Trudy Andrew | Canadian Author

Horse Tails

Cindy and Sandy

Higgins was more or less retired to the good life. Sundance Kidd was too hot and snorty for the hubby’s liking, and Robin’s abrupt spook-halts, rattled his bones way too much. The passive search to find a good horse was back on. He tried out a giant of a Morgan gelding that I had purchased to train then resell, but they didn’t click. Chewy had no problems or issues. I think hubby was simply trying to replicate Higgins, and that couldn’t be done. It didn’t matter what horse we found, he wasn’t happy with it. Thankfully, four white legs had dropped from the top of the “must have’ list to the bottom, but we simply couldn’t find anything that tugged at him, like Higgins had. In fact, he got to the point where he decided he didn’t want a horse. If he wanted to ride, he’d use one of mine.
That all changed when he spotted something that piqued his interest. Again, it was while hauling a load of gravel that led to an equine discovery. The man came home all excited about what he’d seen, baby Belgians. He hadn’t stopped to see them, nor had he any idea if they were for sale, but he was certainly keen.
“But,” I carefully pointed out, “why would you want heavy horses? We don’t have anything that fits heavies, and I suppose you want to drive them, right?”
“I think, I’m done with light horses,” he answered as if it had been long on his mind, instead of something he’d gotten into his head only hours before. “and by getting babies, we can raise and train them ourselves.”
Training them ourselves, actually meant me. I had no delusions about that. If he bought draft foals, I would be training them.
“There’s nothing saying they’re for sale,” I warned, because apparently being the voice of reason had somehow fallen to me. A ridiculous idea all on its own, as when it came to buying horses, I was rarely reasonable.
“I only saw a really old, really tiny man out looking at them,” hubby assured with all the confidence in the world. “What’s he going to do with them, eh? They’ll be for sale.”
It was a completely silly idea, as this apparently tiny, old man actually had them in his pasture. Clearly, he wanted them, whatever the reason.
Anyway, off we went to see the draft weanlings, to see if they were for sale, and shortly thereafter, Cindy and Sandy came to live with us.
Right off the bat, they started school. They had to be halter-broke and learn to lead and stand tied as well. It didn’t take very long before they began to settle in, and though still a tad unsure of us, and not too crazy about being touched, they were coming around. One day, when I was busy doing chores, my two, tiny tots following along while I did so, those two big fillies proved just how sensible they were. Though I warned the boy and girlchild that they were never, ever to go inside any of the horse pens alone, I looked up from loading the wheelbarrow with hay, to find both of my precious children in the corral with Cindy and Sandy. Not only were they both in with the weanling drafts, they were walking right between them! The two little people who meant more than the world to me, were suddenly in great peril. Either filly could strike out or kick, and that would be it. In the wink of an eye, I could lose one or both of my children.
“Stay perfectly still,” I firmly said while controlling the impulse to run in there and save them, “I mean it. Both of you, stop walking and stand still. Right now.”
I didn’t want to do anything to startle the fillies. Being trampled was every bit as bad as being kicked or stomped. I very much wanted to avoid any such thing. I wanted to retrieve my babies from harm, completely unscathed.
“But Cindy and Sandy love us mom,” my five year old boychild casually assured, with every confidence, “they won’t hurt us.”
“They’re only silly babies,” I quietly countered, even as my little kids happily patted sorrel bellies and legs. All the while, Cindy and Sandy were looking at the children like they couldn’t decide if they should send the tiny humans into tomorrow. “They’re not very sure if they like people yet. Now, stop touching them and walk to me. Don’t run. Don’t do anything fast, just walk straight to me. No arguments.”
“But mom,” the tiny, four year old girlchild protested, with her usual innocent bravado, “they really do like us … a lot. They wanted us to come in here.”
“I don’t think so,” shaking my head as I eased in through the gate, I was pretty certain my heart was about to stop as my two little imps beamed happily at me, and continued to pat shaggy sides they could barely reach, “and you’re giving me a heart attack, so please, come here, now,” I held out my hand in encouragement, yet not too quickly or far, as though the fillies seemed to be putting up with my precious, precocious tots, they had serious misgivings about me.
“Can we help feed?” The tiny girlchild cheerfully negotiated, “We can, right?”
By now both kids were standing by the fronts of the husky weanlings. Still patting them as casually as could be, as if they did so every day. About ready to promise the sun and the moon, along with a few stars, I was willing to agree to pretty well anything.
“If you walk, not run, to me right now,” I took a slow step forward, “then okay, you can help.”
Finally, finally after what felt like forever, yet was likely only minutes, my little darlings gave Cindy and Sandy a last pat then cheerfully skipped to where I stood.
They were happily oblivious to the danger they’d been in. I however, was fully aware of it. Children are wonderful, amazing and completely entertaining, but they sure can scare the bejeebers out of you, too.

Leave a Reply

About Trudy Andrew

Trudy Andrew lives on a small farm just east of Winnipeg, Manitoba, where she enjoys her Morgan horses. A dreamer since she was a child, its no surprise to those who know her well that her imagination would find an outlet in writing, as it has in the past through artwork.
All rights reserved. No part of this website or book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical – without the prior written permission of the author.


 Oakbank, MB