1 Chapter 1
Kelly: The Horse I Didn’t Want
Kelly Comes Through
Kelly’s SonKelly: The Horse I Didn’t Want
“Would you be interested in buying my mare?” a neighbor asked.
“No,” I replied.
My previous encounters with equine females had been disastrous and I wasn’t exactly winning all the ribbons with my gelding, either. But to soften my terse response, I added, “Give me her details, and I’ll ask my friends if they know anyone needing a horse.”
“Thanks,” my neighbor replied. “She’s an Irish thoroughbred ex-racehorse. Fifteen three, sixteen years old, chestnut, and going cheap because she cribs and windsucks.”
Great! I thought, every horseman’s dream!Cribbing and windsucking—gripping any available surface with the teeth then swallowing air—are two vices which reduce a horse’s value considerably. They wear down the front teeth, allegedly cause colic, and common wisdom has it that stable mates catch the habit.
I tried to sound polite. “What’s she done?”
“Only trail-riding…and she’s really good in traffic. Oh, but she hasn’t been ridden for two years.”
Terrific! A must-have horse.
We lived in England at the time. I casually mentioned our neighbor’s ‘desirable’ mare to my husband and a visiting friend, Don.
The latter looked at me. “How much does she want?” he asked. Initially baffled at his question, I remembered he was soon to lose his chestnut mare in a pending divorce.
Warily, I answered, “Eight hundred pounds, including tack. Why?”
“Ring her back. I’ll try the horse tomorrow.”
Like McEnroe, I yelled, “You cannotbe serious!” I knew where that horse would live if he boarded her at our place.
The following morning Glen, my husband, drove our mad friend to see Kelly. She was hastily being shod while windsucking for England. An hour later Don rode her into our field, where the chestnut promptly bucked him off.
I had never seen such an ugly horse. Ribs poked through her worm-ridden belly, her lower lip protruded, her tongue hung out, muscles bulged in the wrong places from her vices…the list was endless.
But Don had remounted, so I suggested he use our enclosed riding arena. This time he fared better. Kelly behaved sedately.
That night our intrepid friend became the owner of a new mare, saddle, bridle, and a saddle blanket which had been used upside down when it became worn, so both sides were now completely threadbare. Our eyebrows rose at the sight and it awoke curiosity about her former life.
Meanwhile Kelly was busy cribbing and windsucking in her new home—our stables, so we slammed on a crib collar.
She was crazy. When tied up, she’d break free and gallop down our drive. If you moved anything on the ground by her feet, ditto. When being saddled she’d bite, when the bit was put in her mouth, she’d bite, and when Don tightened up her girth before getting on, she’d bite, andcow-kick for good measure.
As suspected, a dream horse.
Once mounted, she was fairly calm except in front of a fence, where she morphed into an equine dynamo. There was no stopping her. There was also no stopping her from stopping, either. Don fell off a lot.
But he was very brave and took her to a cross-country competition. She dumped him at the trakhener—a log suspended over a ditch—then galloped off. When finally caught, she was held by my husband for Don to mount. As our friend’s foot reached the stirrup, Kelly flung herself bodily to the ground, in full view of the entire crowd. I have never seen a horse do that, either before or since.
Don was humiliated. His red witch rose from the dirt, shook herself off, and bolted.
Anyone interested in a cheap chestnut mare?
Don asked me to sell her for him, and I wasn’t happy. I’d have to show that minx off to any prospective buyer, which meant actually sittingon her.
Yet, strangely, I felt sorry for the little horse. She looked so pitiful when she came to us that winter, with raw blanket rubs round her chest and between her hind legs. We discovered she’d been in the same field constantly for two years, due to a tendon injury, while her equine companions came and went. Through boredom and frustration she’d developed her bad habits, and hated her blanket because her former owner left it on for months. I imagined her girth had been tightened too much too quickly, hence the cow-kicking. Later I learned that tongue-hanging is typical of a racehorse.
But knowing the above didn’t give me the courage to ride her.
I attached her next to a haynet, as we don’t use cross-ties in England, then groomed her with deep strokes while she munched away. She seemed to enjoy the attention and dozed off. But when I placed the saddle on her back, her ears flattened menacingly. She wasn’t asleep anymore! I fed her a distracting tidbit while buckling the girth veryloosely. No kick.
