The Horse Trader's Son

When I was a kid, my family boarded horses, and at any given time we’d have 20 to 30 roaming the pastures. Occasionally someone would leave a gate open, or some section of fencing would fall down, and the horses would get out. Not as serious of an ordeal as it would be these days, since we were mostly bordered by other property. One edge of our pasture though was adjacent to a lake, and there was a gate there that some inconsiderate person left open one winter day.
Well, the horses all got out, and for some strange reason, they wandered out onto the ice. Maybe they thought the ice-fishermen had some tasty treats for them, who knows. Anyway, my brothers and I were sent to bring them home. We didn’t have any problems catching them, and we were doing fine leading 4 of them while the others followed, but the ice started to crack.
It’s amazing how fast horses can move on ice, given that their hooves are prone to slip on the stuff. There was really just no slowing them down once they got it into their heads that we all needed to get off the ice pronto!  Stopping them was impossible.  Keeping up with them was, too.  That pretty much just left sliding on the ice while they pulled us along.  And that is how we invented horse-drawn ice skiing.

All the wood I could carry for $3.00!

The Sparta Rodeo, for years the one annual event I and my comrades looked forward to all year long.  For one long weekend of rodeo, horseback riding, camping, carousing, and of course, drinking, we planned, saved, strategized,  and practiced.  Considering the fact that our families were not particularly well off, and my friends and I were basically broke teenagers, we tended to scimp on expenditures.  That’s why we couldn’t pass up this deal.  The man selling firewood said “All the wood you can carry from my truck to yours, for $3.00.”  So with a little support from my friend Phil, and recorded for posterity by my other friend Mike (see the Uncle Deano post below), I had the guy load me up.  Boy, I’d say we got the best of this deal!

The world of print, and now also the internet, is filled with heart-warming tales of the bonds of love that develop between a child and her or his first pony.  They relate the absolute trust between mount and master, the obstacles they overcome together, and the life-long memories of all the happy times on the trail or in the ring.

If you’re looking for such a story, forget it.  You won’t find it here.  Here, you’ll discover what many first-time buyers find out the hard way: most ponies are stubborn, cantancorous, and mischievous.

I got my first pony when I was 7 years old.  My Mom eventually became one of the most knowlegable horse buyers in the state, but at the time she was just starting out.  She bought “Casey” (or maybe it was “K.C.”) because he was small, cute, and cheap.  Boy, did we learn that in a pony, those qualities just aren’t enough. Read more…

My Brother Matt’s problems with goats began when he was just three years old. We raised nubians, and when one of the nannies gave birth, Matt seemed to enjoy chasing it around with a stick. Not actually beating it, mind you – just terrorizing it. We made him stop, but that goat had a longer memory than the we had.

About a year later, when Matthew was four and beginning to spend more time in the barn doing chores with the rest of us, he walked by that same goat, now fully grown and sporting a fully developed set of horns. Not realizing what was about to happen, I watched “Gertrude” as she watched Matthew approach. When he was right next to her, she reared straight up on her hind legs, where she poised ever so briefly – just long enough for Matt to register what was happening. Alas, not long enough for him to get out of the way. Matt found himself on the receiving end of the hardest head-butt I have ever seen, which drove him straight to the ground on his rear. Once my brothers and I ascertained that he was not out cold, we all expressed our deepest sympathy for his pain – by rolling on the ground and laughing hysterically. Psychiatrists might point out this episode as having something to do with the way Matthew is today, but hey, what do they know.

Moving forward in time two more years, Matt is only six, but I’m 18 and my friends and I consider ourselves rough, tough cowboys. We’ve ridden broncs in the local rodeos. We run riding stables where “city slickers” try to prove they can ride, but we like to show them what real riding is like. We crack bull whips in ways that would have put Indiana Jones to shame, except “Raiders of the Lost Ark” was still two years in the future. In short, we aren’t scared of anything or anyone – except my Mom. Naturally, Matthew looks up to us, and announces that he wants to become a rodeo star.

That weekend we had over a thousand bales of hay to put up, so I invited my best friend Tim over to do some trail riding. When he arrived early Saturday morning ready to ride, I explained to him that we just had a few bales of hay to pick up and stack in the barn first. It shouldn’t take too long, and then we can go riding. The next afternoon when we finished up, there was hay stacked in both side lofts of our old hay barn, and in the center on the floor was a stack that reached all the way to the ceiling. I said “Well, that didn’t take too long now, did it?” Tim, being the good humored sort that he is, refrained from beating the tar out of me just then – barely. Read more…

a Horse with a Sense of Humor

In every herd, there seems to be one horse with more personality than its herd-mates – a horse that seems to stand above the rest in terms of intelligence and sense of humor.

The best example of a horse with a sense of humor was Thunder, AKA Houdini. Thunder was a horse from my childhood, who was a trickster and an escape artist. He holds the record for the best practical joke played by a horse, but he has a contender vying for that honor.

We now have a horse on the farm named Georgie (pictured). He’s a handsome Tennessee Walker, and like Thunder, he seems to have the uncanny ability to let himself out of his stall, the barn, and even the pasture. He also fancies himself a bit of a jokester. Read more…

When I was a youngster, my parents were good friends with another couple active in the horse circles. They ran the local horse auction every Saturday night. Gene was a truck driver, rodeo rider, horse shoer, and a trainer. He also was and still is a consummate story teller.

Disclaimer: I can’t swear that the following tale is true. I’m relaying it here the way I heard it, and within the same context. I tell it strictly for entertainment purposes, and specifically do not recommend or advocate the training method employed in the story.

I was about 16 years old, and Gene had contracted to break and train a horse. He frequently did this, and usually boarded the horse with us for the training period. He knew we would take good care of the horse. He cut my Mom in for some of the proceeds of the contract. And he usually put me on the horse after a few days of ground-work. “Uncle” Gene was one of my childhood heroes. In exchange for helping him train horses, I could earn a few dollars and, more importantly, reap the benefits of his vast wisdom and remarkable tales.

As we finished up the day’s session with a young bay mare who was displaying some difficulty learning to stop on cue, I asked him how he planned to deal with her in the next few weeks. He said, “Well, we’ll be patient. She’ll get the hang of it. She’s young, and hasn’t really developed any bad habits, yet.”

“OK, but what if she had? What if she was already trained, but didn’t have any brakes? How would you correct her?”

Gene grew pensive for a few moments, then, as if he’d come to a decision, he started. “Let me tell you, son, about one I got just like that one time. This one was a black gelding, but like you said, didn’t have no brakes. I tried a hackamore. That didn’t work. I tried all different kinds of bits. He would work OK at a walk, but ‘soon as you got him into a canter or a run, he’d just run off with you and not stop ’til he got to the barn.” A grin spread across his face as he said, “I finally managed to break him, though.” Read more…

My mother was a horse trader. Not one of those that gives horse traders the reputation for fleecing unsuspecting horse buyers (and less experienced horse traders) by representing three-legged man-hating horses as kid-safe and sound. Still, sainthood will forever elude her.

My family engaged in pretty much any horse-related activity that can turn a profit. We rented, boarded, bought, and sold horses. We supplied ponies for pony rides at parties and events, and horses for the judges at field dog trials. And for a fee, we picked up dead and injured livestock from the homes of distraught owners. Most of these were anxious to get the ordeal of a dead or terminal horse over with as quickly as possible. They were content to have us pick up their animal and leave with as little spectacle as possible. Some were not quite so accommodating.

The phone rang one morning. In a tearful voice, a woman spoke to my mother. “My name is Rebecca Rhoades, and my horse Charlie just d-died,” she sobbed. “I have no idea what to do with him now. Do you pick up d-dead horses?”

No funeral mortician who ever consoled a grieving patron could exude more sympathy and compassion than could my mother, the horse trader. “Yes, we do pick up dead horses. Judging by the pain evident in your voice, you obviously loved Charlie very much. How long did you have him?”

“I’ve had him since I was 12 years old. I grew up with him. He was 10 years old when my Dad bought him for me, but he’s 29, now. Well… I mean he was 29.”

When horse owners called and said their old horse had died, or that they had one that was terminally ill and would need to be put down (euthenized, if you prefer), they occasionally asked what we did with the body. My mother would describe our farm, and explain that we had a special section of the farm where we buried the horses. Few people ever elected to have any kind of marker or memorial. Indeed, nobody ever visited the graves of these horses. Fortunately. Read more…