I’ve been missing. There’s a story behind it. Here it is.

When you are responsible for the care of someone else, be they canine, equine or human, there are times when you inevitably fail them. If you are critical in your self-assessment of this care, you no doubt can find fault frequently.

I pulled a doozy recently when I misdiagnosed Samantha’s virus. Umm, it was appendicitis. She had an emergency appendectomy on Thursday, April 21. In my defense, when she seemed to be suffering from her second bout of the fever/upset stomach bug that was making its rounds, I did call the pediatrician’s office.  The nurse told me that the current virus running through the area was particularly virulent and was striking quite a few kids more than once. She did say that I was more than welcome to bring Samantha in to be checked out. Alas, not wanting to be that mom (again) who dragged her kid to the pediatrician only to be told, “It’s a virus,” I decided to just wait it out.

Samantha spent the first two days of her school vacation week on the couch, which should have been my first clue that something was truly amiss. As we know, when this kid doesn’t go to the barn, there is something not right in the world.

On Wednesday she rallied and did ride, but she was incredibly pale. Thursday I was home with her and after a very short period of morning activity she laid in a chair and cried, saying that she had a sharp pain in her belly. That did it. Light finally dawned on marble-mom head. Off to the doctor we went, with the boy in tow.

Samantha’s doctor is a wonderful woman, kind and reassuring. So much so that when she shared her suspicion it took me a minute to catch up. In her friendly, sing-songy voice she stated, “Yeah, I think what I’m going to do is have you run her up to the hospital and have an ultrasound so that we can rule out appendicitis.”

Come again? Excuse me? Say what? I was finally able to say, “Oh, OK, would you please call ahead to let them know that we’re coming? Thank you, so very much.” What I was thinking was: “&^%%*^%@!” “Doh!” “Of course it’s appendicitis.” “&*^^&%”

Luckily, Samantha really didn’t have much of a clue what that meant. My next challenge was retrieving the boy from the waiting room and telling him. Why would this be a concern? Here’s why:

Me: “OK, Ethan, Samantha needs a test, and they don’t have the special machine to do the test here, so we’re going to have it done up at the hospital.”

The boy: “IS SHE GOING TO DIE? MOM, IS SHE GOING TO DIE?”

Yes, now everyone in the waiting room is staring at us. Oh, joy. As I gritted out, “No, Ethan your sister is not going to die,” we left the doctor’s office.

Let’s just say that the day got worse. Luckily, a friend was able to come get the boy, who spent the rest of the afternoon practicing with the St. Michael’s College lacrosse team. It doesn’t matter to him that he’s only 10; clearly they need him.

Poor Samantha. Through the tears, the painful waiting, two days in the hospital and a week on the couch her only concern was getting better in time for her first horse show. I did not go on a business trip to Chicago and Grand Rapids, Mich. I also spent a week near the couch, getting my little pumpkin (who is now officially taller than me) whatever she wanted.

Our first horse show was at GMHA in Woodstock, Vt., on May 21, and this was also supposed to be Samantha’s first three-foot horse show. No pressure! We talked about it, and I told her that if she did nothing but hack around the show grounds that would be great, and I would be happy and proud of her. Do the warm-ups if you feel up to it. Try one round of hunters. Don’t put any pressure on yourself. You had surgery one month ago.

In theory, she was with me. But once we got to the show, it was game on. She had a good warm-up day on Friday and decided to “try” the 12-14 equitation division on Saturday. Her flat class was, OK, it was a disaster. Mondavi thought it was a race, not a class, and while Samantha did a great job controlling him, there was no ribbon for that achievement. She made up for it by winning her first over fences class with a beautiful trip and placing third in the second over fences class, becoming reserve champion in the division.  Her first-ever attempt in the NEHC medal was flawless (mom’s opinion), and she placed fourth out of 15 very competitive riders.

Sunday wasn’t quite as stellar—she was tired, and it showed. There were a few threes in the two-stride that made Samantha’s blood boil. I giggled—but only when she couldn’t see me. She had already accomplished so much there was no way to disappoint. We had a two-hour ride home for me to convince her of that, regardless of how she felt about her trips on Sunday.

I remained, as always, grateful that she talked the whole way home. She accomplished what she set out to do—she did not miss the first horse show of the season—the one we waited so long for. And now, we have a whole season in front of us.

Wishing you all a healthy and happy show season. Here we go!

This article was first published on The Chronicle of the Horse website.

The lovely and talented Lauren Sprieser, my fellow blogger and online friend, is trying to tell us all that the seasonal relocation of her barn to Florida ain’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

It seems her friends, colleagues and readers (ahem) are sending her emails, texts and phone calls expressing a certain je nais se quoi—oh, could it be JEALOUSLY? And, in her kind and eloquent way, she’s hoping to suppress our little green monsters by explaining that hey, things really aren’t that great here in the Sunshine State.

Lauren, I beg to differ. As I sit here watching more than 20 inches of snow dump from the sky and listen to three 10-year-old boys play knee hockey in my basement at 9 a.m., I’m wondering how hanging out with Midge and Ella could be worse.

Let’s address her points one by one, shall we?

1. The footing in Florida is sandy.

By footing, I assume you mean in an outdoor ring. We’re riding in a tiny indoor ring recently treated with magnesium chloride to keep the dust down. I think our teens would give up Facebook for a week for a chance to ride outside. We’re fighting each other for ring time as our indoor is on the small side and holds the cold like a post-menopausal woman’s body holds fat.

2. Lauren says: “Floridians are scary drivers.”

I love this one. I live 22 miles from work. It took me two hours to drive home last night due to a blinding snowstorm. I’ll take on the Florida blue hairs right now. Right now.

3. All she does is ride and go out to eat.

Um, how does this one work again? Oh, we’re supposed to be grateful that we can cook our own meals and use our free time to exercise or do non-horse activities like vacuum. Got it. This is so weak I can’t even make fun of you for this. At least give me something to work with!

4. Lauren is afraid of the Creepy Crawlers.

There is an “ick” factor here; I will give her this one. It is a shock to the system to go from zero bugs to full on cockroaches, snakes and lizards. I can fix that for you my dear—I can send the boy (my 10-year-old son Ethan) right down; school vacation is right around the corner. He has watched every episode of A & E’s “Billy The Exterminator” multiple times and is just itching to catch some vermin. He’s on his way, free of charge, for 10 days.

5. Florida has no cell service.

While this may make my daughter swoon, I can handle it. I live in Vermont. Our cell service, though much improved over the past few years, has its own glitches.

6. She’s complaining about eating too much fresh key lime pie.

And (AGAIN) this is supposed to make us not hate her and be jealous. Is someone having a Paris Hilton moment? Lauren, let me give your not yet 30-year-old body a message from your 40-year-old body: EAT THE PIE. Your body is burning so many calories right now that you can eat the pie.  Ten years from now if you look at the pie, you’ll gain weight, and then you’ll eat the pie anyway. Stop torturing yourself.

7. They recently pulled a 13-Foot-Long Alligator from a canal down the street.

Ethan says no worries; he’ll shoot it, even if he has to track it for four days. Payment: Key lime pie, dinners out. Going to a restaurant with the boy is an experience you’ll LOVE. Hee hee. Wait, that wasn’t an alligator, those were two northerners with dry winter skin.

8. Florida has no turnout.

No turnout does stink. Winter turnout here in Vermont is a workout in itself. First you have to plow or shovel the path to get to the paddock. Then you have to try to make it to the paddock with the horse dragging you all the way. Then you have to bring out the (expensive) hay.

Gas here is also expensive, more than $3.25/gallon, over $3.50 for diesel. Our water does not smell like feet. But our dogs smell like feet. I don’t know if the people here are pretty, because I can’t see their faces or bodies and won’t for another few months until we can take off all the extra layers.

Our horses are very “up” because of the cold, even though they usually get turned out for six hours a day. Everyone can count on an “exciting” ride almost every day.

Lauren, I propose a swap. Or, I’d settle for an on-site visit where I can inspect your conditions myself to see how difficult they really are. Have the key lime pie ready.

Greetings sports fans from the frozen tundra that is Vermont. I continue to hibernate, coffee cup in hand, looking out the window, thinking about going to the barn to watch the girl ride, but it’s really cold!

The girl continues to put in long hours at the barn, ever the faithful and committed young horseperson. I shamefully admit that over the past several weeks, I have only done drive-bys—picking the girl up at the end of the day, not even getting out of the car. The only real barn time I’ve put in is my regular Saturday afternoon barn chore shift.

My punishment for such wimpy and unsportsmanlike conduct? The weather forecast is calling for temperatures between 10 and 20 degrees below zero this Saturday, during the day. And I get to spend Sunday at a hockey tournament.

It’s silly, because nothing stirs my soul like watching the girl ride. It doesn’t have to be a horse show, or a lesson. Just a plain old Tuesday hack is more than enough to make me thank my lucky stars that I am able to provide my daughter access to this great sport and currently, a wonderful, goofy horse named Mondavi.

We’re nearing the one-year mark on our lease of Mondavi, the Dutch Warmblood owned by Michelle Osgood. Thank goodness we signed a two-year lease because it would be really embarrassing for Michelle is she leased Mondavi to someone else and the entire Howell family went out and stole him and brought him back to Missy Ann Stables.

At 15, Mondavi’s had more than a few juniors on his back and knows his way around the show ring. Over the past year, we’ve really gotten to know him—and the ribbons, accolades and Facebook friends (yes, he has his own Facebook page) only tell part of the story.

Here’s a list of some of what we’ve learned—insights that can only come from long hours spent bonding with a 1,200 animal:

White things are scary.
We had heard the tales and been warned—no white bell boots or polo wraps, stay away from white ponies at horse shows. White coats hanging on jumps standards? He will bolt away from them to keep his rider safe. Mondavi is afraid of all things white. Seriously? Um, yes.

This is a one-kid horse.
Mondavi wants attention, and lots of it. He knows that the best way to achieve this is by bonding with a kid, one kid at a time. You suck the kid in by making funny faces, showing off your tricks (pulling-the-zipper-of-her-coat-up-and-down-really-fast-as-many-times-as-you-can), giving hugs and never stopping. Then you can teach the kid just how you like to be curried, you favorite brands of treats, the correct way to apply peanut oil to your hooves daily, and how to treat you like the prince you know yourself to be.

Mondavi could win an Academy Award for equine facial expressions.
With his big, dark cow eyes and an overactive upper lip, Mondavi can make more facial expressions than most Botoxed Hollywood actresses. As soon as he enters the show ring, his ears go forward and do not move until he steps out (no joke). He can make the most pathetic “beg for a treat” face I have ever seen, far more effective than any dog, stretching his neck out, twisting his head, blink, blink.

Even when you are 15 years old, being clipped is very scary!
Ditto for getting your mane pulled. Even when the same person has been clipping you for the past 12 years. Perhaps this is some act to score drugs?

Mondavi is famous for his “Stinks” face.
The lip up, Mondavi’s “Stinks” face has not only landed him the nickname “Stinks,” but has also made him semi-famous. Every horse show we went to this past summer, at least one total stranger approached us, without a word of greeting or introduction, and began to tap Mondavi on the nose and say, “Do it!” He would usually politely oblige and raise his upper lip. It’s just plain weird.Mondavi is a teacher.
Mondavi is all business when he gets in the show ring and he knows how to perform. I was amazed at what he taught the girl this summer. Truly awed. Each time they went in the ring, they were a team and he was determined to show Samantha the “right” way to do things. If Samantha disagreed, she had to prove to Mondavi why she was right. Sometimes he gave in, sometimes he didn’t. He never stopped. He let her make a million mistakes and still did his job. By the end of the show season, she was a different rider, more poised, confident and intuitive than I had imagined possible. The journey was incredible and I can’t wait for Season Two.

This article was first published on The Chronicle of the Horse website.

‘Tis the time of year when people give you a gift, and you don’t have one to give to them. When you receive a pink fuzzy sweater that you’d like to exchange. And perhaps there’s a coffee maker, a box of chocolates or a bottle of wine you’re thinking of regifting.

How’s a polite barn girl to handle these situations? It’s also the time of year when we want to thank the folks who work hard all year to care for our beasts—the barn workers, the trainer, the farrier, the vet. What’s an appropriate gift?

Pink’s not really my color…..

Seriously, what was your best friend thinking? Maybe it’s a hint that she wants to see you in something other than Tailored Sportsman azure, but if the gift is going to sit in the back of your closet until the release of Avatar 2 then go ahead and exchange it. Don’t feel guilty.

The situation will require tact, because you will have to tell your friend about the exchange: “Melissa, it was so kind of you to give me something so pretty. I hope you don’t mind that I exchanged it for something in a lighter shade. What a treat to have a beautiful top that I promise will never see the inside of a barn!” Don’t forget to write her a thank-you note.

The time not to exchange a gift is when you’ve received something handmade or so unique that the gift-giver would be hurt if you traded it in for something else. Trainers, this means you: No matter how many coffee mugs or homemade holiday ornaments you receive from 7-year-old students you must keep them forever, less you break their wee little hearts. And you must eat every last cookie they make for you.

Many stores make exchanges easier and less awkward by offering to enclose a gift receipt in the gift box that doesn’t show the price. (Start including gift receipts in the gifts you give for good gift karma.)

Regifting

This practice of gift recycling is a favorite of members of the old school, the die-hard practical and the tightwad. But is “regifting” an acceptable, i.e., polite, practice? It depends.

Our desire to regift is a symptom of the economy, our surplus of “stuff,” and a desire to be practical and give away things we know we won’t ever use. Regift with caution and only when the following criteria are met:

• The gift is something the recipient would really like to receive. Don’t give a box of chocolates to your friend who worked hard all year to lose 20 pounds.
• The gift is brand new (no cast-offs allowed) and comes in its original packaging. If you already opened the Chia Pet and threw out the box, you can’t give it to someone else.
• The gift isn’t handmade or one-of-a-kind, such as a handmade sweater or acquired during your parent’s 30^th anniversary trip to Greece.

Make sure you don’t hurt feelings—neither the original giver’s nor the recipient’s. Would the person who gave you the gift mind that you passed it along? Do he and the recipient of your gift know each other, and would it be awkward if they realized that you’ve recycled a gift from one to the other? Make no mistake, the potential for humiliation does exist, and many consider this practice to be completely unacceptable.

Last week, two trainers and one junior rider from our area had the opportunity to ride in a George Morris clinic, held at The Buffalo Therapeutic Riding Center, Nov. 12-14.

Barn mates pooled resources and gifted the clinic to our trainer Tara Valade as her Christmas present. Fox Horn Stables, our friendly neighbors down the road in Charlotte, caught wind of what we were doing and decided to do the same for their trainer Ashley Conway. Junior rider Piper Oren’s parents decided to send her as well. Just like that, three lifelong dreams were about to be realized.

While I was not in attendance, Tara, Ashley and Piper’s parents have shared their experiences so that we can all have a look inside King George’s Court. John Oren’s pictures and quotes tell the story better than I can.

The group left the rolling green mountains of Vermont and eight hours later arrived in the city streets of Buffalo, N.Y.; two young trainers, one teenager, along with parents, family and assorted supporters in tow. They arrived late Thursday night and settled their horses in for the night.

Our three riders arrived the next morning excited and ready to see the facility in the daylight. What awaited them was an indoor arena that left them in awe. Large, very large and airy. Were they really inside? A white, expansive space, large enough to be sectioned off to include a warm-up area and jumping section. An old airplane hanger? Something close to amazement and perhaps envy touched the Vermonters. Oh, what we could do with an indoor like this! There is nothing comparable in the state.

Registration papers were signed, packets handed out, name tags adorned. Our trainers were delighted to be served breakfast. The staff at The Buffalo Therapeutic Riding Center rivaled their counterparts at the Four Seasons and the Ritz Carlton in caring for our Vermonters. They were warmly welcomed, every detail planned in advanced, questions answered, well fed, snacks and drinks readily available.

8 a.m. Niceties aside. Time to set the course. It is “suggested” that riders assist. Our gang was ready, learning the George Morris approved method of course design. George speaks, people run. Our trainers took notes, hoping to achieve the same results at home.

Jump pins to the outside. Bottom cups filled first. Poles placed in the cups when they have been assigned and not before. George laid down some basic ground rules the hard way. For instance, when he speaks, no one else does.

Tough, But Fair

For the next three days, our riders gave George 110 percent, and he gave it all right back to them.

We’ve all read about George’s legendary toughness, his penchant for quirky commentary, (“Your ‘Whoa’ sounds like Lady Gaga!”) his legendary resume. But what I was reminded of, hearing about the clinic, was his demand for discipline. Come to the ring prepared—your horse, tack and person neat and clean. Give your best each and every ride. Respect your horse and trainer.

I hate to sound like an old-school parent, but young people need this lesson. It will help them in so many other aspects of their lives!

Tara reiterated this with her thoughts on the experience. “George doesn’t mind if you make mistakes, he minds if you are not trying. If he gives you an exercise, you follow his directions to the letter. He gives truthful critiques. He pushes people to make them better.” She noted that every horse and rider showed improvement by the end of the weekend.

“He was not mean. He was tough, but fair. If you made the exact same mistake twice, watch out. He demands discipline,” she added.

Tara was impressed with George’s stamina. He rode many horses and continued to give instruction over the microphone without ever sounding out of breath, something she’d like to be able to do herself.

A Parent’s Perspective

According to Piper Oren’s mother, her daughter had never before experienced that breed of instructor that utilizes toughness and brutal honesty. For the first two days, Piper emerged unscathed. She even received a few coveted “Very goods,” “Good” and a “She’s got it!” from George—high praise, well-earned.

On the final day, Piper got five in the six-stride line (twice!). George bellowed, “The lights are on, but nobody’s home!” Piper later admitted to doing algebra problems in her head to keep the tears at bay.

Mrs. Oren said of the entire experience, “Personally, as a parent, I was very impressed. It is rare in life when you get to witness true mastery—George Morris is indeed a master of the sport. He’s tough, but honest. Three groups, eight riders in each, and he remembered each person’s name and how they had improved each day.”

On the long ride home, Piper thanked her parents for the opportunity to participate in the clinic. Mom responded, “That, alone, was probably worth the price of admission.”

The dates for next year’s George Morris clinic at The Buffalo Therapeutic Riding Center are November 11-13, 2011.