Maple Leaf Rag (issue 2)
Friends
(part I)
by Kimberly Collins
It was a dark April
night. The black Arabian mare, Erijas Fantaja, was due to deliver
her foal at any time. Her foal would be one of the many black foals
delivered on the farm that spring, fore the Sundance Arabian farm specializes
in those rare and cherished ebony horses. It was Sue, the breeder
and nurture of those beautiful horses, that bundled off to the barn in
the early morning hours to check on the mare's progress.
There he laid in the fresh straw blinking
in the dim light of the barn. Taking a light in with her for a closer
inspection, Sue knelt by him surprised to see the little chestnut colt
who was sniffing at her.
He struggled to
stand, but he could not stretch out his front legs. The mare was
small and the colt quite large. The confinement had left the foal
with tendentious. The next few days and nights Sue lifted the colt
to nurse. Slowly his tendons caught up with his bones and he was
able to stand on his own.
Sue named the
little trouble maker Sigera El Din; Sigera meaning "miner mistake", because
he threw back his color through 15 crosses to black, and El Din after a
famous European chestnut stallion, because there had to be something special
about someone who makes such an uncommon entrance into the world and survives.
* * *
Throughout my
childhood my father had ached to give me a horse almost as much as I ached
to own one. Horses were a special love that we shared. But,
I was a child that grieved hard after lost pets or worried endlessly over
ones left behind because of transfer. My father found my grieving
tendencies unbearable and knew a horse simply would not fit our lifestyle.
After an entire childhood of relocating and following my Father's career
as an airlines aviator, I was finally able to settle down near the tranquil
village of Warrens, WI. The little Midwestern town offered a setting
that was a far cry from the flamboyant life I had lived abroad. It
was a sort of Brigadoon.
I was a wife and
a mother when that sizable check came in the mail. "Go buy that horse,"
the letter said. "Happy Birthday! Love, Dad."
The sleek chestnut
colt blew the air as he nervously stepped from the trailer and into my
driveway. His eyes were large and intelligent and between them he
was marked with a "C" which sat on a narrow stripe that ran down the length
of his nose and ended with a small diamond. He
had four white socks and one front toe that turned
in ever so slightly. The registration papers where signed over to
me and I became the proud owner of Sigera El Din and an amazing personality
waiting to be discovered.
It was evening
and I stood with him in his paddock as the glow of the setting sun brought
out the shimmer in his deep red coat. I was trying to convince myself
that this was real; that I wouldn't walk out to his paddock tomorrow morning
to discover that it had only been a dream. "Will we be good friends,
Sigera?" I asked the yearling as gently as I could. He let me stroke
his neck . . . he trembled, but stayed . . . and I cried. * * *
|
Friends (part II)
by Kimberly Collins
A trickle of water
ran over my brow as I cantered the chestnut gelding, Sigera, down the old
logging trail. My dark ringlets hung heavy and wet from repeated
run-ins with the dew laden leaves that bent low over the path from the
maples and oaks. The day was so young that only a few of the locals
had risen to hear the spring songs of the sparrows and the morning squabbles
among the jays.
The morning mist
was being called away by the rising sun when Sigera and I made The Clearing
and broke free of the wooded trail. "Walk now, boy, good boy", I
said calmly. He tossed his head, let's run, he begged. "I don't
think so. This field is full of gopher holes, Fella." I gave his neck a
pat.
Funny horse, I
had thought, as we picked our way over several acres of gopher-mine-field.
How he loved trail rides. He became so animated when it was just
he and I, and it looked to him that I had planned one of our explorations.
Once I fitted him with a buddy seat and he thought I had added the saddle
bags to his tack. He pranced into town, neck bowed, tail flying high.
He was absolutely crestfallen when one of his little charges, nine year
old Sarah, came skipping over to him from her Brownie meeting and scrambled
on board. He walked home like an old timer, careful not to unsettle
the little person settled on his rump.
The cuppy sound
of his bare feet echoed off the sleepy buildings of a little settlement
we passed before turning toward the state land. He nickered and nosed
in the direction of a path that led to a friend of his. "Not today,
Sigera." He knew them all and so did I; all the local equine.
I could read their signatures in the Warrens sand. "Silver came through
here this noon", I'd tell him, or "Rocky was here before it sprinkled yesterday."
One day I took
a path that I often take to a Thoroughbred farm. I had traveled there
quite frequently and that day Sigera was excited to go visit and enjoy
the hospitality of that facility. I had other plans and turned
him in another direction. At that precise moment he picked up a stone
that lodged itself firmly between his sole and frog. He limped several
steps. I dismounted to investigate and resolve the problem.
The following day we headed out, and again Sigera jigged along sure that
we were headed for the Thoroughbred farm. Just as the day before,
I turned him in another direction. He seem disappointed and then
he began to limp. I could not believe that he would pick up a stone
in the same exact spot two days in a row, but I dismounted to inspect the
hoof for good measure and found nothing. We started off again and
now Sigera was limping on the other foot. I turned the clever animal
back toward the Thoroughbred farm and he was miraculously healed!
We entered a winding
path that follows the rails through the forest at a safe distance.
The wild life is abundant there. Often Sigera and I have stopped
to observe a treed porcupine or a busy skunk. Many times we have
found ourselves in the midst of a deer herd. Once we unknowingly
tracked a small bear. I thought it was an unusually large dog, but
as the tracks became fresher we both had an uneasy feeling. Upon
returning home I checked a track chart and was mildly shocked and relieved
that we had ended our pursuit when we had.
The rail trail
ends at a road that is a local favorite called Starlight. It is a
wide sandy road that gives access to the state forest to loggers, mossers,
snowmobilers, kids on motorbikes, three wheelers and in trucks who find
the sand challenging fun, and of coarse, horseback riders. Sigera
and I, along with my children and their ponies, have enjoyed large trail
ride groups on this road. It is usually a quiet road though, and
I rarely meet anyone on it. Sigera and I simply enjoyed the beauty
of the day, walking some, loping a little. The sun was higher in
the sky be the day was still fresh.
Our first trip
down Starlight was not a pleasant one. I had been told about the
road and was excited about exploring it. I was told to follow
the signs to find my way through it since there are many access road veering
from the main ; only someone had messed with the signs. Sigera and
I were lost for hours. I learned more about the state forest than
I ever wanted to know. Finally in desperation I tied off my reins
took the horn in one hand and some mane in the other and told Sigera to
go home. He'd been telling me for some time that he knew the way
out and he was right. I allowed him to choose his own pace
which several miles later had given me a stomach ache, but at lest he had
taken us to familiar territory. The last mile I rode draped across
the saddle like a dead man, my sore derrière cooling in the evening
air. I knew then Sigera was the friend I'd always hoped he would
be.
. . . . .to be continued . . .
. .
|
The Trouble with
Camels Is...
By Kimberly Collins
. . . You can never finish a good book without
one nibbling your toe, or trying to shake you out of your favorite fig
tree while they dine on that forbidden fruit.
The London Airport
Bookstore carried a slew of British novels catering to young girls' appetite
for horse stories. I managed to slip a few of them past customs at
the Jeddah Airport in Saudi Arabia when my father worked there for Saudi
Arabian Airlines (TWA).
I am still an
avid reader, however, I have given up tree climbing; much to my husband's
relief. Nothing suited me better in those days than a sturdy
branch in a stately tree and a good book... and the best books were romantic
novels about young persons and their love affairs with beautiful horses.
Our
compound in Jeddah had just one of those trees. It was a fig tree
that grew in the southwest corner and overhung the wall that surrounded
the eight houses secured there. Its canopy of leaves was so heavy
that even in the heat of the day it was deliciously comfortable to be nestled
in its branches. There always seemed to be a gentle breeze toying
with the leaves, and the heat in Arabia is dry.
From those sturdy
branches I could observe the on goings beyond the compound wall and remain
quite hidden, or so I liked to think. I could see the Red Sea glistened
on the western horizon. On a distant field Saudi boys played foot-ball
(soccer). Those same boys made the most delightful box kites from
newspaper and flew them directly in front of me (showing off for me while
pretending they didn't know I was there). Sometimes they would do
their acrobatics for me.
I could
watch the young people, Saudi and foreign, make trips to the gursh stand
(coin stand) to buy candy, small toys, and soda pop. (The soda pop
was Khaki Kola from the Coke-a-Cola Bottling Co. Coke-a-Cola is bottled
in Israel, so the King kicked the product out of the country. CCBC
was smart enough to find a way back in. Don't tell.)
Twice a day the
goat-herd came by. He was a wizened old Saudi with an odd assortment
of goats and camels. I could never figure out where he grazed them.
Inside the compound the grass was irrigated, but outside of those walls
I never saw anything but sand. I can't bring myself to tell you all
the reasons I did not like him. I can simply say that the cultural
ways of desert people can be offensive to Westerners. I learned to
avoid HIM at all cost, but his camels continued to invade my space.
Enter James, the
only youth my age in the compound, my chump and partner in crime.
James was thirteen, French, and one of the most interesting people I have
ever met. He and his father loved to go on Safari. James brought
home many trophies and did the taxidermy himself. I found his murderous
ways appalling, but I couldn't help admiring his craftiness, nor resist
a closer exploration of wild animals made safer by circumstance.
James also owned a chimp named B.C.; a very annoying beast, who could not
get past the grooming niceties of our relationship (i.e. He tortured
my freckles).
James was wont to take
up post with me in the fig tree in the late afternoon. We fueled
each other's dislike for the goat-herd and his sad creatures. I especially
grew more intolerant of the camels which took up the habit of torturing
our tree every day, and brought with them a wide assortment of flying pests.
The old codger was truly an antagonist, and seemed to take pleasure in
seeing his smelly beast invade our solemnity. Finally, James and
I declared, "Haza la budd harb!" ( "This means war!")
I was not allowed
freedom to come and go from the compound, so it was James who collected
the dung that we would use as ammo against our adversary. I was well
supplied with many Arabic insults; phrases taught me
by our native house boy, and well practiced by myself and my brothers as
we often hurled them at each other while resolving conflicts best known
to siblings. BUT, James came to our rendezvous armed with a weapon
that had not been a part of our original strategy: a B-B gun.
I was not one
to hurt others or look for trouble, so I was already feeling guilty about
our plans to persecute the old man and his herd. Now, with the addition
of the air rifle, I was nearly writhing in misery. James managed
to convince me that the b-b's only stung a little, and that both the beasts
and the man needed to be shown the boundaries of the compound.
James braced himself,
tummy against a branch, as the many-toned cattle bells clanked around the
corner. My heart was nearly pounding out of my chest. I thought
of how disappointed my father was going to be when he found out I had done
something so awful. The herd swung a wide breadth of the compound that
day, but James chose to fire at them without provocation. Camels
and goats cantered in several directions. The goat-herd was confused
until a well aimed b-b hit him on the bumm. He quickly turned toward
the shrieks of laughter coming from the fig tree, and shook his staff at
us, "Anukum ma muhh!" ("You have no brain!")
The slapstick
of that event still causes me to smile, but to this date (some 20 years
later), I still feel the pangs of a guilty conscience; even more so now
that I understand how dangerous those "toy" guns can be.
The summer ended
shortly after, and it was time for us to return to our schools. I
don't remember seeing the goat-herd again. I still love to read a
good horse story now and then, but now it's by a warm wintertime fire or
UNDER a shade tree after a hot day of horsing around. |
Sheik
Hatim
A Legendary Arabian Tale
Among all the Bedouin
chiefs who pastured their flocks and herds in the oases of the great desert,
Sheik Hatim was the richest. He was not only the richest but the
most generous. The highest compliment that could be given to any
man was to say that he was as free-hearted as Hatim. No guest ever
went away from his tent empty handed, no beggar ever asked alms from him
without receiving more than he expected.
People with less
faith than Hatim wondered why the man who was always giving should still
remain rich. There were some who refused to believe the stories that
were told of his liberality until they had put it to a test.
"Have you heard
of this Hatim, of the tribe of Tai, whose giving puts the freest-handed
of us all to shame?" asked the Sultan of Roum.
"His name is in
everybody's mouth," replied his vizier. " It is said that he gives
to all who ask, and never questions the need of anyone. Four hundred
starving men, women and children from the drought-scorched hills of Yemen
came one day to his tents, and he forthwith killed and roasted forty camels
to supply them with meat. And yet people say that his wealth waxes
greater the more he gives away."
"It is all mere
pretense, I fancy," said the sultan; "a way he has of advertising himself
and the things he has for sale. For many a man, hearing of
him, will say, 'Here is Hatim, who gives of his substance to the poor:
I will buy from him, for he defrauds no one and will give full value for
that which I pay him.'
"I fancy that if any
one should ask him for some dear possession- something that he could not
restore- the selfishness of his heart would be revealed, and he would refuse
to part with it. I should like to test his generosity," said the
sultan. " I wonder what would be hardest for him to part with.
If I knew, I would send and ask him for it."
The vizier was
silent for a moment, and then said, "My lord, it is a matter of common
talk that the most precious of all his possessions is his horse Duldul--
and he would not be a true Arab if this were not so. Nobody has asked
him for the steed, for even his enemies have respect for that kind of affection."
"Is the horse
a valuable one?"
"The finest in
all Arabia-- and what more can be said in his praise? He
was reared with Hatim's children, and has shared in all the joys and sorrows
of his household. Never in his life has he known the touch of whip
or spur, never an unkind word. He is the fleetest horse that ever
galloped over the sands of the desert. No greater insult could be
offered to Hatim than to ask him the price of the steed."
"I will not offer him a price, but I will
ask him for the horse as a gift. If he refuses, which he certainly
will, all the world shall know that his boasted generosity is a sham.
If he gives the animal to me, it will be easy to return him.'
"You must, therefore, ride over to the
country of the Tai, and make this request of him. Put it to him softly.
Say, 'My master has heard of your steed Duldul, how beauteous, swift, and
strong he is, and he would like to have him for his own.' If he hesitate,
and will not allow you to take the horse, then upbraid him to his face
for his hypocrisy."
Accordingly the vizier, with ten chosen
men, mounted horse and set out. It was a long journey, and it was
not until the twentieth day that they reached a fertile valley where they
were told they would be likely to find the encampment of Hatim. It
was the wet season of the year, and the travelers were in a pitiable plight
from the rain and their hard ride through a trackless region where there
was neither shelter or food. Half starved and almost dead from constant
exposure, they were glad to see three small tents pitched in the midst
of the plain.
A moment later, they were met by Hatim
himself, astride of the magnificent Duldul, who welcomed them to
his shelter, and to whatever of comfort he might be able to provide for
them. The vizier had expected to find herds of cattle and flocks
of goats and sheep, with many tents and herdsmen and a retinue of fighting
men, and all those evidences of wealth and power which usually surrounded
a rich pastoral chieftain; and hence he was surprised to see the meager
accommodations to which they were led. But he asked no questions--
etiquette would not allow of that.
It was plain that Hatim had not expected
guest, but his welcome was none less hearty. He saw at a glance that
the strangers were hungry and in distress, and he hastened to provide as
quickly as possible of their comfort. Their wet clothing was exchanged
for warm, dry robes from his own chest, and the snuggest quarter of his
roomiest tent was given up to them. The supper was somewhat delayed,
but when at last the guest sat down to the feast, they were astonished
at both the quantity and the quality the food. There was no fruit,
and but little bread, but the meats were of many varieties, -- broiled,
boiled, roasted, made into soups and savory dishes --and the hungry men
declared that they had never been so royally fed. When they had eaten,
they lay down upon the soft rugs which Hatim had spread upon the ground,
and slept the soundest sleep they had known for many a night.
In the morning the vizier, who by this
time was rather ashamed of his errand, made known the wishes of the sultan.
Hatim sat for a moment as if stunned by
a blow, and his face became deadly white. Then, recovering himself,
he said, "Ah, friend, if you had but made known your errand when you first
entered my tent! You cannot but know that I was not prepared for
guest. It was only two days ago that we came to this spot, expecting
to be followed by the flocks and the household. And when you came,
wet and hungry, what was I to do? Should I fail to provide you food?
I could not bear the thought of doing so. And hence that horse --
the matchless steed, who knew my every wish, obeyed my every word -- what
did I do? Go tell the Sultan of Roum that in my extremity I cooked
him for your suppers."
(Published in 1895 in The Horse Fair by James
Baldwin. Condensed.)
"Give, and it shall be given
unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running
over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that
ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again."
Luke 6:38 |
|
The Saudi Prince, The Silver
Stallion and Me
by Kimberly Collins
The first Arabian horse I ever touched or rode belonged to a Saudi prince
my father knew in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. My father, an aviator for
Saudi Arabian Airlines (TWA), devised the outing for me as a reprieve from
the confinement imposed on women by Moslem tradition.
The Saudi kingdom became prosperous during
the 50's and 60's with the development of the petroleum industry.
Having no skilled labor of their own, they offered Western workers exorbitant
wages and perks to develop their industry and build their cities.
Along with Western society came modern housing, hospitals, schools, autos,
telephones, electricity, and many other conveniences new to the people
of the desert.
The Saudi's were
determined to protect their culture and religion even in the face of rapid
modernization, and thus imposed strict regulations of segregation and censorship
on the foreign work force that they imported into their country.
This left spoiled American girls like myself confined behind compound walls,
unable to travel anywhere without a male relative.
My two younger
brothers and I found ways to entertain ourselves during the long hot days
of summer. We had managed to smuggle a few books and toys past customs,
the most evil being my "Pepper" Barbie Doll and a tiny suitcase of her
worldly possessions. Hot Wheels were a hot item with the Saudis and
could be purchased for a gursh (about .25). We spent hours pushing
them down the miniature roads of an elaborate HO scale landscape my father
crafted complete with mountains, tunnels, and an electric train.
Being the out-of-doors
type, my favorite entertainment began when Dad came home and I could venture
just outside the compound to the largest artist's canvas in the world.
The sand was swept smooth by the winds and was firm and a little damp,
because the Red Sea was only two hundred yards away. In that wonderful
sand, in the cool of the evening, surrounded by the red glow of the setting
sun I would draw herds of pony size horses. I would then go to the
roof of the house to see how well I had done.
Life in Jeddah
was exciting when Dad was home. It meant freedom! We drove
the duns in Dad's home built dun buggy (which had once enjoyed a peaceful
life as a VW) and rode motorbikes by the sea. I never could figure
out how he navigated the desert. As soon as the buildings and the
sea disappeared on the horizon I was lost. Everyday the desert changes.
Yesterday's duns are tomorrow's valleys. How grateful I am that my
father knew his way. We had to out run a few sandstorms. I
learned you don't want to grimace if one catches you. You'll be picking
sand from your teeth for days.
There where other
distractions to enjoy with Dad as escort: the Souqs (markets), visits to
other compounds, a restaurant with an amphitheater ( which showed only
Droopy cartoons), and the Kandara, a large dolphin shaped swimming pool
for foreigners only, with a cafe' that served PIZZA!
So it was, with
a full body trimmer of excitement, I hugged my father from the back
of his Suzuki motorbike and we escaped the compound for the prince's stables.
We entered the stable through a stone archway, then into the paddock.
I halted in awe. The grass in the paddock was lustrous due to imported
top soil and irrigation. The prince stood tall, dressed in his white
thobe, his head bare, his tan skin in contrast with his broad toothy smile
and in his hands the lead of the most beautiful creature my 12 year old
eyes had ever seen: a grey-white Arabian stallion! The stallion
had been groomed to a silvery shine. His skin was so thin I could
see the heavy veins in his legs and face. He was fully tacked .....
just for me! I was lost in a Walter Farley fantasy.
"Do you know how
to ride?" the prince asked, his speech strongly accented. Myself
for the moment speechless, I nodded affirmatively as my father tossed me
into the saddle. The stallion was gentle as a lamb. I ran my
hand along his silky neck, before reining him away from the two men who
stood ever watchful. I was well away before I realized that the stallion
only understood Arabic, but we got along famously. Really, the only
word I needed was mahatt (Whoa). It was a little disconcerting not
knowing how to signal the brakes should they be needed.
The ride ended
well before the evening call to Salaah (Moslems bow and pray toward Mecca
five times a day). The prince deftly removed the stallions tack and
turned him free. Nose to the ground, the beautiful beast pawed for
a place to roll. "All my hard work.....", declared the prince throwing
up his hands in mock dismay. Dad and the prince laughed. I
was still too overwhelmed to speak. I do not know if I was able to
show the prince my immense gratitude for the very special gift he had so
unselfishly given, but my father and I shared many knowing looks and squeezes. |
|
Best
Ever Leather Care Recipe
You will need:
oil soap (Murphy's, Fuller Brush)
leather dye (optional)
olive oil
tooth brush |
glycerin bar natural sponge
small bucket
cloth rag or cellulose sponge
soft dry cloth or shoe brush
rubbing alcohol (optional) |
This recipe is for smoothed or tool leather only.
Brush and vacuum suede. Never allow suede to get wet or oily.
This recipe will restore all your smooth leathers: boots, shoes,
saddles, bridles, belts, etc. Give this leather care a try for better
than new results.
1. Clean leather by adding a Tbsp.
oil soap to a pail of cold water (never use hot or warm water when cleaning
leather; it opens the pores). Use a cloth or sponge with the
water solution to wash away dirt, oils, and horse sweat. Use a tooth
brush to clean area with tooling. Allow leather to dry partially.
If your leather is treated, wipe with a soft cloth and alcohol before cleaning.
2. If leather is to be dyed, allow leather
to dry over night before applying dye. Leather items that are scratched
or scuffed can be restore or the color changed with dye. Allow the
dye to dry over night.
3. Pour olive oil into a shallow container
and use fingers to liberally apply the oil to the smooth side of the leather.
Allow the oil to be absorbed into the leather. Reapply one or two
more times if the oil is quickly absorbed and the leather seems overly
dry. Allow leather to rest 4-6 hours or over night.
4. Dip glycerin bar in a bucket of clean
cold water. Wipe the moistened bar with the natural sponge (do not
dip the sponge into the water). With the glycerin filled sponge massage
glycerin into the leather, until there is no foam. Be especially
careful to message foam out of tooling. Repeat process until you
have applied glycerin to the entire piece. Allow the leather to rest
for 30 min. - 1 hour.
5. Buff leather to a shine with either a
soft cloth or soft brush. |
|
Kim's
Favorite Horse Treats
2 shredded carrots
2 shredded apples
½ c. bran or rolled grain w/ bran
1 ½ - 2 c. flour or psyllium (I
add a cup of each)
½ c. brown sugar
1/3 c. molasses
1 c. water
Mix all ingredients and spoon into tiny muffin
tin that has been greased with corn oil or make small drop cookies.
Bake 400° 40 - 50 min.
If you use psyllium instead of flour, four small
muffins a day will keep the sand colic away. These treats are convenient
to carry in a loose pocket or poach to be used as rewards or to just have
a friendly visit with your horse. |
|
Mashawa
Soup
This is a hardy, flavorful Arabian soup.
½ c. green split peas
½ c. yellow split
peas
1 c. dried garbanzo beans
1 c. dried light kidney beans
1 large onion diced
8 oz. chopped lamb
8 oz. chopped chicken breast
3/4 tsp. Cayenne pepper |
1 tsp. black pepper
½ Tbl. dry cilantro
1 Tbl. salt
1 Tbl. dill weed
2 lbs. crushed tomatoes
2 oz. chicken stock
1 c. cooked rice |
Boil lintels 1 hour.
Sauté onion, lamb, and chicken. Combine all ingredients except
the rice. Add ½ gallon water. Simmer 2 hours, then add
rice. Add a dollop of yogurt sauce to each serving just before serving.
Yogurt Sauce: Mix together 8 oz. plain yogurt, 2 cloves garlic crushed,
1tsp. ground mint. Let stand in refrigerator. (This soup
is even better reheated the next day!) |
An
Arabian Blood Horse
By Barry Cornwall
Gamarra is a noble steed,
Strong, black, and of the desert breed,
Full of fire and full of bone,
All his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within!
His mane, a stormy river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,
And his pace as swift as light.
Look,-- around his straining throat
Grace and swifting beauty float;
Sinewy strength is on his reins,
And the red blood gallops through his veins:
Richer, redder, never ran
Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire--
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself! |
He, who hath no peer, was born
Here, upon a red March morn.
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs All and Arab bred,
And the last of that great line
Trod like one of race divine!
And yet he was but friend to one
Who fed him at the set of sun
By some lone fountain fringed with green;
With him --a roving Bedouin---
He lived (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day)
And he died untamed, upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands! |
|
Wallace's Monthly
From the magazine published by John H. Wallace
for nineteen years, founded in 1875.
The Arab and His Horse
In the tents of the
Arab, the mares with their foals, and the masters with their families,
dwell together; the master caresses his favorite mare, the children and
the foal play together, and the utmost confidence exists between them.
The Arabian horse, the most intelligent of the equine family, is easily
controlled when kindly treated, and ever ready to show resistance when
abused. The Arab fully understands the fact; hence his success in
training or educating vicious horses, and teaching them many amusing tricks.
In handling colts, perhaps he has no superior on the face of the earth.
He shows his love for his horse by frequently caressing him, feeding and
cleaning him, he talks and sings to him, is always happy in his company,
a mutual feeling of respect and love is prominent in all their acts; herein
lies the secret of his success, and not, as many persons suppose, brought
about by some mysterious or secret art of charming. |
Lady Anne Blunt - A Pilgrimage
to Nejd and Bedouin Tribes of the Euphrates Lady Anne and Sir Wilfred Blunt
made two trips to Arabia to study the Arabian horse and purchase breeding
stock for their English stud - the Crabbet line. Two books resulted.
Here's an excerpt.
Arab Recipe for Rearing a Colt
"If," said our
informant, "you would make a colt run faster than his fellows, remember
the following rules: During the first month of his life let him be
content on his mother's milk, it will be sufficient for him. Then
during five months add to his natural supply goat's milk, as much as he
will drink. For six months more give him the milk of camels, and
besides a measure of wheat steeped in water for a quarter of an hour, and
serve in a nosebag."
"At a year old the colt
will have done with milk; he must be fed on wheat and grass, the wheat
dry from a nosebag, the grass green if there is any. At two years
old he must work, or he will be worthless. Feed him now, like a full-grown
horse, on barley; but in summer let him also have gruel daily at midday.
Make the gruel thus: Take a double-handful of flour, and mix it in
water well with your hands till the water seems like milk; then strain
it, leaving the dregs of the flour, and give what is liquid to the colt
to drink.."
"Be careful from
the hour he is born to let him stand in the sun; shade hurts horses, but
let him have water in plenty when the sun is hot. The colt must now
be mounted, and taken by his owner everywhere with him, so that he shall
see everything, and learn courage. He must be kept constantly in
exercise, and never remain long at his manger. He should be taken
on a journey, for work will fortify his limbs. At three years old
he should be trained to gallop. Then, if he be of true blood, he
will not be left behind, Yalla!" |
Pick
Your Friends, But Not to Pieces.
By Kimberly Collins
What made Sigera El Din
one of my best equine friends wasn't the way that he was like all other
horses. What made him memberable was the ways he wasn't; and
often, it was his imperfections.
Each of us has
an ideal of the perfect horse. We take all the common considerations:
conformation, soundness, performance, history, pedigree, color, etc.; and
we set out to find or produce that horse. Our standards for choosing
a horse become so high the horse is never really found. We could
never find a flawless human friend or companion, but people seem to think
they can find it among the equine species. I hear the undertones
of "buyer or breeder's regret" from many idealist who really have a prize
in their possession.
As a breeder I
try to give nature a hand by choosing horse parents with the qualities
I would like to reproduce, but the resulting foal will come with his own
likes and dislikes, personality and combination of his parents traits.
I can evaluate this offspring by looking at everything the horse doesn't
have and will never have and beat myself with regrets; or I can say, "what
do we HAVE here?!" I can look to discover his gifts and help him
develop them. I can discover what he is predisposed to do with joy.
I can work to find him a human partner that enjoys the same things
that he enjoys doing and does well.
It never bothered
me that Sigera's left foot turned slightly in or that he was chestnut,
when my favorite color is bay. His spirit and soul became his outer
wrapper to me. He is, at heart, a trail horse, who loves to share
the adventure with his rider. He is loyal, quirky , funny (hilarious,
at times), and bright. What kind of price can one put on a relationship
between friends?
So, be careful,
as you pick your next equine friend, not to cast away joy in search of
perfection. Look for potential and you will find it. In fact,
your next very best friend and athlete could already be standing in your
own back yard.
". . . . for the Lord seeth not as a man
seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance,
but the Lord looketh on the heart." I Samuel
16:7
|
Method Madness
by Kimberly Collins
Over the course of 30
years, I have gained a wealth of knowledge about the training of horses
from countless horsemen and women. Perhaps you have heard the old
cowboy saying, "there are many ways around the barn", meaning there are
more than one way to get a job done. Learning the many different
ways, theories and concepts of experienced horsemen/women has proven to
be of great value to me in my own efforts to come to an understanding with
horses.
I have to chuckle
sometimes when I hear individuals proclaim their undying loyalty to a particular
man and his method. And don't we all know that there are several
individuals in this business that have done a great job of bringing more
people to a better understanding of horses and how they learn. Their
messages have been for the most part parallel, with a bit of variation
based on their personal successes with the individuals with whom they have
worked.
What makes me
smile is how much these loyal proclamations sound like I Corinthians 1:10-13
where Paul highlights the early Church already bent on following after
men and their ideals, all claiming to have the one true way.
I believe that
all horse owners owe it to themselves and their horses to learn and practice
sound, logical training methods with their horses. After all, the
horse is ever learning. To not be working at our relationship and
partnership with our horses is to disassemble the good work that has already
gone into them or to simply allow them to continue to be useless as a partners.
In the beginning,
when one first takes on the challenge of training a horse, it is important
to have a mentor that you respect and share a common ideal. But,
it is important to keep an open mind and not place steadfast loyalty on
any one trainer or his methods. You can trust that a truly successful
trainer will gladly
tell of several individuals and ideas
that brought him to believe and perform as he
does.
Just as we, humans,
share common attributes in our nature that make us human and at the same
time we carry within ourselves the ability to be uniquely different, so
horses share what is common to horses, but possess ways of learning and
relating to their world that is uniquely different to them as individuals.
This is why one man's recipe for successful training will not work for
every horse or every trainer. Training methods are very generic and
are meant to be embellished by the creativity, acquired knowledge and wisdom
of others.
The missing
ingredient: Every training method comes with a missing ingredient
and it is a critical one. It is something that an equine training
guru can not give you, share with you, or even explain to you. In
fact, many don't understand it themselves or even conceive that it exists.
This ingredient
is a gift. It is a perception, an understanding, a keen observation
and sensitivity that is either inherent or developed in some individuals
to a greater degree than in others. Such as in how some people naturally
grasp complex math concepts, others music or language.
John, Pat, Linda,
Richard, Monty and many others can tell you what they do, but it is the
perception that they possess, the consistency and timing they have developed,
their ability to see the most subtle voice of the horses they work with
and respond appropriately to that makes what they do work for them time
and time again. This gift is subtly different in each of them and
it is an individual possession they can not pass on.
So, are these
individuals so far beyond us in their talents? No. The biggest
difference between our horse training stars and many of you, who have read
this far in this article, is a great marketing agency. (Anyone out
there want to co-author a book with me?)
Talented trainers
are like talented cooks. They start off knowing they are going to
love it, so they educate themselves in technique, mentor with individuals
they admire, learn the nature of foods and cooking, taste and sample, form
likes and dislikes, experiment. Then, armed with a basic knowledge
of what works and what doesn't, they use their imagination, creativity
and their own intuition to develop their own style of success.
|
"Hoof
Fear"
by David Derringer
Some people forgo
buying a horse because of a fear of hoof problems and expenses. The
old saying goes "no hoof, no horse". This is definitely
true. What is NOT true, however, is the idea that to have a sound
horse hoof requires horse shoes. Modern horse owners are told and
conditioned to believe that any horse used for work or pleasure requires
shoes. This horse hoof fear comes from the expense of shoeing (often
up to $70 every 6-8 weeks). Some people are tallying up the expense
of owning a horse, and after feed, shoeing is usually second in expense.
Unfortunately, for some people, when the cost of shoeing is added in, they
say, " we simply can't afford to own a horse right now".
It's true that
horse shoeing has been around for a long time. Knights of medieval
Europe had their horses shod, some cavalries in the world used shoes and
it is now accepted that it is the only way to properly take care of your
horse.
Let's explore
some of the facts. Did the wagon trains of the 1800's use all shod
horses? NO. In fact, the normal situation was to run a horse
bare foot unless it had a severe problem. Only then was a horseshoe
installed only on the lame foot until it healed, then it was barefoot again.
Many of the conquering armies of Europe and Asia used barefoot horses in
their Calvary as they swept across countries conquering everyone in their
path. Indians used barefoot horses and many times evaded our US Calvary
in terrain too steep and rugged for our Calvary to continue.
If you talk to
the modern farrier, you will find a way of shoeing and trimming that is
different today when compared to what was done when horses were the only
means of transportation. Has the farrier's art drastically improved
with our modern technology? Not really. In fact, a lot of ideas
currently taken as fact don't even make sense.
When one examines
the horse's foot, it is found to be a solid, functional foot, capable of
extreme abuse and wear. But all of the foot parts need to function
properly in the most natural way. The sole, or bottom of the foot,
acts to support some of the weight, It functions much as the arch
area of our own foot giving support, flexibility, and cushioning.
The bars are areas in the bottom of the foot connecting the sole with the
outer hoof wall. The bars serve to maintain the shape of the foot,
preserving the width of the foot at the heel. The frog is the triangular
elastic part of the lower foot that is designed to cushion and create a
"grip" on the ground. Possibly one of the most important parts of
the horse's foot, this frog creates a "pumping action" that increases the
blood flow in the foot, making for a healthy foot. The internal parts
of the foot are delicate fibrous tissue with nerve and blood vessels running
in parallel vertically under the hoof wall. The hoof wall is the
covering we see and commonly refer to as the "hoof". It protects
the foot, offers wearing surface at the ground surface and carries much
of the weight of the horse. As the hoof wall protrudes slightly at
the ground surface, it creates the cutting edge, allowing the hoof to bite
into the ground, cling to rocks and offer an edge for support in climbing.
To damage any part of the foot structure is certain to effect the other
parts injuriously.
What affect does
the horseshoeing process have in preserving the functionality of the horse's
foot? Putting shoes on the horse is mainly for one purpose .
This is to obtain the maximum possible wear on the lower part of the foot,
just as people use tough rubber soles on their shoes to get more life than
going to work everyday in a thin pair of moccasins, and to transfer the
weight of the horse only to the hoof wall. The other parts of the
horse's foot are ignored, and sadly, often cut away. The modern farrier
often cuts the frog well up into the sole, often trimming the bars cosmetically,
so the frog and the sole no longer touch the ground. Worse yet, the
outer hoof wall is damaged by the nails penetrating the outer layer into
sensitive areas of the foot, allowing dehydration and bacterial intrusion.
All of this for extra wear? If one refers to the farrier manuals
of the cavalry, a different view point is stated for shoeing: "When
shoeing is necessary, the frog must remain in contact with the ground with
the shoe in place, and the bars are to be trimmed only as needed for the
shoe to fit square with the foot."
I have felt that
the modern farrier ideas in many cases are antiquated and unrealistic.
I have looked for other ideas for many years. I have tried
many types of trims and in all cases used NO SHOES. I have now developed
a trimming technique that uses several of these ideas.
Does it really work to not use shoes on
a horse? You bet. We are full-time year round outfitters and
guides, having a herd of about 23 horses, all of which run barefoot at
all times. We work the most difficult slopes, rocky terrain and NEVER
have a horse lame from a foot injury. We find the barefoot horse
is quiet, climbs bare rock better, does not tear up the trails or forest,
and is cost effective, requiring the proper trim every 3-6 months.
All of our horses have gone barefoot in this demanding business since 1981.
When we buy a horse,
we often find that it has had shoes it's entire life. It takes a
lot of patience, because sometimes after the shoes are pulled, the hoof
wall is paper thin. The horse can still be used, but carefully.
After proper trimming, the hoof wall starts to grow and the hoof starts
to become healthy. Sometimes it takes 6 months to a year for the
hoof to become fully sound, but the horse can be used during this period.
When I talk about fully sound I am talking about a hoof wall
over 1/4" thick, a good frog, strong bars and no remaining holes from the
horseshoe nails. At that time we ride our horses 9 or more hours
a day. They sometimes get tired, but they never get lame. We
raise some of our own herd that have never seen horse shoes (and never
will). Is this a dream? No, reality.
For more information contact: David Derringer;
Wild Horse/Derringer Ranch; PO Box 157; Quemado,
New Mexico 87829. Phone: 505-773-4860.
Book and video available - seminars offered: "Barefoot Your Horse"
Published with permission.
Edited for space by Kimberly Collins/Maple Leaf Rag.
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