05/03/2019
Genna Vickers
Age - 14 years
- Cover letter -
My interest in wild horses? As in, my personal interest?
Well.
I've never really been in wild horses specifically; after all, I haven't had many close encounters with them. heck, I haven't even seen a single untamed mustang in my entire life.
My interest in unhandled horses generally? Now this I can talk about.
See, I have this horse. Named Kiska.
Now, I know what you're thinking : "Oh, this kid's gonna talk about how her parents bought her this first pony and blah blah blah and the girl forms such this close bond with it and they go and become the best of friends and live happily ever after."
Nope, this isn't quite like that.
My horse isn't any kind of pony. She's almost full draft. Percheron, to be more specific, with a tad bit of barely noticable Quarter Horse splashed in. She weighs a whopping 1500 pounds and has one heck of an attitude to boot.
She isn't your standard kid's horse.
Here's the thing; she came to us unhandled. Never had any human ride her, brush her, even give her a pat on the nose in her life. She also had one foot on the truck to go to slaughter; my mom had nabbed her for a cheap four hundred and fifty bucks and had her shipped down from Canada, essentially saving my mare's life.
I was seven years old.
At first, she wouldn't let any of us get within a few feet of her. Each time Mom or Dad or even me got that close, she'd snort at us, then bolt away. She had to wear one of those weird looking mare's collars because of this.
I was the first one who could touch her; I would climb in her round bale and sat there for as long as my mind could handle. We'd just stare at each other, the two of us, each wondering if the other one was going to make some sort of move.
Fast forward a few years; six, to be exact.
I had gone through many horses by the time I was thirteen, all of which hadn't worked out. There was Mykayla, who had amazing potential but was too panicked and anxious to truly put it to work, Mac, who proved too much for me to handle on my own (I only rode him due to my own stubborn pride), among countless others. I even had a stint riding one of the ancient lesson horses at my barn named Bob (This was one of the more embarrassing things I had to deal with in a lifetime).
Eventually, I ran out of horses to try. I needed to prepare for the upcoming Pleasure show season, and with a lack a horse, this was proving mighty difficult. All the horses at my barn that where available at the time where too much of a handful for my timid nature or too lazy for a semi-ambitious girl like me to handle.
All but one.
Our horse Kiska.
What other choice did I have?
I took her on, stupid, stubborn, half psycho girl that I was.
I didn't realize the hardships that we would be put through.
I oftentimes would leave the barn late at night after our rides almost sobbing, she was so difficult to ride. All the other girls could grasp some new skill we had to learn in the bat of an eyelash (picking up the canter on the straightaway, for example), and I would try and try and try, but eventually I'd just get so dang frustrated that tears would start to form in my eyes, and I'd barely be able to hold it together enough to finish off the lesson.
I thought that I could never get this horse to work for me. I was so close to quitting riding altogether in those days.
Then show season came.
Something clicked.
I don't know what it was. Maybe Kiska realized that now this was serious, this wasn't just messing about in some arena anymore. Maybe now she actually cared about competing, showing those other tinier horses who was boss. I'm not sure, really.
She became... more conscious of herself. Now she cared about actually getting her canter leads correct, or putting on a show whenever the judge happened to glance at her. When we had a good performance, I could see it in her eyes as we accepted that bright yellow, red, or even blue ribbon. When things didn't work out, we both experienced a degree of sadness, but most of the time, we had to put it all behind us and get ready for our next class before our riding instructor tanned my hide.
We ended up going to State Competition and nearly getting called back for the final round of riders to place.
Kiska tried hard in those three days of madness at State. I could feel it.
I know that some judges in the Pleasure circuit scoff at me for riding a draft. "She's not a stock horse!" they say, "She moves different!" they say. That, or some of them will ignore me altogether, pretend like I'm not even there in that ring when I ride past them and place me last in every class.
If they only knew.
My whole point in telling this story (if this doesn't qualify as short then I'm sorry), is that each and every horse on planet earth is capable of working to serve humans. None of them deserve to end up on a dinner plate, chased by frightening helicopters or corralled into tiny pens like the Mustangs are today.
And this, my friends, is what I am going to talk about in my essay.
