Yep, that is true. She walked on and left her birth home without a second look. So, one less familiar with horses (like, say, Mr. Motard) might expect that this would happen again. And again, and again. And be totally perplexed when the horse suddenly grows roots.
In practice, though, we all know that this is rarely the case.
There are different theories on this.
One is that when a horse sees a trailer for the first time, it just looks like an elevated stall, and they figure "Hmm.. you REALLY want me to go in there? Well, how bad can it be. There is hay, and you seem to be shaking a pail of pellets. What the hell". And in they go.
It isn't until they actually start driving around and witness the horror of the creaking, rattling vibrating stall, that they realize it was a fairly stupid idea to step in, and commit to never doing it again. Like me, and the Tequila shooters, back at South Residence.
(If you have never ridden around in a horse trailer, you should give it a go. It does make you wonder why a horse ever gets on there a second time. Really it is a miracle).
I have another theory - one that revolves around the concept that the personality of dogs and horses does begin to resemble that of their owners over time.
And, if you know a bit about my history with horses and trailers and the combination of both - you would realize that giant glowing green waves of DANGER DANGER DANGER seem to eminate from me like bad gas whenever it is time to trailer a horse. Wait - now that I think of it - I do actually get bad gas, accompanied by diarrhea, when I have to trailer a horse. So maybe it is not just a "seeming" thing.
There are many times when the sayings "ignorance is bliss" and "you don't know what you don't know" are absolutely perfectly applicable when horses are concerned. And trailering is most definitely one of those times.
But I did know what I knew. And sure, I am pretty ignorant. But not when it comes to this subject. I knew what could happen... oh yes, I knew.
Picture if you can, for a moment, the life and times of the Curmudgeon family back in the 70's. With our poor, horse trailering patriarch, Mr. Curmudgeon.
|Mr. Curmudgeon. (actual product may not be identical to image shown)|
Unfortunately, back in the 70's, good fathers who knew absolutely nada about horses were nonetheless expected to hitch up spooky steel two horses to their Mercury Monarchs (until the transmissions got blown out, at which time they had to upgrade to monster woody Wagoneers like the one Skyler White drives on "Breaking Bad") and take their own little ponies, to little shows, to watch their little children cry after not winning pathetic little ribbons. Good times!
Now, new millenium fathers typically just hand over big sums of cash to have all of this done by their child's smiling coach, (who drives a rig worth more than many people's homes in order to get the job done). I am sure they have their problems too, but part of the fee involves keeping this all on the down-low, behind the scenes, medicating here and there as needed, and cleaning up any mess before the parents have a chance to notice.
But back in the day, all of this fell on the shoulders of our old school dads. Together, they learned to link arms and took turns shoving each others evil ponies onto their spooky two horse trailers - luckily, a determined 35 yr old man and another fatherly friend can pretty well pick up a 600lb, 13hh pony and lift the bugger off all four feet, so bad loading manners didn't really come into play as much as when the horse is 1000 lbs heavier.
They learned how to manoeuver their little rigs effortlessly, so that on the somewhat regular occasion when a hot horse show twentysomething babe got her own rig hopelessly stuck in the mud or jacknifed, the horse show dads could spring into action and show off their backing-up, turning-around prowess, rescuing her and making waking up at 4:30 am almost worthwhile.
Really, they did remarkably well for people thrown into situations not of their own making, when they secretly would have rather spent the time and money golfing with friends. Or anyone really.
But what these Dads could not control, (much to the alarm of their children - who at the time, thought Dads could do it all and did not fully appreciate the unstoppable power of the stupidity of some equines) was what it is the evil little bastards did once the doors of the trailer were shut. Or opened, really. Because standing behind a pony and lifting its ass into a trailer while staying safely off to the side is one thing. Seeing its flailing forelegs coming at your head, and getting hung up in the partition the second you open the front mandoor is entirely another. Watching as a fleet of people armed with ropes and blindfolds and plenty of ACE arrive to help you to pry the pony out of the trailer without killing it is also entirely another.
Or, driving home from a horse show with the pony scrambling like a mix master, yanking the entire Woody Wagoneer rig around on the road, with a car full of crying children would be another experience that a 70's Dad would not anticipate when looking at that shining Cherokee two horse in the Bahr's parking lot. Once again, prying the pony out of the trailer, this time from beneath the partition instead of on top, would be an unexpected ...uh... adventure.
And these are the sorts of things that happened as we were growing up and transporting our ponies across Ontario. I still have the mental scars. It got to the point where when we were pony shopping, the first question dad asked wasn't "is he sound" or "can he jump", but instead "can he stand on four fucking legs in a horse trailer without falling over or having a mental meltdown".
To make matters worse - Mr. Motard and I had a little trouble coming home from Cape Hatteras once upon a time...there was an incident involving a construction zone, a flat tire, decorative safety chains, and several hundreds of dollars worth of destroyed windsurfers. Let's just say it did not build my "Trailering stuff...it's FUN" confidence level.
I really do think I have made progress (more on this later, when I make a concerted effort to do so), however I think my nervous vibes did transfer to poor innocent Ms. V and freaked her out a bit. That, and Grandpa MVA of course, who was a scary thing at the very best of times.