For Champagne 'Til Dawn , For aTadPlaid

Such familiar tears, sadness I felt for the bright bay horse on fugs. How much he looked like my Taddy. My small, 16.0 hand on tip-toes, (my horses never grew), all mane and tall and feet. Three year old stallion, that the owner wanted to keep as a stud. Impulse buyer that I am, and a firm believer in repeat performances, I bought a horse that kicked out at me in his stall.

He hadn't been handled much, but he was an Anglo-Arab classy looking piece of horse. Very naturally balanced, very easy with himself. It was winter, and I wanted a bright bay named GoLightly, but Taddy was there. No, I didn't look at his feet, and yes, I was in a hurry. My Mom had passed away. I was pretty scattered, and easily followed the lead of others I trusted, at the time. Low opinion of myself helped.

Never buy a horse in a hurry, unless you rescue of course. I, of course, wouldn't go to auction, ever.

I know, I know! Dumb.

Tad was breathtaking, with a look of the Northern Dancer type he was. His feet were fine to start, BTW. I was surprised to learn that, and threw it in for the GoLightly fiction story. I assumed he'd had turnout. Tad started with a shortish toe, and regular heels.

Tad's feet melted, with all the unaccustomed grain, and no turn-out. Twice. They flattened into pancakes. Lost his heels, his quarters, long toe, no heel..
He kicked his stall, and pawed the ground, towards the end of his life, and I got the call from his last, kind owner, saying I needed to talk to her.

Oh, Tad, oh, my. I'm so sorry.

My first horse, bought by parents and gam, had kicked out at my Dad. I liked that. Not too smart, I was, at 14.

Taddy would have benefited from better training and handling in his early years. (DUH) It wasn't until much later that I discovered Tad hadn't had much turn-out. I'd been told differently. I believe people implicitly, until I don't. I was working full-time, and Tad was boarded at a gorgeous facility. I assumed he'd be well taken care of. HUGE mistake, huge. I entrusted his gelding to the BarnManager, and came up that evening to a miserable gelding, swollen all the way to the bottom of his back legs, in his stall.

Nobody said he needed hand-walked, at the very frickin' LEAST? I assumed people knew that. Who KNEW?? I hand-walked him until he was comfortable, for hours and hours and hours. Late into the night. They should have turned him out, with a calm buddy. HE WOULD HAVE learned something, and moved around, and been comfortable. I asssssumed.

Oops, I'm getting angry again.

Then, I gradually realize that BM doesn't really believe in turn-out, at least for my (never been turned out before) gelding. And he was packing sweet feed to this horse, like he was fattening him up for the truck. Tad was crazy to work with through that time. After work, I needed to come up just after feeding time, remove all the grain I could get, turn him out myself, watch him (as if I could stop some of his antics), wait for him to get his ya-yas out, watch him roll (in solid clay mud later in his life), cool and groom and then start training him. I was hoping for turn-out, at least. The fields were beautiful, and rolling. Perfect for fitting up a youngster. I got home later and later from the barn.

No matter what I said, the BM, (RT), would grain Tad's eyeballs out. I wasn't even trying to ride him at this point, just regular hello, I'm the boss here, nicely. Let's do some stuff. Tad was brilliantly smart, and very sure of his destiny.

He was lovely to canter and jump, my Tad, when I was done. Oh, the first canter he gave me, OMgoodness. Sublime, a TB rocking/rolling/traveling canter. Almost dead straight, lightly in front. His fine trot showed his feet short-comings as he aged. It started really well..

He jumped out of his paddock, once, a four foot rail. Easy and well and airy. Scared the CRAP outta me:) Tad looked down the driveway, warmed up his options, and if I hadn't thrown my shank in front of him, scaring him to a stop, he'd be in Toronto somewhere, still.
All proud of himself, tail flagging on the way back to the barn.

That's when I started riding him. I realized later, he'd probably already been used for breeding. Just scopin' out his options. He hated turnout by himself, but he was merciless with others. Nobody liked him but me.

He finally found a short-term buddy, a wonderful eventer large pony gelding, who put up with nothing.

A brief change in BM's (recuperating from an accident) allowed Tad to learn to calm down and enjoy life with a buddy, and without buckets of grain. I rode him a bit while the BM's healed. Then, we moved. The damage had already been done to his feet, and my heart was broken, again. I put him on pasture board for a year, at a DQ's (A Real DQ) barn. I mean that in the best possible way. She was/is a great horsewoman. Open, honest, kind.

He came back sound, and then, not. He needed daily and weekly care, and I finally found a great schooling barn, where he could be medicated and ridden and brushed and loved, daily and often. Liz (oh,oh, last name, GAH), she runs a good school.

Tad was so beautifully broke, Liz said. He was the star of the schooling barn, with his handsome style. Tad taught kids how to ride for a year or so, and then decided he'd had enough. We let him go. I'm still happy I could at least do that. But it still to this day, hurts. 1993. I have the date. Enough, is enough. I've ridden since.
No luck finding another GoLightly yet, but hope keeps me going.

Handsome horses, bright bays. I'm glad Champ had a peaceful, more comfortable end. Not a terrifying trip to hell.

Champ assuages my terrible guilt, a tad. A very tiny tad.
Some hearts just get broken.

To Champagne 'Til Dawn, and A Tad Plaid.
Fine Bright Bay TBs. Feet can fail, the good hearts never do.

To GoLightly, for teaching me how to train my Tad right, the first time.
The time that counts, forever.

To Great, Kind Trainers.

Betcha there's more than just my own rampaging deja vu going on right now.

DARn tape-recorder..
Sorry for the ramble, I'm tangenting, again.
Oh, well, at least I've shut up about the nuchal ligament.
And Flip-dog eating poo (oops).

p.s. Tad had the coolest hind black white ermined/striped, plaid sock.
A Blue Sock, he had.