Lightness, or how your horse knows not to dump you in your moment of vulnerability

So, mugwump brought up a great point today.

She said she has one moment where she is completely vulnerable to her horse.  The moment when she swings into the saddle.

For some reason, over all the years she had trained and worked with rank youngsters, no horse to date had taken advantage of it.

I loved this post, because like most of hers it got me thinking a little about my relationship with horses.

We all have our vulnerable moments in the saddle.  (and out, for that matter.)

I feel like it's a bad idea even mentioning this, but it's been a long time since I've fallen off.

A really long time.

The more time that passes, the more nervous it makes me.

The last time I fell off was shortly after I got my gelding, Ben.

I remember I was schooling him in German sliding side reins in the lower arena.  We had just finished our workout.  You know the saying, "a tired horse is a safe horse"?  That saying doesn't really apply to the hot breeds.  About half the time, Arabs are just as amped at the end of a workout.  Especially when you are just getting to know each other.

I remember picking at something on the saddle, and Ben skittering out from under me at the noise I was making with my fingernail.  I stuck with him just fine.  I distinctly remember thinking it would be a good idea to continue making the noise, so that he would understand it was nothing to fear.

Next I know I'm the victim of Arabian horse teleporting ability, and I'm on my ass in the shavings.  He's come over and is giving me the usual sheepish look horses give you when you unexpectedly end up on the ground.

But I think in some ways, I was giving him permission to dump me.

If you can call it that.

I guess it would be more appropriate to say I was giving myself permission to fall off.

Of course, I didn't think that would happen.  It had been a couple years before that since I'd hit the dirt.  You may remember from my earlier post that I grew up riding young Arabians, I fell off a lot as a kid and eventually developed sticking ability and a sixth sense for spooks.  I considered myself pretty hot shit for sitting spooks.

I totally did not see this one coming. 

But at the same time, it was okay.  Ben was not going anywhere.  I was completely in love, and nothing he could do would change my love for him.

I didn't have another fall off him before the end of his life, 5 years later, even though I did plenty of stupid things.  He never behaved in any way but exactly as I expected him to.  Steady, steady, steady.

But that first and only time, it was almost as if he needed to know what I would do if I fell off.

I'll never know what landed him at the feedlot a few hundred miles from the Canadian slaughterhouses, but I would be damned if he ever had another day of his life where he felt scared, starved or alone.

And I never let him down.  I held him in my arms when he breathed his last breath, when the vet and I were unable to save him.  I was able to give him peace, and to be there every step of the way, to tell him he was loved.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is we had an unspoken understanding.

From the day when I picked my butt up off the sawdust of the lower arena, gathered his reins, and swung up on his back without any fear or anger, we were bonded to each other.  I would do whatever I could to make sure he knew he was loved and respected, and he did the same for me.  Although he was an Arabian, he was never a spooky horse after that.  I think he trusted me with his whole being, and something in him relaxed.

He became the best trail horse I could have hoped for--he was fearless and went anywhere I pointed him.

Though it's been near two years since his passing, I still miss him every day and the bond we had with one another.  I gave my whole heart to him, and he did the same for me.  I think it's hard to ever love as freely as you do with the first horse you lose.  But the hole in my heart is the proof I carry for the love I had for him.

I wish we had been allowed more time together.  I wish I had found him sooner.  But I wouldn't trade the five years I had with him for anything in the world.

So what is it about horses that allows them to trust us?  How can they see our weaknesses, and decide not to take advantage of them?

Chevelle can buck like a bronco.  She is Hancock, after all.  The bucks and twists she throws loose in the arena or at the end of a lunge line are awesome to behold.  Sixteen hands and 1200 pounds of baby sorrel fury.  Any time she stumbled, she'd come out of it bucking like a maniac.  (this has improved a little with age and balance, thankfully.)

So needless to say, combined with my lack of fall experience in the last many years, I am pretty scared of falling off.

I have had her going under saddle for three years.  I had a lovely, sensitive-minded girl just starting out her training biz work with her for 30 days as a 3 year old, while I watched proudly from the sidelines, trying to learn something.  Chev didn't know much, but she was honest.  If she stumbled, she'd toss a few half-hearted bucks out the back while she tried to find her feet again.

I think the fear I have of her going into a hard buck frenzy is palpable.  I must communicate that somehow, because she's never thrown any more than a little dolphin hop with me in the saddle, and not even that for the past year or so.

So how does she know?  And even more strangely--why doesn't she take advantage of my fear?

Sounds like I've got some more questions to ponder.