Moving

Well, it’s official: I am no longer a Louisiana resident.

Of course, this really should be no surprise. My husband is in the Army, and when we were posted to Fort Polk we were told it would be for two years. By the time we left it had been a few weeks shy of four. So of course it was about time for us to move on for a new adventure.

But I hate moving.

It’s not like I don’t have practice: I’ve been doing this my whole life. Come to think of it, I think the longest time I’ve lived in one place was seven years, and that was rare. Usually I max out at five. So you would think I’d be used to it, and I’d have figured out how to reduce my amount of junk down to the point where it could be tossed in the back of a truck without a fuss. But I have too many expensive hobbies and toys, so that has never really happened. About the only way my moving technique has evolved is that we now store everything in plastic totes instead of cardboard apple boxes.

As always, there’s the usual chaos of having to pack up everything in the house and then wipe down all the walls and surfaces and scrub floors and tubs and toilets. Me being me, I was trying to do a lot of it by myself, until my husband reminded me that a) the army would be paying for our household goods to be shipped, and b) the apartment complex said to not worry about cleaning or wiping down walls, because rather than trying to scrub off the oil marks left on the wall by my tack (don’t judge), they were just going to add on another layer of chalky paint. Of course, this was after I spent a week scrubbing baseboards, but oh well.

But besides the usual chaos of moving, we added a whole new dimension of trying to ship a horse. My husband has a truck, but it’s almost twenty years old and was never designed to have the guts to haul anything much bigger than a U-Haul trailer. So if we had a tiny two horse trailer, we probably could have hauled Champagne ourselves across four states at about 40 mph. The problem is that we don’t have a horse trailer. Even if we did, I’m not entirely convinced that Champagne would fit into one of those little tiny horse trailers, even if you did take out the middle panel. Now, whenever I’ve had to move a horse before, I basically relied on the goodness of friends to drive my horse across the state and then either paid for the gas or worked off my debt with some good old fashioned manual labor. But that model wasn’t going to work this time.

Fortunately for me, my husband is fantastic and on top of things, so while I freaked out about all the projects I had to finish before we moved, he was on the computer searching for horse shipping companies that could take Champagne across four states to his new home. Eventually, he settled on Brook Ledge Horse Transportation. One of my friends asked me to tell her how they were, so I’m just going to say: they were awesome, and I’d be more than happy to use them again.

They were delayed getting to us by some tropical storms in the south, but they still got there soon enough that I could load Champagne up myself. Their rig was beautiful. Apparently instead of being built on a flat-bed type base like how most horse trailers are, it’s built on a air-ride system like a greyhound bus, so the horse is pretty comfortable and doesn’t end up sore and tired by the end of the trip. Then they’re able to place panels pretty much anywhere their hearts desire, so they can carry up to fifteen horses when they pack it tight, which apparently isn’t often. Usually the smallest stalls they use are four feet wide, and you can actually ship your horse in a box stall, so they can turn around and do whatever they like without breaking leads or ties or damaging the truck because they freaked out. And then they have video cameras hooked up throughout the whole trailer so they can keep an eye on the horses and pull over at any time if a horse is distressed. Apparently they’ve had pregnant mares go into labor during the middle of the trip, so they’ve stopped to help her out. And these drivers are all horse people themselves, so these aren’t semi drivers standing by and freaking out while a red bundle of legs comes out the backside of a horse: these guys know how to handle horses appropriately and professionally. Amanda and I were both very impressed.

We did have one minor hiccup, which is that when I asked how long of a trip it would be to Georgia, they said it would probably be about twelve hours. Which is cool: they’re getting the horse there as fast as possible so it can relax. But the problem was I was supposed to be on the receiving end to pick the horse up. Now, they had him loaded up and were on the road again by about 2 pm. My husband was doing someone a favor at work before we left, and he was in a part of the building where cell phones are not allowed. So I couldn’t get a hold of him until about 3 or 3:30. So I told that we had to get across four states in about 10 hours so that we could receive a horse at a closed stable at 2 in the morning.

Panic set in.

But we were on the road by 4.

Now, while we were on the road I got a call from Nikki, who seemed to be in charge of the second leg of Champagne’s journey. I told her that we were on our way and planning on driving through the night so we could get there around the same time as the horse. She sounded a little startled and went “Oh. Was that your plan all along?” I admitted that no, this was not the original plan: we had planned on taking two or three days to mosey our way over to Augusta, but if I had to be there to receive the horse, then so help me, I would be there to receive the horse. I also told her that the stable wouldn’t even be open to us until 9 am the next morning, but chose not to mention that if I had to I would sit with my horse on the side of the road for 7 hours waiting to get admitted. But I think the thought kind of occurred to her anyhow, because she said, “Look, we have a layover facility here in Aiken, SC, which is literally about half an hour away from Augusta and Fort Gordon. When I pick him up at Cohen where the transfer occurs, how about I bring him back to the layover facility here? Then when you get in town tomorrow evening, you can give us a call and we can bring him over. Or if it works better for the stables on base, we can actually hold him an extra night as well and bring him in the morning.”

Nikki is officially a godsend.

Of course, when I told my husband what had happened, his first question was “What’s this going to cost us?” And I told him exactly what Nikki had told me.

Nothing.

Now, here’s what you’ve got to understand: when Tom hired them to come get Champagne, he got a severe military discount, and he paid for a four foot wide stall, which was the cheapest option. Then when they picked Champagne up, because they only had a few horses on this run, they still put him in a full box stall, since it was easier, better, and safer all around. And then they held him for two nights at a layover facility and made sure he had plenty of hay to eat while he was there. All at no extra cost.

These guys are saints.

The morning came, and after I sponsored her through the gate, Nikki and I drove down to the stables and talked about horses the whole way. She was very sweet and fun, and I had to laugh when she pointed out that my giving up riding psycho barrel horses in favor of riding ex-racehorses might not be a real improvement. She waited patiently while I hashed out some of the paperwork with the lady running the stables, then after unloading Champagne, she smiled and shrugged when we asked how we would pay, because we hadn’t yet. She said, “Eh, someone will get in touch with you, and if they don’t, just send me a text with your shipping order number and we’ll get it taken care of.” Then she waved and drove off, pleasant as can be.

So at this point we had Champagne in quarantine at his new home, which means he’s a step ahead of us because we’re still living in a hotel room. But as he acted like an idiot while the lady in charge of the stables tried to take pictures of his markings and tried to measure his height (apparently he’s now 16.1 instead of 15.2), all of the panic I’d felt about getting him there safely gave way.

Unfortunately, it gave way to abject terror.

As the lady is giving me the tour of the stables, she’s telling me about the facilities and some of the other boarders and horses. Now, I just came from Louisiana, where I met approximately six dressage riders. Now I’m at what’s considered a pretty relaxed barn where there are twenty-seven horses on site, and she’s telling me that I have to meet this other boarder there who practices dressage and was apparently fourth in the world at one point. This is followed by a visit from the vet to give Champagne an entrance exam and a required microchip so he can be on base, and Champagne is acting like an idiot for him too. So I’m trying to keep an army captain safe while he jabs a massive needle into my horse’s neck, and I’ve got the boss of the stables staring at me critically, and I’m making rookie mistakes left and right because I’m so stinking scared. And no matter how much I try to hide it, Champagne is picking up on it, so he starts acting out even more, because we’re in a brand new place with brand new horses where even the person he’s supposed to look to when he needs guidance is terrified.

By the time I paid my bill for the microchip I had pretty much lost whatever confidence or bravado I had. Now all I can think is “What the HELL am I doing here?”

“This place is full of well-behaved push-button horses and stable-hands who won’t speak to me if at all possible, and I’m supposed to meet a dressage rider who was fourth in the world? And this is an easy-going barn. And who am I? I’m just a stupid kid who thinks she can ride. The only horse I can afford is a broken thoroughbred that I’m still trying to sell. Hah. With all the horses around here, what are the odds that anyone would want to buy him? Actually, come to think of it, I’m supposed to be trying to get a job around here too. But who would want to hire some cocky brat with only a few years of experience? I’m nothing. I’m nobody.”

It was not a pleasant train of thought.

Eventually I went back to Champagne and pulled him out to work him, because my cowboy training kicked in and said “If he’s going to act like an idiot, you better be putting him to work.” Fortunately there was a tie post in the quarantine pen, so I hooked him up (with a tie-blocker in place), and he twisted around the pole still wanting to run along the fence-line to stare at all the mares in the next pasture. But I motioned for him to stand still while I started grooming, and he remembered himself and stood still.

I started brushing him down, and even though he was fussing and biting the post to try to relieve his anxiety, he stood and let me do my job. He let me take up his back feet for farrier pose, same as we were doing before we left Amanda’s. And when I grabbed my dressage whip and we started heeding around the pen, he came back on my aids, and he relaxed, and all the sudden he was my sweet racehorse again.

I just about cried from relief.

Heeding is a beautiful thing.

That moment was exactly what I needed. It reminded me that yeah, sure, I was a very small fish in a very big pond. But that didn’t make me worthless or a bad horsewoman. I have a foundation in horsemanship that not everyone has. Wendy and Samantha taught me how to ride psycho horses over crazy terrain doing insane work. Amanda gave me the tools and the foundation to listen to any horse’s problems and handle and ride them accordingly. I may be a small fish, but my teachers taught me right, and it would be an insult to their efforts to imagine otherwise. There will always be better horsemen and women, but good people have taken the time and effort to give me the tools that I need. And that is more than enough.

Grooming is still grooming.

Heeding is still heeding.

Good horsemanship will always be good horsemanship.