A friend and I had plans this morning to haul the boys out to Rio Verde for a quiet little walk/trot trail ride in the Tonto National Forest. This is a location that used to wig Prozac Pony out a bit because he associated it with hunting. Which wigged him out a lot. But he’s been getting better out there, and last week he was Just Fine for another friend who rides him a couple times a week.
So we load up the boys and head out. After we have rattled and bounced our way along 144th St., we approach the parking area and see lots of horse trailers. Huh. That’s odd. Wait… is that… Susie’s trailer? And isn’t that… Steve?!? Seriously? They’re HUNTING here today? Opening Hunt isn’t until next weekend.
Indeed, there’s smallish, informal hunt today. Uh-oh.
Prozac Pony emerges from the bus on high alert. “This. Looks. Like. Hunting. You told me I didn’t have to do this anymore. You got the yellow horse and the nice likes-to-go-fast lady has the grey mare - I’m RETIRED from hunting. You promised.”
He gazes at me with disillusionment in his eyes. “You said. No. More. Hunting. But there are many trailers here. And horses. And… <sob>… HOUNDS! You LIED to me!!!”
“No, no, really - I had no idea they would be here today. And we’re not hunting. We’re having a trail ride. Really. No hunting.”
“Hmph,” he mutters, as he rolls his eyes and starts eating again, keeping one eye on the goings-on about him.
As I attempt to remove 5 pounds of dust from his coat, more trailers arrive. More horses. More hounds. He stops eating and stares, a 1200 lb dust bunny of indignation.
And then they loose the hounds. And the dancing begins. “Will you PLEASE stand still so I can get on? I promise - we are NOT hunting today!” Spin, spin, spin. Head toss. Toe stomp. “GetOFFmyfootdamnit!” Spin. Wiggle. Spin.
The hunt sets out, heading over the hill into the desert. “OMG OMG OMG Where did they GO??? OMG!!! They’re gone! Noooooooooooooooooooooo!!!”
My friend and Mr. Blondie stand quietly, watching the Whirling Appy Dervish. I finally give up and ask her to hold him. I manage to get on, only to discover that (a) my right stirrup is considerably shorter than my left (my bad for not checking) and (b) his brain has apparently fallen out during all the spinning.
(I have never felt him in a panic like this. There have been times during our 13+ years together that I have wanted to stop whatever it was that we were doing - or attempting to do - but I have never felt a complete absence of rational thought in him. Not only was no one home, the light wasn’t even on. There wasn’t even a bulb in the socket.)
I take advantage of a brief instant of immobility to hop off, whereupon I replace his bitless bridle with a bitted one, get out Mr. Longe Line and Mr. Longe Whip, and proceed to reboot his 19-year-old-should-know-better brain. Around and around and around he goes. And around.
“Um… perhaps I could slow down now? I think I’m ready to be good.”
“Nope - keep going.”
“Look - I’m putting my head down and licking and chewing - NOW can I stop?”
“Nope. Now it’s time to go back the other way.”
sigh
Things get back on track after the reboot. I get on without assistance. We get over the step-through gate into the park without incident. We walk through the deep wash to encourage further calmness (i.e., tire him out). He does eventually settle down.
Except for one distant view of a couple riders to the north of us, we see and hear nothing of the hunt. (Probably a good thing.) At one point, Harold trundles by on 3 three legs, but there’s no sign of the rest of the hounds. (Harold likes to march to the beat of his own drumstick.)
About an hour and a half after we set out, we make our way back to the trailers, and everyone except for Harold is back. Soon enough he comes puttering in, happy as a beagle on the loose.
It was a lovely day to be out in the desert. Really, it was.
Too bad it didn’t get here a couple weeks ago!
and wouldn’t ya know it. We were there before M&D could arrive in their motorized vehicle.