One would think that my city mouse horse would have turned into a country mouse horse after all these years.
*sigh* The turkeys he can almost bear to look at. Deer are a slightly more welcomed species- we once cantered down the road while a deer ran in the field beside us. It was an exciting moment, but not too exciting.
Ah, but the moose. I often wonder what words Ian would use to describe them. Would he say "ALIENS! Ugly HORSE ALIENS! They've come to eat my BRAINNNNNNS"!
*sigh* I try to reassure him that they are not aliens. That they are unlikely to subsist on horse brainnnnns, as horse brainnnnns are about the size of a brazil nut and one would need to eat a lot of them to feel full.
In any event, the mere sight of an Alces Alces turns poor Ian in to a quivering mess with an audible heartbeat and even louder nose clearing snorts. Which brings me precisely to a moment shortly into our warmup last night.
I saw it first and hoped beyond all hope that it was to be a pivotal moment in Ian history. He caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye...turned an ear...turned his head for a better look and...well...pivotal would be an apt description but not the one I was hoping for!
Tired from a long day at work I decided that perhaps this was a good time to do some in-hand work. Ian levitated through transitions- pronged through his lateral work, obediently lowered his head on command, and rocked the Parelli yo yo like someone stuck in the snowbank with their car. All while keeping full attention on the moose. Didn't someone once tell me that horses can't multitask? Liar.
Finally the moose went away and we got some good work done. Until, of course, I planned the grand finale of the ride. You know, the one thing you want to accomplish so that you can praise the horse profusely right before dismounting to cool them out? Just as I begin to prep Ian for the movement, the moose walks back into view.
*sigh* Once again it reduces Ian to a blithering ungulate.
I decide that we need to rid ourselves of the moose. We outnumber it. Due to too many cookies on my behalf, we outweigh it. I dismount and decide that we should drive it from the pasture. Ian isn't so sure. It's a young bull, not a cow with calves, so I figure we'll be OK.
Doubt and fear in his white rimmed eyes, Ian stays just a tad behind me. I crest a small hill to see the moose, running at equal speed towards us. For a moment everything flashes to slow motion as I question my decision making and visualize my stupidity on the front page of the Caledonian. And then I surge us onward. (Ian, with his brazil nut quality language continues with ZOMG! ZOMG!!!)
The moose stops. Spins. And bolts to the woods. We continue until we hit woods edge and then stop to listen to the moose crashing through the brush.
Ian swells with pride and gives his best "I showed him who's boss, didn't I!"
*sigh*
The grand finale proceeded with fanfare, and thankfully without fireworks.
