Still not quite yet
The EN blogger contest final round entries are in! But, before we bring you the results, here’s a look ad the last 3 entrants to move on from round 3. For the round 2, part 1 entries click here. In this round I asked the bloggers to identify their favorite EN Chinchilla as well as their entry. Without further ado, here are the submissions:
Karen McCollom
Chinchillas: I can never quite remember the names of all the chinchillas – I get them confused with the Seven Dwarfs, who, in themselves are confusing. I do believe, however, that it was Squeaky, Hokey, and Spot as well as Snappy, Sleazy, Lumpy and even that little fur-ball, Facefull who gleefully exhorted me to list my embarrassments. I have complied as follows.
Entry: Most of my long equestrian life has been a continuous string of embarrassing moments and near calamities. Actually, I have always been under the impression that this quality rather defines life with horses . Horses put us on the line, and I for one, seem to spend a lot of time tripping over that line.
Early on, for instance, there was the time when the Pony Club examiner posed the question, “What is a numnah?” Without a moment’s hesitation, I went instantly mute and wet my pants. I was sitting on my horse at the time, so the unavoidable, eventual dismount was, of course, fraught with logistical difficulties, not to mention the fact that I placed last in the dreadful little Pony Club class.
A bit later in my life, I was showing a horse for sale to a professional and his client. In the middle of a course of jumps, my bra exploded. Not only was the inevitable dismount a matter of complexity, but the rest of the ride required some interesting maneuvers . However, the sale went through, full price, without either man sitting on the horse.
Or there was the time long ago, at my very first far away event, when I was walking the preliminary course at the Middletown Horse trials. I was overtaken by Bruce Davidson, also walking the course with some students. He paused and asked conversationally, “What do you think of the course?”
I would like to point out that at this time, Bruce was just hitting his stride, so to speak, as THE golden boy of eventing, and let me tell you, he was golden! Instead of replying intelligently and succinctly ( “It’s fine,” would have been the appropriate answer), I began speaking in tongues and babbling like Daffy Duck. I have always hoped that Bruce thought I was from another country.
There was also the time I fell off at the bottom of the infamous Millbrook slide, conking my head just hard enough to cause me to start ranting loudly and publicly about giving up eventing in favor of show jumping and that I was going to be the next Anne Kursinski for sure, but not hard enough to forget that I said all those things.
In another long ago moment at the jog up at Fair Hill, my horse leaped and flailed so insanely down the jogging strip that he sent all the bowler-hatted ground jury flying frantically backwards over the white fence, feet up in the air. More recently I went off course in a novice show jumping round by jumping the B element of the in and out, at some random moment on the course, which required a surprising amount of willful mis-direction.
The length of this list ( and there are more, like the evening I was first introduced to Mark Phillips, at the time still Queen Elizabeth’s son-in-law and therefore, surely, some oblique form of royalty, only to discover later while brushing my teeth that my face was so covered with dirt that I looked like Al Jolson), implies a high degree of incompetency and idiocy. That could actually be true, but I prefer to believe that it simply highlights a lot of years with horses, who will always and in no particular order, thrill and humble us, annoy and comfort us, step on our toes and break our collar bones, and take us places we could never go without them. They teach us many lessons and I, personally will never, ever forget the definition of a numnah.
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From Amy Goodusky:
One line chinchilla rave: My favorite EN chinchilla is the one sitting in the dark corner of the barn wearing a beret and sunglasses, with a reputation for thinking outside the litter box.
Entry: The hard part of this assignment is picking which incident to write about. There have been so many.
The scene: February, New England: A dressage show . The cast: Amy. Timmy, her intrepid, opinionated and vocal half Connemara, half Thoroughbred. The judge.
The test: Novice B.
The setting: An indoor schooling ring, separated from the show arena by the hall from hell. The hall has (a) low ceilings) (b) inadequate light; (c) doors on both sides through which people and horses enter and exit unpredictably (d) it is raining inside on the competitors waiting to enter the arena like accelerated Chinese water torture.
Timmy is afraid of everything. The dark. The light. Other horses. Other horses leaving the arena. His plaid cooler, just because … it’s plaid. Being braided, or even being approached with a stepstool. Chickens. The trailer. Loud noises. His salt lick.
We had a fabulous warmup. Then I rode into the hall. People carrying camera tripods that have been known to eat draft horses in two bites and small screaming children erupted around us, accompanied by crumpling paper, crackling public address system static, flapping umbrellas and vivid white boot-shining apparatus. My horse’s knees buckled. Bravely, he stayed put after suggesting that he should turn back, like the Cowardly Lion on his way down the long green hallway to meet the Wizard, and getting an emphatic response from me which included some words of fewer than five letters.
Then it was our turn. I rode toward the judge and made the first corner. As we approached A, it occurred to Timmy that he was (a) alone; (b) not at home; (c) the stands were full of … chickens wearing plaid suits! Instead of sailing forth into a 20 meter circle, he began to snort furiously, tucked his head between his legs, and described a figure which looked something like a butternut squash in dimension and symmetry. He was done. I was undone. All four legs heading toward separate compass points, he winged and whanged his way through the pattern, calling all the while to his missing companions. My influence was inconsequential. Later, I learned I had ridden the same 20 meter vegetable-shaped figure twice, not once, as called for by the test. By the time I was heading up the second long side, I knew there was nothing to be gained by finishing.
We plummeted toward the judge. I tried a half halt, a whole halt, then a halt to the fourth power, as she shrank backward toward the arena wall. Everything got very slow and quiet. My riding life flashed before my eyes. Finally, we stopped, inches from the card table where, I could see, the scribe was giggling helplessly. I said I was going to retire.
“You have to ask my permission,” the judge said, nastily, standing up so that she could look down on us.
“Request permission to retire, your Honor,” I said. She replied that I was dangerous, and conceded that I should leave the ring. I was flattered until I remembered that dressage is not supposed to be dangerous. It was supposed to be genteel. Danger was for … eventers. A few weak claps signaling relief could be heard as we departed. I was mortified. I was never, ever going to another dressage show. This was worse than the time that the button on my show coat burst in the middle of my stadium round, revealing that my fake stock collar was fastened to my tee shirt with lime green duct tape.
Timmy made a full recovery.
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From Chesna Klimek:
Chinchilla sentence: My favorite EN chinchilla is definitely that really cute soft and fluffy one–you know, the grey one with the whiskers and the ears?
Entry: Embarrassment to horsepeople is like dressage to 3DE–the inevitable common denominator. We all can do embarrassing… Embarrassing is that pair of shiny gold stirrup leggings I used to wear for trick riding; it’s getting dumped off in the manure pile; it’s having to help the mini horse with his urination problem as half the county fair watches; it’s hearing the judge LOL during your round, and falling of and getting on–seven times in a row. Instead of recounting one of my everyday equine embarrassments, I’ll share what I call cultural mortification.
In 2007 I spent six months working at an event yard in England. For a po-dunk backyard rider like me, it was a dream come true. The creme-de-la-creme was getting invited to ride in a genuine, all-British, all-out foxhunt. Yes!
My mount for the hunt was a handsome young ‘ginger horse’. It was our first hunt ever, and we were excited (though, I’d learn, our methods of expressing excitement weren’t exactly on par). At the precise second I decided to clamber into the saddle to tally-ho-and-away-we-go, the hunt master released the enthusiastic pack of blood-thirsty hounds 20 ft. directly behind us. Apparently, my horse had been waiting for just such a cue to have a mental breakdown. As my seat hit the saddle, he sprang 12 ft. into the air with enough buck to make any bronco yell Yeehaw. I swear I heard the voice of my first riding instructor call out to me from the past “Eeeemmmergencccccccy dismount!!!” I let go.
As poet Pam Brown wrote “horses give us the wings we lack…” I had a breathtaking view of Yorkshire’s landscape as I soared ever-upwards into the air. Below me, the Brits looked poised and polished. I admired the neat rows of button braids, the stockties and velvet helmets, the nearby castle. But in the next moment I was flat on my back in the midst of 100 shod and studded sets of hooves–as far as the eye could see, the bone-crushing limbs of Irish breeding at its best.
The idea of getting left behind, and also quite possibly trampled to death by a group of British equestrians on their first hunt of the season, gave me the incentive needed to stagger to my feet. I was undoubtedly “in a state.” There was a perfect hoofmark on my tan breeches, mud covered my brand new coat, hair stuck out from my helmet, I was doing a pretty good Quasimodo impression, and EVERYONE was staring, even the horses. I might as well have had a red, white, and blue neon sign with an arrow flashing over my head: “I’m the American, Can you Tell?”
I’ve got a good sense of humor (“you’ll need one,” the man told me when he sold me my first pony), but this hunt was supposed to be the fairy-tale moment when I rode off into the English countryside, clearing 4 ft. brushes with ease, and ending with a fortuitous marriage to Prince Harry.
As I was about to melt into my socks from shame, a British woman in a tweed jumper carrying a silver tray made her way over to me–horses parted to let her approach. She opened her mouth to speak, and I braced for what was likely to be the deathblow to my ego…
“You alright, love? Here… have a chocolate biscuit and a glass of champagne. You’ll make the hunt yet.”
I almost choked on my utter disbelief–or was it the chocolate cookie?
Hide yo’ kids, hide yo’ wife
