Deliverance

"Thoroughbred gelding, 16+hands. Make good barrel, trail or hunter jumper. $2500." read the ad in the Trading Post.

It sounded promising. I hadn't expected to be in the market for another horse, but my mare's arthritis was becoming a serious problem, and I knew that she probably only had a couple of years of competition left in the jumper ring before she'd have to retire. As much as I loved my girl, I knew it wasn't fair to her to keep working her so hard, but I couldn't imagine not riding and competing. If I started a new horse now, hopefully it would be up to speed before she had to be completely retired. Besides that, I really wanted the challenge of starting with a green horse and training it myself.

I'd ridden a lot of different horses at my trainer's barn while in high school, and had hopped on the occasional problem horse at my current boarding barn. I was pretty good at getting on new horses and figuring them out, so I was fairly confident that I'd be successful in this new venture. I also had youth and bravery on my side.

I'd considered one horse briefly prior to my consultation with the Trading Post, a mare that was at our barn to be sold. However, she had an unfortunate accident in her stall, putting her foot through the wall and having to be sawn out, damaging herself badly enough that her future soundness was in question. I was sad for the horse, but thankful it had happened before I decided to buy her rather than after.

So there I was, looking at horse ads. My requirements were simple: over 3 but under 6 years old, at least 16 hands, and reasonably athletic (so probably at least part Thoroughbred). This horse sounded like he might fit the bill, so I picked up the phone.

After speaking with the owner, Len, I ascertained that the horse was "big" (I'd asked how much over 16 hands - he'd never measured), chestnut, and he didn't know if he would jump, but probably. I made an appointment to come see the horse that weekend. He gave me directions to his antique store on Highway 50 in Indiana and said that I could meet him there and he would take me to his farm.

The day came, and my husband and I set off for the antique shop. We found it without much trouble. The store was crammed to the gills with the most random junk imaginable. We waded our way through to find Len, who possessed a perfectly nice demeanor and three or possibly even four teeth. He motioned for us to follow him in our car, turned the shop sign to CLOSED, and drove off.

We turned off Highway 50 and the road rapidly deteriorated from asphalt to gravel to worse gravel. We were being led deeper into the backwoods of Indiana. At any moment I expected to hear banjo music and people squealing like pigs. I was extremely glad I hadn't come alone.

Finally we turned into a gravel drive where there stood a dilapidated mobile home, a couple of muddy pastures (forgiveable in March in Indiana) and a very neat, recently built pole barn. Clearly this man had his priorities in order.

We entered the barn (which had wood plank floors). There were a few stalls with half doors, and their occupants were hanging their heads out in welcome. Len led us to the farthest stall, where a slightly scruffy chestnut was waiting. I peered in the gloomy stall while the owner recited his merits: quiet, ridden on trails, no soundness problems. I could see a couple of small, oozy lumps on his chest, and while I was looking he grabbed the top of his stall door and took a big gulp of air. Great, he was a cribber....not ideal, not a deal breaker, but something to consider if I decided I wanted to sell him later.

I asked to see him out of the stall. He walked out relatively calmly and I didn't see any evidence of lameness in the few steps he took. More than a little on the thin side, but no obvious lumps or bumps on his legs, either. He was, as promised, well over 16 hands. I asked his name, and Len muttered something unintelligible; I must have looked confused, because he followed with "I call him Mick." I wanted to see him move around, so we took him out to the muddy paddock and turned him loose. He took off as best he could in the muck, avoiding the run-in shed made of two-by-fours and tattered blue tarps blowing in the breeze, and while it was impossible to evaluate his soundness in the mud, he wasn't crippled.

I thought the gelding looked like a decent prospect, and Len was willing to give me a generous month's trial period (which I would later joke about - "he gave me a month to try him, and I bought him anyway!") so we made arrangements to return with a check and a horse trailer to take him home. I could hardly wait...