The secret of subtlety

Today, Max was my wise teacher.

I met him at the yard and he gave me one of those "Mum! Thank goodness you're here!" whuffles.

Poor boy was in a state. He was eating his bed. There was hay down for him, but it was a bit manky and he wasn't tempted. His box was a mess, and he had obviously been lying in droppings, face covered, forelock and mane.

I got down to business. Cleared the old hay, gave him a handful of fresh stuff which he set upon with glee, and then sorted out his box and his mucky self. Checked him over, all was fine. The little sore on his girth had dried up of its own accord, so I decided we'd try a bit of longlining, and then a little ridden work after I'd checked to make sure the sore hadn't rubbed itself into an angry spot again.

When I got to the indoor school, it was occupied by a woman giving her daughter a mini-lesson on our old Exmoor pony. Hmmm... not the best way to be getting on, Max is easily distracted, but plunged in and gave it a go.

Max was not having it. Wouldn't listen, wouldn't pay attention, couldn't focus. I gathered him up a few times and tried to set him right in hand, but it was just no good. I felt frustration rising, so just stopped. No point in trying to work him if I'm feeling frustrated. I sometimes feel like I'm copping out when I don't press on, but I also think there are times when I'm "just don't wanna" too, so why should Max be any different? Instead of grimly continuing with something that isn't working, I try something different with him.

The pony left the school, Max and I had one more go at longlining, still no good, so I took the lines off, checked his girth sore, and decided to try a little ridden instead.

This initially produced little success. As I tried to keep us in the track, Max strained against me, trying to turn in to the centre. He did this on both reins, and I began to feel a bit helpless. When he pulls against my hands, what am I to do? I don't want to hurt his mouth my applying pressure back, I don't want to let him go completely and just do what he wants; I do want to understand why he's doing it though, because I can only think he's reacting to something that I'm doing.

So today, I directed him into the middle of the school to stand, then adjusted myself and my thinking.

"Right, sir," I said. "Here's the deal. I'll do speed, you do direction."

I slipped the reins and held them up at waist level, to encourage his head up, I clucked him on, and waited to see where he'd go. We moved into a trot, and when he slowed, I clucked him on again, maintaining the trot, but completely letting Max decide where we went.

What we ended up doing was figures of eight in the middle of the school, no faltering, beautiful trot, easy bends, consistent pace, but totally avoiding the track.

Hmm, thought I. Why is he doing figure of eight all by himself? Does he like it?

So I concentrated, and I began to realise that it seemed he was moving where I was looking. Chicken or egg? Was I looking and he was following, or was he leading while I looked where he went?

Experiment time. Keeping my legs away from his sides and my contact light, I looked to my right. Max turned right.

Fluke?

I looked to my left, and Max turned left.

I've heard and read other riders say, "It's like I just 'think' about the next transition, and as I think it, my horse does it!"

Always thought that sounded lovely, but it never seemed to work for us.

Apparently it does work, though. It would seem that if I leave off all the other guff, lay off with my hands and feet, concentrate on lifting and carrying my own body, and trying to follow Max's movements, then all it takes is a glance to change direction.

I'm sure with the glance, there are other, subtle movements in my posture, my weight distribution, which are enough to indicate to Max where we should go. I'm sure by leaving him alone, it gets rid of the "white noise" of my hands and feet, and lets him hear my whispered request.

We carried on for a little while, and I was awed by my clever, sensitive, willing boy.

Dismounted, loosened his girth and gave him a fuss.

"Thank you for showing me that, Max. You really are brilliant."

"Easy when you know how, mum."

This, of course, does not tell me why Max fights to turn in to the centre when we're on the track, but that's for me to work out.

Now we are six, and Max has become wise and mature, right? No, not so much.

Led him back to the yard, cleaned him up, did his carrot stretches (with only half a carrot - he's on a diet, after all) and then offered to get the day horse out of the pony paddock so Max and his mates could go out.

Went to collect our little hackney star, who came flying to the gate at me, in great excitement, calling and nuzzling like he hadn't seen me for years. Led him back to the yard and called out "Look Max, I'm cheating on you with another pony!"

He was not happy. Glared at from inside his head collar, enough of a death ray to make another owner chuckle.

I settled hackney into his box, gave him scratches in all his best spots, and then went back to collect Max, to find he had gathered a crowd of onlookers.

There he was, tied up outside his box, having picked up his bridle from where I'd hung it. Reins were over his head, cheek strap was in his mouth.

"You want to go for another ride, Max?" I asked.

Big ol' head shake "No!" which made everyone laugh.

Like me, Max is getting older, but maturity only rises to the surface when required.