When a young guy I’ll call Riley applied for the job of live-in farm helper, we were quite underwhelmed by his resume. He had no horse experience, couldn’t fix fences and only had a job history which stretched back three years. He lapsed into stony silence when we asked about his family.
But on the positive side of the equation, he was strong, young and very enthusiastic about the prospect of starting a new life in Langley.
He was also easy on the eyes: tall, lean, very fit and with jet black hair and honey-coloured eyes. And he was the only applicant for the job. Did I mention that he was good looking?
Riley’s approach to horse handling was straightforward. It could be described as “Nailing when they’re being jerks and be nice to them the rest of the time.”
The Zeffirelli disciples and horse whisperers who abound in Langley would have been scandalized to see Riley squelch rebellion on his farm. Mr. Bill, my husband’s cantankerous Appaloosa, drew the short straw when our three-horse herd was deciding who was going to take the new guy down a peg or two.
Every morning, the horses cross the shallow end of our pond to get to the summer pastures on the other side. They are models of good behaviour when asked to do something that they want to do anyway. As instructed, Riley helped lead each gelding to the edge of the pond, remove the halter and the horse in hand would obediently cross the 100-foot span of water to the other side. You could see Riley was pleased that the horses were so receptive to him.
He was green enough not to realize that the horses were being overly mellow, suspiciously docile.
Sure enough, when it came Mr. Bill’s time to cross the pond, he took one step into the water and pivoted on his hind quarters to take a left turn. He was careful not to knock Riley over but missed him by inches as he headed for the nearest hedge.
On the other side of the hedge was equine cheesecake: my neighbour’s manicured lawn, nurtured weekly by a gardener who could barely contain his disgust at our ragged patch of lawn and unkempt flower beds.
Riley quickly recovered from the shock of Bill’s dash to freedom and took off after him, cursing and growling. His nostrils dilated and his black hairy chest heaved with the exertion of the chase.
Did I mention he was good looking?
He cornered our elated Appaloosa just as he was about to chow down on the neighbour’s expanse of Kentucky bluegrass. Although I yelled at him not to panic the horse, he ran back and forth in front of Bill until Bill froze, clearly afraid. Then Riley walked up to him, stared at him for the longest time and snarled.
Bill, clearly embarrassed that the new guy had outwitted him, slowly walked back to the rest of the herd.
Riley shot me a look that said: “See, there’s more than one way to skin an Appaloosa.”
And so it continued. Riley always presented my horse with a clear choice: “My way or the highway.”
Riley never said much, but he found my morning ritual of nuzzling and smooching the horses a bit nuts. He wrinkled his nose at the stream of baby talk I let fly when a horse showed the slightest sign of distress.
To my dismay, the horses seemed to prefer Riley’s approach. When they were in doubt of what to do, they looked to him for guidance.
I was crushed. All that money spent on all those clinics wasted. The horses knew I was a wuss all along. They just let me think I was in charge.
Did I mention that Riley is a dog?
Anne Patterson is a Langley writer and horse owner.
Contact her at accidentalrider@yahoo.com.
