I have been trying for about a month to think of something that I wanted to write about as much as my new horse, because I know that what I am doing now is gross overexposure. You've probably seen more about my horse the past 21 days than you have of Kim Kardashian, and Kim SPAWNED this week.
Lucky for you, Icha does not have a sex tape.
Though I'd prefer that to Kim's sex tape.
I am, however, going to talk about my horse some more, now. Sorry. If new moms get to put pictures of their placenta on their blogs when they give birth, you're just going to have to sit through Icha's adoption story. Actually, I like to think it's pretty good.
For some inexplicable reason, I had been looking forward to the Utah Wild Horse and Burro Festival since probably February. I think it was partly because my mom's horse, Posie, was up here, and I was thinking about showing her until her soundness started to concern me a little. It really bothered me that I wouldn't have an excuse to go to the show as anything but a spectator.
Then I met Robyn. This is why I freaking love Facebook, in spite of what a total joke it is. I saw the videos of her on the Utah BLM Facebook page training her Challenge Mustang (they give trainers 60 days to train a mustang from totally wild to show-ready), and I was STUNNED. I had to meet this girl. I interviewed her for the Trotter, with the promise to follow up at the show. It has been years since I met someone so instantly impressive and likable.
The festival finally rolls around. It's over a Friday and Saturday, and I was super bummed to miss the first day because of work. My mom went with my nephew Russell, and she was evilly sending me photos of adoptable horses in the pens trying to goad me into taking one home.
While it seems like a tangent, it is emotionally and spiritually relevant to mention that this same week, my mom's long time mount and horse that I rode at the National Mustang Finals when I was a teenager, Ralphy, was in the equine equivalent of the ICU. He acquired a horrible, almost always deadly disease known as Colitis X, and we were almost certainly going to lose him. It was also my mom's birthday. As an isolated event, it was pretty much one of the worst things I've ever seen or lived through. As a big picture/come to Jesus event, it was a bitter reminder that horses are as fragile as they are powerful, and horrible things happen to them and you have to make life or death decisions for them, and you could spend your life savings doing so. This is very relevant when you're about to take the horse ownership plunge.
Despite all this, my mom is still determined to go to the Festival for an hour or two and have a good time. As she sends me photo after photo of glorious adoptable wild horses that the BLM brought up to get adopted that weekend, we have this conversation via email:
Yes, the first words ever uttered to me about my horse were "cute butt." I tend to agree.
Obviously, my mother was wrong that Icha was a gelding, but that's an understandable mistake, seeing as they had put her in with two other geldings, and usually the BLM keeps them separated by gender in the pens. But I was legitimately disappointed. No offense to all the castrated male horses out there, but, they're just not as interesting to me as a work partner. I get mares. I like mares. I knew my horse was supposed to be a mare. The way mothers know the baby's gender before they're born. You just know.
I discovered my mother was wrong about this that night when I stopped by the show myself, and saw my future horse in person for the first time. . . . being taken advantage of by a buckskin gelding about a foot shorter than her.
And to think I missed my chance at actually HAVING an Icha sex tape. Oh the regret.
I knew I was in trouble then, because I instinctively shouted at the squatty little buckskin, "Hey, get off my horse!"
My horse. My horse? That was weird.
(since this is getting a little long, I'll save the rest for next week. Oh, except for this part: Ralphy lives. I know. *sniff sniff*)
Lucky for you, Icha does not have a sex tape.
Though I'd prefer that to Kim's sex tape.
I am, however, going to talk about my horse some more, now. Sorry. If new moms get to put pictures of their placenta on their blogs when they give birth, you're just going to have to sit through Icha's adoption story. Actually, I like to think it's pretty good.
For some inexplicable reason, I had been looking forward to the Utah Wild Horse and Burro Festival since probably February. I think it was partly because my mom's horse, Posie, was up here, and I was thinking about showing her until her soundness started to concern me a little. It really bothered me that I wouldn't have an excuse to go to the show as anything but a spectator.
Then I met Robyn. This is why I freaking love Facebook, in spite of what a total joke it is. I saw the videos of her on the Utah BLM Facebook page training her Challenge Mustang (they give trainers 60 days to train a mustang from totally wild to show-ready), and I was STUNNED. I had to meet this girl. I interviewed her for the Trotter, with the promise to follow up at the show. It has been years since I met someone so instantly impressive and likable.
The festival finally rolls around. It's over a Friday and Saturday, and I was super bummed to miss the first day because of work. My mom went with my nephew Russell, and she was evilly sending me photos of adoptable horses in the pens trying to goad me into taking one home.
While it seems like a tangent, it is emotionally and spiritually relevant to mention that this same week, my mom's long time mount and horse that I rode at the National Mustang Finals when I was a teenager, Ralphy, was in the equine equivalent of the ICU. He acquired a horrible, almost always deadly disease known as Colitis X, and we were almost certainly going to lose him. It was also my mom's birthday. As an isolated event, it was pretty much one of the worst things I've ever seen or lived through. As a big picture/come to Jesus event, it was a bitter reminder that horses are as fragile as they are powerful, and horrible things happen to them and you have to make life or death decisions for them, and you could spend your life savings doing so. This is very relevant when you're about to take the horse ownership plunge.
Despite all this, my mom is still determined to go to the Festival for an hour or two and have a good time. As she sends me photo after photo of glorious adoptable wild horses that the BLM brought up to get adopted that weekend, we have this conversation via email:
Yes, the first words ever uttered to me about my horse were "cute butt." I tend to agree.
Obviously, my mother was wrong that Icha was a gelding, but that's an understandable mistake, seeing as they had put her in with two other geldings, and usually the BLM keeps them separated by gender in the pens. But I was legitimately disappointed. No offense to all the castrated male horses out there, but, they're just not as interesting to me as a work partner. I get mares. I like mares. I knew my horse was supposed to be a mare. The way mothers know the baby's gender before they're born. You just know.
I discovered my mother was wrong about this that night when I stopped by the show myself, and saw my future horse in person for the first time. . . . being taken advantage of by a buckskin gelding about a foot shorter than her.
And to think I missed my chance at actually HAVING an Icha sex tape. Oh the regret.
I knew I was in trouble then, because I instinctively shouted at the squatty little buckskin, "Hey, get off my horse!"
My horse. My horse? That was weird.
(since this is getting a little long, I'll save the rest for next week. Oh, except for this part: Ralphy lives. I know. *sniff sniff*)
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