Did you notice that some people just own a certain type of horse? Or perhaps it's that they create a certain type of horse. No matter the breeding, type, or sex of each successive horse, each one becomes a bizzarro caricature of the one preceding it.
Since it's true that everytime you handle your horse, you are teaching them something, even if it's wrong, then it's also true that you are molding their "persona". For example, I have one horse in the barn that is terribly kind and talented. This horse is also sometimes so incredibly "blonde" that it's startling. Just like their owner.
In another case, I could call one horse's owner and tell them the exact sort of day they had, based upon the day their horse had. They had a freakishly cosmic connection. That particular case was a little outside of the average, but still shows my point.
Think about the horses that you know, and their owners. The similarities are surreal, aren't they? Some of the parallels are incredible.
So.... what does your horse reflect about you?
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
"Shoot low boys! They're ridin' Shetland ponies..."
Ha! Nope, that's got absolutely nothing to do with anything going on here, but I do love that quote.
So what is going on here? Damned if I know, 'cept that recent conversations have centered around the need to schedule one's time. Most importantly, scheduling time to one's self. The busier you are, the more important this is. If you do not set time aside to do only what you want to, then you are quite liable to suffer some sort of chronic meltdown. It should be no great mystery as to why people "go postal". The mystery should be why more people don't.
The last thing a person will do is set time aside for themselves. They'll bend over backwards, and inside-out for just about anyone else, but it's deemed wrong somehow to make time for numero uno, so people don't. That is, until they figure it out. If you don't figure it out, you burn-out. It's pretty simple.
That's way true in this line of work. Can't really take a day off. Horses, lacking opposable thumbs, have a hard time feeding themselves. (Okay, they CAN feed themselves, it's measuring out the rations that's so tough.. that, and operating the water hose. That can be pretty tricky.) Can't go on vacation. Vacation in this line of work costs double. #1, you're not working so you aren't getting paid. #2, even though you're not working or getting paid, you have to pay someone to stay home and do the work you could/should be doing. So, by the time you've budgeted all that in, you've got enough left in your vacation budget to maybe drive down to your local gas station, buy some coconut scented suntan lotion to rub on, and then huddle close to the hotdog heat lamps.
So instead you set aside a few hours here, maybe an evening there. I don't care what you do for a living. It's the only way to stay sane. I mean, you DON'T have to look after your mental well-being, by taking time for yourself. You might have the sort of complexion that looks really good in stark white, backgrounded with rubber, under flourescent lighting. If you don't, schedule a break time. Guard it ferociously.
I've got my time. You try to infringe upon that, and I have a tendency to grow fangs and claws. To let you know, it's been a loooonnngg time since I've had a rabies shot.
So what is going on here? Damned if I know, 'cept that recent conversations have centered around the need to schedule one's time. Most importantly, scheduling time to one's self. The busier you are, the more important this is. If you do not set time aside to do only what you want to, then you are quite liable to suffer some sort of chronic meltdown. It should be no great mystery as to why people "go postal". The mystery should be why more people don't.
The last thing a person will do is set time aside for themselves. They'll bend over backwards, and inside-out for just about anyone else, but it's deemed wrong somehow to make time for numero uno, so people don't. That is, until they figure it out. If you don't figure it out, you burn-out. It's pretty simple.
That's way true in this line of work. Can't really take a day off. Horses, lacking opposable thumbs, have a hard time feeding themselves. (Okay, they CAN feed themselves, it's measuring out the rations that's so tough.. that, and operating the water hose. That can be pretty tricky.) Can't go on vacation. Vacation in this line of work costs double. #1, you're not working so you aren't getting paid. #2, even though you're not working or getting paid, you have to pay someone to stay home and do the work you could/should be doing. So, by the time you've budgeted all that in, you've got enough left in your vacation budget to maybe drive down to your local gas station, buy some coconut scented suntan lotion to rub on, and then huddle close to the hotdog heat lamps.
So instead you set aside a few hours here, maybe an evening there. I don't care what you do for a living. It's the only way to stay sane. I mean, you DON'T have to look after your mental well-being, by taking time for yourself. You might have the sort of complexion that looks really good in stark white, backgrounded with rubber, under flourescent lighting. If you don't, schedule a break time. Guard it ferociously.
I've got my time. You try to infringe upon that, and I have a tendency to grow fangs and claws. To let you know, it's been a loooonnngg time since I've had a rabies shot.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Betwixt Between
The idea was to go to the Casino, get ourselves a spa treatment, and then a "Reserved" table at the dance club because that's what rich Cougars would do.
Hmmm....
Speak for yourself. I'm no Cougar. Yet.
However, I'm not a Kitten any longer either. You know- a Kitten. A 20-something, sexy mink. The type that loves to pounce on their "play-toy" of a significant other. If it looks like "fun", moves like fun, and smells like fun.. then POUNCE. Yeah, baby. Play Time.
I'm not a Cougar either, though. Supposedly, at some point in a woman's 40's a woman starts to hit their true sexual peak. Men go from plaything, to being taken as nourishment. (I'll take my man-thing rare, with a pinch of garlic). It's no longer Pounce and Play. It becomes Pounce and Prey.
As either a Kitten or a Cougar, sex is high on the list of importance. I am smack betwixt the two however. As a 30-something I've got loads on my plate. My peers are chasing children, running errands,-being Pee-Wee Soccer Mom's. I've got a carreer to to grow- one that keeps me incredibly busy. I'm tired at the end of the day, and I know all my peers are too. Running one hundred miles per hour in a thousand differant directions- the last thing we want is one more thing that we have to focus on. If something is going to take our attention for more than 8 seconds, it becomes just another chore. Thirty-somethings, "Multi-tasking", be thy name.
So... If we are neither Kitten or Cougar, what are we? Um.."Cats "..with something better to do?
Hmmm....
Speak for yourself. I'm no Cougar. Yet.
However, I'm not a Kitten any longer either. You know- a Kitten. A 20-something, sexy mink. The type that loves to pounce on their "play-toy" of a significant other. If it looks like "fun", moves like fun, and smells like fun.. then POUNCE. Yeah, baby. Play Time.
I'm not a Cougar either, though. Supposedly, at some point in a woman's 40's a woman starts to hit their true sexual peak. Men go from plaything, to being taken as nourishment. (I'll take my man-thing rare, with a pinch of garlic). It's no longer Pounce and Play. It becomes Pounce and Prey.
As either a Kitten or a Cougar, sex is high on the list of importance. I am smack betwixt the two however. As a 30-something I've got loads on my plate. My peers are chasing children, running errands,-being Pee-Wee Soccer Mom's. I've got a carreer to to grow- one that keeps me incredibly busy. I'm tired at the end of the day, and I know all my peers are too. Running one hundred miles per hour in a thousand differant directions- the last thing we want is one more thing that we have to focus on. If something is going to take our attention for more than 8 seconds, it becomes just another chore. Thirty-somethings, "Multi-tasking", be thy name.
So... If we are neither Kitten or Cougar, what are we? Um.."Cats "..with something better to do?
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
If You're Gonna Play, You're Gonna Pay
Horses are expensive.
No matter what you do with them, from the occasional trail ride to showing at the utmost levels, they cost and cost and cost. Granted, exactly what you do directly influences how much they cost you, but no matter what, you will pay. That's the price for this "sickness" we have.
Let's just deal with showing horses for a moment. If you want to run with the "Big Boys", you can't scimp on the details. That doesn't mean that you need to spend a fortune on a truck, or a trailer. Pulling into a show in a sweetheart of a truck with the snazzies living quarters imaginable, is NOT going to get you a better ribbon. The judges don't check the parking lots. But if you want to be a loser in posh comfort, then that's your ticket. Now, if you're pretty much independantly wealthy, you can be a winner in comfort. We should all be so lucky. The point is, to play, you have to pay, and there are some things you can't get around. The tack you use- it's got to fit your horse, and it's got to fit you. Your horse has to be trained to the level where they can perform well enough to fullfill your showing needs. Your horse has to be the raw material to be trained to that level. All of this costs. It can cost a lot.
The good news is, it doesn't always have to cost money. For a lot of things, such as initial training, and maintaining training and health, sweat equity can take alot of the burden off of the 'ol pocket book. Work, old-fashioned hard work, can literally be the differance between winning and losing when you weren't born with a silver spoon in your mouth, or tripping over a Mega-Millions lottery win.
That is NOT to say that you have to be rich to win. That's not the case. You rarely see a rich loser, true. However, you can be NOT rich and still win. You pay the differance of what you can't pay in money with hard work. Consider it like this: winning has "x" value. You can pay for "x" with money (x=money), or any combination of MONEY + SWEAT (x=money + sweat, where "sweat"=time and effort). The less money you put into it, the more sweat you need. It's a simple formula, really.
There's a neat added bonus for adding in sweat to your "Win Formula". The more time and effort you put into it, the more you and your horse form a partnership that transcends any of the other partnerships in that pen. That's how the youth kid that spends every available second with their horse can beat the pants off that top pro. That kid knows their horse. They know every blink, every ear twitch, every breath, and respond accordingly.
So you can put in the money, or if you don't have money you can put in the time and effort. If you don't have time, then you need to put in the money. One way or the other though, if you want to play, you're going to pay.
It can't be done any other way.
No matter what you do with them, from the occasional trail ride to showing at the utmost levels, they cost and cost and cost. Granted, exactly what you do directly influences how much they cost you, but no matter what, you will pay. That's the price for this "sickness" we have.
Let's just deal with showing horses for a moment. If you want to run with the "Big Boys", you can't scimp on the details. That doesn't mean that you need to spend a fortune on a truck, or a trailer. Pulling into a show in a sweetheart of a truck with the snazzies living quarters imaginable, is NOT going to get you a better ribbon. The judges don't check the parking lots. But if you want to be a loser in posh comfort, then that's your ticket. Now, if you're pretty much independantly wealthy, you can be a winner in comfort. We should all be so lucky. The point is, to play, you have to pay, and there are some things you can't get around. The tack you use- it's got to fit your horse, and it's got to fit you. Your horse has to be trained to the level where they can perform well enough to fullfill your showing needs. Your horse has to be the raw material to be trained to that level. All of this costs. It can cost a lot.
The good news is, it doesn't always have to cost money. For a lot of things, such as initial training, and maintaining training and health, sweat equity can take alot of the burden off of the 'ol pocket book. Work, old-fashioned hard work, can literally be the differance between winning and losing when you weren't born with a silver spoon in your mouth, or tripping over a Mega-Millions lottery win.
That is NOT to say that you have to be rich to win. That's not the case. You rarely see a rich loser, true. However, you can be NOT rich and still win. You pay the differance of what you can't pay in money with hard work. Consider it like this: winning has "x" value. You can pay for "x" with money (x=money), or any combination of MONEY + SWEAT (x=money + sweat, where "sweat"=time and effort). The less money you put into it, the more sweat you need. It's a simple formula, really.
There's a neat added bonus for adding in sweat to your "Win Formula". The more time and effort you put into it, the more you and your horse form a partnership that transcends any of the other partnerships in that pen. That's how the youth kid that spends every available second with their horse can beat the pants off that top pro. That kid knows their horse. They know every blink, every ear twitch, every breath, and respond accordingly.
So you can put in the money, or if you don't have money you can put in the time and effort. If you don't have time, then you need to put in the money. One way or the other though, if you want to play, you're going to pay.
It can't be done any other way.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Signs Of Spring
So.. famed prognosticator Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow and we're supposed to have 6 more weeks of winter? I don't believe it. Phil is just a sell-out groundhog, who's given it up for posh digs and 15 minutes of fame a year.
No matter what way you look at, when you live in Oswego County, you're guaranteed 6 more weeks of winter. If you only get 6 weeks, you're doing great. Still, I know spring is coming and coming fast.
How do I know, you ask?
It's the mares.
Horny little bitches. EVERY SINGLE ONE is in heat. It's not full blown heat. Oh, no. It's that, "Yes, touch me!" "No, not there" "Yes, there" "No don't touch" "Touch" "Don't Touch" sort of heat. Bunch of teases. My poor geldings. They haven't got a clue.
I went out to bring horses in. Timmie, as usual is in the farthest corner of his paddock. In the adjoining paddock, Sabre was looking at him, squealing. I can only assume she was squealing because she didn't like Timmie looking back at her. You see, one thing Timmie has learned is that you never can tell when the fence is fully functional. It could reach out and bite you at any moment. No sense tempting fate. He kept his nose to himself. Didn't stop Sabre from squealing at him for looking at her wrong, though.
And then there was Georgia and Lex. Georgia is normally the "Super Diva". A horse looks at her wrong, and they may just get a big ol' "Pow, right in the kisser". As a general rule, Georgia doesn't like any other horses. Specifically, Georgia doesn't like Lex. Lex, of course, loves everyone. Two legs, or four- he is the soul of affection. (Think large Labrador Retriever.. less the retriever part)
Under average conditions, so long as each horse has an adequate amount of hay in front of them, they leave their neighbors alone. Not today. Georgia is in heat. "Oooo la la, I think you're incredibly sexy" sort of heat. She kept running up to the shared fenceline, and rubbing her head and neck all over Lex's head and neck.
Poor Lex. He's got this hot mama rubbing herself all over him. What was he to do?
He tried to mount her neck.
Exactly what he was hoping to accomplish by mounting her neck, I do not know. I don't think he knew either. I think he'd just heard a rumor that that was the thing to do when you had a girl throwing themselves at you. The major problem, (outside of the obvious ones of gelding, and bodily orientation) was that there was a fence between them. So, yes, he got hung up. Thank heavens he got his front legs over the wooden part.
I say thank heavens, but I think he was embarrased. He saw me, and tried to backpedal so fast, he nearly sat down. That could have been painful for him. Lex got himself off the fence without injury, but Georgia was pissed. Lex was mortified he'd gotten caught trying to be sexy, and Georgia was mad they were interrupted. That little tramp!
Yep. There's still plenty of snow on the ground, but spring is in the air. The birds and the bees have already started migrating north. Oh. Boy.
No matter what way you look at, when you live in Oswego County, you're guaranteed 6 more weeks of winter. If you only get 6 weeks, you're doing great. Still, I know spring is coming and coming fast.
How do I know, you ask?
It's the mares.
Horny little bitches. EVERY SINGLE ONE is in heat. It's not full blown heat. Oh, no. It's that, "Yes, touch me!" "No, not there" "Yes, there" "No don't touch" "Touch" "Don't Touch" sort of heat. Bunch of teases. My poor geldings. They haven't got a clue.
I went out to bring horses in. Timmie, as usual is in the farthest corner of his paddock. In the adjoining paddock, Sabre was looking at him, squealing. I can only assume she was squealing because she didn't like Timmie looking back at her. You see, one thing Timmie has learned is that you never can tell when the fence is fully functional. It could reach out and bite you at any moment. No sense tempting fate. He kept his nose to himself. Didn't stop Sabre from squealing at him for looking at her wrong, though.
And then there was Georgia and Lex. Georgia is normally the "Super Diva". A horse looks at her wrong, and they may just get a big ol' "Pow, right in the kisser". As a general rule, Georgia doesn't like any other horses. Specifically, Georgia doesn't like Lex. Lex, of course, loves everyone. Two legs, or four- he is the soul of affection. (Think large Labrador Retriever.. less the retriever part)
Under average conditions, so long as each horse has an adequate amount of hay in front of them, they leave their neighbors alone. Not today. Georgia is in heat. "Oooo la la, I think you're incredibly sexy" sort of heat. She kept running up to the shared fenceline, and rubbing her head and neck all over Lex's head and neck.
Poor Lex. He's got this hot mama rubbing herself all over him. What was he to do?
He tried to mount her neck.
Exactly what he was hoping to accomplish by mounting her neck, I do not know. I don't think he knew either. I think he'd just heard a rumor that that was the thing to do when you had a girl throwing themselves at you. The major problem, (outside of the obvious ones of gelding, and bodily orientation) was that there was a fence between them. So, yes, he got hung up. Thank heavens he got his front legs over the wooden part.
I say thank heavens, but I think he was embarrased. He saw me, and tried to backpedal so fast, he nearly sat down. That could have been painful for him. Lex got himself off the fence without injury, but Georgia was pissed. Lex was mortified he'd gotten caught trying to be sexy, and Georgia was mad they were interrupted. That little tramp!
Yep. There's still plenty of snow on the ground, but spring is in the air. The birds and the bees have already started migrating north. Oh. Boy.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
More Products from the R.F.
Funny.. since I blogged about the Retard Factory, everytime I turn around one of the horses is doing something else "blog worthy", under that heading.
For example, ya'll already know about our figure skating Olympian in the making, "Lex". Well, Lex is also a Serial Kisser. If he figures you're in reach, watch out, he's going to get you. He'll punch his nose at you in his exuberance of affection- just hope he doesn't get you anywhere fragile. Despite the fact that his nose is softly fuzzy; his kisses are anything but gentle. He means only the best of course- but all I can think of is "George" from Of Mice and Men. (For referance, Alicia, it IS okay to give your horse kisses... I think the grouchy old man is the only one that doesn't... but make sure they don't try to kiss you back)
Then we have Dash. Ya'll haven't been introduced to Dash yet. In general he's a pretty staid individual. He's 9 years old and acts 30. Very mature, usually. He's also a closet soap eater. Yep. I said, SOAP eater. We use liquid soap as a chewing deterant. Dash is also a cribber, and as I recently found out, he's got a serious taste for soap. I sprayed the soap on, he licked it off. I didn't really watch too close, but he was probably farting bubbles later.
Romeo likes to play halter tag until his "competition" gets in a lucky tug, causing the noseband to tighten enough that he can no longer open his mouth.
Oliver grabs the nearest blanket tail flap, or tail bag, and follows along like the next little elephant in line. If said object is stationary, then he twirls, flips, tugs, pulls, until he can't go anymore, or the recieving horse kicks at him. It's amazing he's still got the pretty smile that he does.
The Retard Factory is just awash in product.
For example, ya'll already know about our figure skating Olympian in the making, "Lex". Well, Lex is also a Serial Kisser. If he figures you're in reach, watch out, he's going to get you. He'll punch his nose at you in his exuberance of affection- just hope he doesn't get you anywhere fragile. Despite the fact that his nose is softly fuzzy; his kisses are anything but gentle. He means only the best of course- but all I can think of is "George" from Of Mice and Men. (For referance, Alicia, it IS okay to give your horse kisses... I think the grouchy old man is the only one that doesn't... but make sure they don't try to kiss you back)
Then we have Dash. Ya'll haven't been introduced to Dash yet. In general he's a pretty staid individual. He's 9 years old and acts 30. Very mature, usually. He's also a closet soap eater. Yep. I said, SOAP eater. We use liquid soap as a chewing deterant. Dash is also a cribber, and as I recently found out, he's got a serious taste for soap. I sprayed the soap on, he licked it off. I didn't really watch too close, but he was probably farting bubbles later.
Romeo likes to play halter tag until his "competition" gets in a lucky tug, causing the noseband to tighten enough that he can no longer open his mouth.
Oliver grabs the nearest blanket tail flap, or tail bag, and follows along like the next little elephant in line. If said object is stationary, then he twirls, flips, tugs, pulls, until he can't go anymore, or the recieving horse kicks at him. It's amazing he's still got the pretty smile that he does.
The Retard Factory is just awash in product.
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