(“That’s when she called me. Like four times in a day and a half.”)

Remember the woman I wrote about in Dressage Unscrambled whose husband owned the circus? And she was panicky because her dressage instructor wanted her to ride her horse long and low for a year, but her husband said if she didn’t get it in the ring to perform soon, he’d feed it to the big cats? And the punch line was that after Susan helped her horse learn some of the tricks and fulfill the husband’s demands, ironically later that year the big cats ate him?

Well, recently that woman resurfaced in our lives. Twenty-some years later she had decided she wanted to become a competitive dressage rider and earn her USDF bronze medal. In the interim her skills and her confidence had eroded somewhat, but being realistic, she had purchased a schoolmaster with the requisite credentials to accomplish the goals she had set.

She’d chosen a big warmblood mare who had behaved well when she’d test driven her but conspicuously less so after she got her new horse home. That’s when she called me. Like four times in a day and a half.

So I adjusted my weekly rounds to include a stop at her farm. “She just feels like she wants to explode,” the woman explained. “I’m even afraid to canter her.”

I observed briefly and then asked to ride the mare. Her owner was more than eager to dismount. The horse was as she had described—really tense and feeling like a tightly wound spring. I barely rested my legs on her sides and she tried to dash forward. I said “no,” and she began to canter. I said “no” again and she started pitching and trying to pull me over her neck. Once I semi-gingerly got her re-ordered, we began again. Same outcome (and she was wearing a double bridle—normally plenty of brakes).

I proposed we might lunge her to take her edge off. In the pasture on the end of very long line, she bucked and squealed and swapped leads for a good ten minutes. Changing direction, she repeated this display for another ten. We returned to the arena, but after all that, her demeanor was virtually unchanged—still tight as a drum and not imbuing me with an expectation of a future of mutual wellbeing.

I did survive the hour. The owner never remounted. I was able, not to produce real relaxation in the mare, but to get her to stabilize and begin to go with a longer neck and a better tempo. I didn’t consider cantering that day.

Leading her back to the barn, we discussed plans of action. Perhaps there was a soreness in her back or hindquarters that needed to be found and dealt with.

Grasping at straws, I asked, “Do you have any other animals here?”

“Yes,” the woman replied casually, “six tigers and three elephants.”

“WHAT ?!?!” I managed incredulously.

“Oh, yes,” she continued, “but just during the winter.”

“Where are they?” I demanded.

“The elephants are behind that truck,” she pointed. “Right over there. The tigers are penned behind those trees.

Not meaning to be rude, I suggested that we might try the mare again somewhere else—like far away somewhere else—in case she happened to be concerned that she was being sized up as dinner. At that, I climbed into my car and proceeded on my usually low key, humdrum Wednesday route.

A week later she sent me another email. Yes, the mare was fine when she took her away, but the woman had decided to sell her and try another schoolmaster.

“I guess she just isn’t suited to being a country horse,” she mused.

To myself, I thought, “and just what country was she referring to? Africa?”