEW how to do. We were told to do something, and we tried our very best to do it. We failed more than we succeeded, but for almost four years, I didn't just ride. I learnt. And when the day was done, my friend and I would retire to the bedding shed with an ice cold Coke. To this day, the taste of cold Coke in the heat comes with phantom smells of sawdust, horse hair and sweat. 

While I was learning on weekends, less could be said for my lessons. Under-teachers came and went regularly. I never had the same instructor for more than a year. I was taught and retaught several basics, and it was assumed I could do things I had never tried. This disparity, between my confidence and toughness in some areas, and my ignorance in others, came to a head one pony camp. In a long and complicated series of events, I was put in a situation I was not ready for, took two nasty spills, and had my confidence shattered. My horrified mother forced me to leave the yard, but I never intended to quit.

After a nine-month break, I spent a year riding at a barn with a focus on classical dressage. Gone were the days of jumping onto a client's horse or tacking up by standing on an upturned bucket. You tacked up, you rode, you untacked, you left. End of story. The horses were beautifully trained to come into frame at the touch of a button, but they were also means to an end, more vehicles than friends. By the end of the year, I was sitting very prettily, but not doing much else. I was bored and uninspired, and discouraged by the attitude that if you did not lease or own a horse, you were second best. 

A family friend told us about the yard her daughter rode at, and my mother dragged me through to take a look. I will never forget that first look. There stood my coach, tall and blonde and thoroughly intimidating, with one foot on letter B at a dressage arena. She was teaching about six pupils in a group lesson, and as I arrived, she belted out:
"Same time to the right - NOW!" 
As one, the group went off the wall, from single file into a line, shoulder to shoulder, in almost perfect cadence. I had never seen a group lesson anything like this, and wondered what the hell sort of place I had arrived at. I met my current coach, but spent most of the conversation looking at my feet. What I do remember is going up to two little girls hand-grazing a fat chestnut pony. This was in strong contrast to my previous yard, where no student would have taken a school horse for a graze, and certainly not together.
"What is her name?" I asked.
"Sharday," they answered.
"Is she yours?"
"No, she belongs to the yard."
"Do you love her?" 
The answer to this question seemed desperately important. I needed to know that I was coming to a place where the horses weren't treated like things.
"Of course," they said, like I was mad to even ask. At that, I thought that I could perhaps fit in there.

And I have, for the past eight, going on nine years. My coach has always had a great deal of - too much, I often think - faith in me, and my riding. The first horse I rode there was a warmblood cross called Witchcraft, who she'd bred herself. The next horse was a thoroughbred straight off the track. Since then, I have leased her beloved retired vaulting mare, who bucked me off twice a week solid for six months. I rode her personal horses, her four year-olds, her difficult ponies. I took a horse from his third ever ride through his first jumps and lateral work. She put me on anything and everything, because she thought I could handle it, and I almost always did. I taught and guided the next generation of riders, and turned from an awkward, introverted teenager into a competent, comfortable rider. I am now entrenched as part of the furniture. And I couldn't be happier.


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*Australian Mist*

I joined Horseforum to look at photos on a thread titled 'Yearling Uglies... if you dare.' Sitara had just entered the stage in her life where she looked more like a very unfortunate yak than a horse, and I was seeking reassurance that other, similarly-unfortunate foals had redeemed themselves in adulthood. I found what I was looking for, and temporarily felt a lot better about Sitara's genetic lottery. 

That is, until I looked a little further, and found the 'conformation critique' subforum.

I was learning phrases like 'tied in at the knee', and 'sickle hocks', and what do you know? Sitara seemed to have most of them. I was overthinking things. Is there such thing as a 'conformation hypochondriac'? Because I think I became one. She was cow-hocked, and tied in at the knee, sometimes she knuckled over, and was it just me or did her pasterns and fetlocks look really weird? Some of these things would resolve as she grew. But what if they didn't? What if I committed four years of my life to a horse who ended up looking like a sad buckskin goat? 

At the height of my concern, I remembered a horse I had once ridden called Australian Mist. I have heard people say that there is no such thing as an ugly horse, but boy oh boy, was Australian Mist an ugly guy. He couldn't have been older than four or five, and he was a pretty nice deep bay. But he'd come off the track, and it had not been kind to him. He had a swayback that would have put an elderly broodmare to shame, combined with a genetic parrot mouth that made him look a bit like a very big shrew. I do not know what his legs looked like. My attention was usually stuck on his bigger flaws. I couldn't understand why my coach had taken him on. Surely he would rarely be sound. And in truth, he was more lame than not in the time that we had him.

But when he wasn't, he was worth his weight in gold.

Another OTTB, a mare named Tana, shattered my carefully-built confidence just after we got Australian Mist. Once I had been reassured that not all horses wished to catapult me across arenas, I was put onto the young gelding to be built back up. Was this a comfortable horse? Certainly not. Riding a swayback like that always felt precarious. But he was kind, and endlessly forgiving, and more than that, had an innate trust in humanity in general, to see him through just fine.

Lord knew humanity didn't deserve it. Whoever thought had he could be raced, either with such poor build already in place or hard enough to to cause it, deserves an unpleasant fate. But this hadn't tainted Mist's sunny optimism. Humans were good and kind, and knew best. I remember riding him through a gap in a concrete wall. The partition was pretty narrow. Every other horse - all smaller than him, and older and wiser - had baulked at it. We stepped forward, and he didn't even look twice. I said it was alright, so it must be. And he walked straight through, even though both of my legs brushed the wall. 

He was often sore, but it would not impact his work ethic. If we had allowed him to, he would have run himself into the ground to us. He had probably done exactly this on the track, and would do it again and again, always looking to please. Eventually, after a long spate of lameness, the vet deemed him too unsound and broken to ever be fully happy, and too willing and kind to ever let this stop him. His back and legs were damaged, and his parrot mouth prevented him from chewing forage with much success. He was put to sleep, and I have never forgotten him. 

So when I look at my yak of a filly, I compare her problems to his, and know that whatever conformational faults she might grow up to have - and none are near as glaring as his - if she grows up to have just half of the temperament that he did, then I have done okay.


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*List of Accomplishments*

Today, I went to the barn to ride, and also to spend some time working with the little madam. I have been away for the last few weeks, and don't want her to forget the work I have put in. I decided to lead her around the yard, through Saturday's bustle and activity, and then do some basic in-hand transition work in the Very Scary Grass Arena. 

Well, just yesterday I was raving about what a good citizen Sitara is. And for the most part, she is one. She doesn't bite, she is friendly and affectionate but respects personal space, she is easy to handle and touch, and very easy to catch and lead. Most of all, she doesn't kick.

Up until today.

Very Scary Grass Arena was just far too scary. I had trotted her successfully in other places. I clicked for the trot, she moved off nicely, then leapt forward and WHAM! Nailed me in the right hip. Suddenly my coach's order to always wear a helmet while working with her came back to slap me in the face. I disciplined, I resumed the same work with more care, and she didn't try it again. We ended on a good note, and it was a good session. But it reminded me that no matter how well-mannered and sweet Sitara is, she is a yearling, and she is unpredictable. It was jarring, and I am sore, but rather than being frightened or annoyed, I decided to list her accomplishments up until this point:

Things Sitara can do:

Will stand still for full grooming. Curry comb, body brush, mane combed, and tail brushed out on rare occasions.
Can be touched over every inch of her body without stepping away or flinching.
Will have her front feet lifted and handled without much fuss
Has, and will, stand for the farrier.
Can be caught and haltered with ease, both in stall and outside it, and will come to be caught without a treat.
Will come when called either by her name or a whistle from me (and usually responds with a neigh, which I love). 
Can walk alongside a leader without pulling.
Has worn a foal bridle and a small bit (not a huge fan of this, and we've only done it twice to prepare for an in-hand show).
Will walk and trot in hand fairly calmly (usually -.-) and will transition down from trot to walk and walk to halt, mostly by voice command, in both a halter and (less successfully) the foal bridle. 


Things Sitara has done (but needs to work on):
Been plaited (she hates it, but will stand for braiding) both mane and tail.
Had her ears trimmed (this was torture most foul)
Had a bath (hosepipes are frightening things of evil, but only when they have water coming out the end)
Had shots and vaccinations (not a fan, and gives my coach the side-eye)
Been de-wormed
Have her back feet picked up and picked out (she will lift them, but still struggles to balance, and tries to pull away)

Things Sitara needs to learn in the next 6 months:
How to box (she has never been within 30m of one)

Bonus pic: First day of proper halter training last year mid-year. Lead-reins and lunge reins remain great toys to this day. 









Also, some photos in line with the last post:









Winter woolies (and her fetlocks looking their weirdest)








Summer yearling yak


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*Good citizen*

There aren't many updates on this thread at the moment, because in truth the things that can be done with a yearling are pretty limited. I decided relatively early on that I did not wish to teach her any 'tricks', and this is reinforced by friends at other barns, who tell horrible stories of ponies taught to do tricks which turn into dangerous behavior. So she won't learn how to 'shake hands' or 'say please' (as one rider made the mistake of teaching their horse - resulting in the horse following people around the field at a bizarre saluting goose-step).

What she can learn to do is be a good citizen, and this is what I am trying to achieve. She can learn to pick up her feet, stand politely, move away from pressure. Mostly, this requires a lot of groundwork. She must be able to halt, walk and trot next to me at a polite distance and consistent tempo, in any direction. Particularly, she must slow down pretty quickly when I ask! Her withers align with my shoulders now, so the dragging potential is pretty real. Which is all very nice and sensible and achievable. 
In theory. 

I try to work Sitara in-hand at least three times a week. Today, her transitions were lovely. We worked in a different arena - next to a big paddock full of other horses. She called a little, but behaved well on both reins. Her transitions get quicker and easier each time we practice. Most of the time, she requires no head pressure (halter-pulling) to trot on and come back to a walk and halt. She is cued by my voice and body language. To prevent her from getting too bored (I know I was!) we were trotting over two small poles on either end of a circle. We also wove through some jump uprights, trotted and walked between two poles in a narrow 'lane'. (As an aside, if anyone has any suggestions for stuff to do with a precocious yearling, I'd love to hear them!) Then we went to do The Bank.

We have a cross country bank at the side of one of our showjumping arenas. It has been there since before I arrived at the yard, and I suspect is a relic from when there was space for a small cross-country track on the property. It has a pretty flat ramp on one side, but two fairly steep sides. We alternated going up the flat side and down the steep one, and up the steep, down the flat. Sitara seems to enjoy hillwork, and is happy to trot up and down. 

Reading back on this, it sounds quite clinical. I can safely say though, that it certainly doesn't feel that way. When Sitara is willing and eager, and working beside me not because she fears punishment or wants the pulling on her head to stop, but trots beside me because I asked her to and she wants to, it feels truly incredible. She is such a bright-eyed, quick learner, and once she picks up a command it stays. I travel a lot due to my work, and I had worried that she would backslide while I was gone. No fear! A three-week break didn't phase her in the least, and what she does get lax on she quickly remembers. 

I wanted to work with a young horse to experience exactly this slow, patient repetitive work. I had been warned about how frustrating it would be to do the same thing over and over to build consistency and trust. And sometimes it is. Yesterday, Sitara had her mane done for the first time. We had been working in the dressage arena and my coach, stopping to watch, thought 'she is looking so pretty. Such a pity about the mane'. So with my permission, she lopped it off. I winced to see it happen, but when she was done, she looked a lot less like a shaggy foal, and a lot more like a horse. I itch to see what she will look like in 3 years time, all filled out and ready to have a saddle on her back. I lie in bed at night, imagining taking her through all of her firsts. First ride, first canter under saddle, first leg yield, first jump, first outing. Knowing that I must wait years kills me.

That being said, nobody could have made me understand how much fun it is going through all these little baby firsts. First mane trim. First bath. First time she did not spook at a puddle, and trusted me to lead her through. When she calls to me indignantly because I DARED greet another horse before her in the morning, or sticks her head in my arms for a snuggle, or leaves her hay to come to me, I know I have made a choice that brings, and will continue to bring, me so much joy.


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*Goodbye Snazzy Red Foal Halter*

Last night, I had a dream that Sitara was actually an alien. I went to the yard, and practically overnight my beautiful little filly had been metamorphosed into a long-faced, limbless blob that sort of resembled a green slug. Understandably, I was quite disappointed by this turn of events (I wanted a horse, not an extraterrestrial), and started to have doubts about buying her. But then she slimed her way over and gave me a huge, warm (if squishy) hug, and I remembered why I love her so much.

That's sort of what raising a yearling's like. 


Winter is on its way in, and Sitara is starting to resemble a sheep. Here are the last photos of her before the winter woollies set in:

























She is stocky and hearty and strong, with a nice overtrack at the walk and some pretty fluid hock action at the trot and canter. She's not fancy, but she looks sound and happy. Of course, this doesn't stop me worrying about her legs and her topline and her development incessantly. 

Last week, we were doing some hill-work, to improve the aforementioned topline and hindquarters. I had borrowed the old snazzy red foal halter - now sadly worn - to do this, and was shocked at how it barely fitted even at maximum resizing. As we came down the steep part of the hill and into the showjumping arena, Snazzy Red Halter (hereby referred to as SRH) snapped. It fell off her face and ended up - by some mercy still buckled - around her neck. She was pretty excited from the work we were doing, and so began to storm across the arena. 

I kept all of my panic internal.

With many 'whoa's and some ineffectual tugging, I got her down to a walk, but boy is she persistent. Thankfully, we both wanted her in her paddock, and that is where we ended up. However, we did earn some strange looks as we ploughed across the yard. I was grateful that the halter had remained on in some form, and that she hadn't lost her head. But sadly, SRH was beyond repair, and had to be retired. 

Which meant that my old cob halter was brought out of retirement. The last time my purple halter saw the light of day, it was 2012 and it belonged on my old lease horse, Diesel. He was a schoolmaster borrowed from a friend of my coach's to help me progress. An Elementary-Medium dressage horse by training, Diesel was 15 hands of precision and uncanny intelligence, and he did not suffer fools. I was gloriously extended-trotted away with more times than I care to recount, and sat more bucks than I thought I ever could. A lot of what I know, I learnt from Diesel. And when I gave up the lease on him to go to university, his halter was moved to a store-room.

I was worried that it wouldn't fit Sitara, but lo and behold, it does. Its first horse was my teacher, and I am the teacher of the horse that wears it now. Or maybe we're teaching each other.

I only hope that she grows into this ridiculously large head of hers.


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

*Line of Fire*

While I'm waiting for Sitara to hurry up and get big already, I'm still riding twice a week. In December, two new school horses joined the yard. Both greys, both with their share of difficulties. The little one's time here got off to an auspicious start when he tried to buck off a competitive teenaged rider. In January, he was promptly assigned to me to ride. 

His name is Line of Fire, which I have shortened to Lofty (because it's a mouthful, and LoF). He's probably about 14'2, around 14 years old, with dinky little ears and a bit of weight to still put on. And boy is he a treat to ride. I've been riding a lot of green horses for the past few years, and Lofty has some really thorough training on him. It's so lovely to be able to ask a horse something, and have it be done! Even if the aid's about 70% right, he'll give you what you want. The only time he acts up is when I'm a little ham-fisted with my aids (again - babies) and then he'll tell me off. Which is fair enough and I almost always deserve it. 

That being said, I've come off him twice in the space of eight days. 

First fall was so much rider error that it's textbook. Long story short - I was lazy. I saw a dressage whip that I wanted to use more than a jumping crop (he needs a little bit of reminding to stay active from behind) leaning against a jump upright. I considered just getting off and picking it up like a normal person - it's not as if he's difficult to mount and dismount - but thought 'nah, this way's much quicker!' and tried to pick it up from his back. I inched bit by bit, leaning on his neck, grabbed the stick, but then couldn't pull myself back up and grabbed the jump upright for support. Either the poor pony was sick of my shenanigans or got a fright at the moving thing inches from his nose (he's not the bravest), and jerked his head. Off I went, my boot flying off with me. I laughed, apologised to the good pony, dusted myself off and went on to have a really brilliant jumping lesson. I walked away with a bit of a bruise on my right arm and a good lesson in humility and common sense. I thought 'alright, that's my fall for the year. Could have been worse'. 


My instructor described today's fall as 'really stupid, and the sort of thing that would only happen to Verdana'. It wasn't my fault, and it certainly wasn't his fault. We were doing a line of bending cones at the canter, and having a blast. He was giving me fly-changes, and was generally having a good time. We finished the exercise, and went to rejoin the group. 

As far as I can understand, as we came round the corner and started a downward transition, he tripped over his own feet. All I know is suddenly he was dropping out from under me. I tried to correct myself, thinking it was just a bad trip, but he couldn't get himself back up, and he was way further down than I had expected. He tried so hard to right himself, and I could feel him trying so, so hard to keep me on his back. But it was no good, we were too far gone. I sort of had time to think 'oh no, we're both going down', before we did, and while he didn't fall onto me, his force and his weight was on top of me. I was fairly badly winded, which always feels worse than it is, but my anxiety about being unable to breathe was worse because I knew Lofty had come down. I sat up, and he was okay, save a scraped knee that is going to hurt him tomorrow. I'm fine too, but I'm also going to hurt tomorrow. Impact crumpled my ribs, and I got a smack to the head and a mouthful of sand. 

I hate these falls because I can't learn from them. I hate falling in general, but at least when it's my fault I know what not to do again. Could I have supported him more in the corner, or transitioned him before we turned? Probably. Can I stop him falling if he falls unexpectedly? Probably not. Still, it's a good experience before I back an uncoordinated, unpredictable baby in a couple of years, where these things are more likely to happen.

For now, I'm going to enjoy my tea and munch lots of chocolate. And take poor old Lofty a bag of carrots in the week.


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## Verdana (Aug 25, 2016)

A much-awaited baby was born at the yard this week. She's a big filly, out of a draft mare, and so of course I used my lunch break to rush out to the barn to meet her. 

Sitara has given me unrealistic expectations for what newborn foals should be like.

I don't have much of a relationship with the mare. She is privately owned and I have no reason to be involved in her care. And maybe that's why when I met the foal I felt... nothing, really. When I drove over, I was worried that meeting another baby would throw something into doubt. What if I thought the new filly was cuter? What if I have been blinded by cute babyness all along, and all foals are sweet and perfect and special and this was a terrible idea... and and and. But while the mare was fine with me approaching, and I kept my distance from the filly, the filly herself showed minimal, wary interest, and kept away. Which was fine, and completely normal.

But I couldn't help but remember being in the next stall over, over a year and a half ago. Cloudy early morning, my coach whispering hoarsely that I could go in if I wanted to. And I did want to. And when I went in and sat in the hay, Sitara walked straight up to me, sniffed my face as if we were being reunited instead of meeting for the very first time, sighed, and plonked herself down in the straw beside me. And I guess I thought that all foals came with this implicit good will and trust, and maybe that frightened me. I think I thought that, if that were true, something would be taken away from how I feel about the goofball yearling. Instead I looked at her with new appreciation today.

It helps that she is looking pretty great right now. She's shedding like mad, and her undercoat is darker, more golden. Her legs are long and in proportion. She's had a growth spurt recently, but an even one. She is now as tall at the withers as the warmblood colt two months older than she is. If she tops out at this height, she'll be small, but I could ride her. She is fit and healthy and her eyes gleam with curiosity, and whenever she sees me she walks straight over for a hug and a scratch. And she is brave and trusting and opinionated and good, and all flaws are small flaws, and many will be fixed with time. 

I often find myself wondering what in the world I am doing. But today I felt so happy to be on this journey with a special little horse, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like she was the right horse to be journeying with.


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