My first horse.

Horse welfare has been a large part of media lately and the social licence to ride is being questioned more and more. It is something I find myself thinking about more and more. The way I interact with horses is changing as new information comes out and upon reflection, it feels like I am un-learning a lot and going back to 13 year old me. When my ego was at its early development stages, trauma was minimal, my awe of horses was central and everything was a bit more black and white.

Enter MY first horse, Shorty. Glen was our first horse, as a family, but Shorty, he was mine. I still remember seeing Shorty from a distance at a show and falling in love with him instantly. In hindsight, he was a short-strided, flea-bitten (white with freckles) quarter horse attempting to be a show horse, but I thought he was heavenly. After a conversation and a trial, he was mine… and presented on my 13th birthday.

Shorty and I at our first gymkhana.

Shorty had been through bit of trauma before us, and his previous owner was trying to gain his trust back. She had leased him to a man who abused him until he was a pile of anxiety. The previous owner had helped him immensely, but what really helped was a small 13yo horse-mad girl who thought he was sent from the gods.

And that’s where our story started. Over time we learnt to trust each-other. I gave him grace to be nervous, gave him confidence to try things and I just loved him. What resulted was a connection i’ve never felt since. All I had to do was think something while riding and he would respond accordingly. He would have moved mountains if I asked him, he even played low-level polox when he was terrified of sticks and balls!

We went on adventures to cattle stations in outback NT mustering brahman bulls, jumping in dams, show-jumping, dressage, showing, beach rides, pony club, eventing, swimming in creeks and just having fun.

A few years into our journey, he injured himself in the paddock and with a long recovery time, I started riding my sisters pony, Lilli. He recovered from that injury and then during a particularly hot and humid ‘build-up season’ in Darwin, started to develop anhydrosis (the puffs). We acted swiftly and put him on steroids which thankfully worked, but I will never forget Shorty thinking he was then a stallion. He spent the next week trying to mount my sisters mare, and I had to keep his front legs bandaged incase she kicked out. The embarassment of living in a non-horsey acreage estate and having your horse out the front near the road, erect penis waving about, trying to mount the other horse!

As my competition ambitions exceeded his ability and I got my next horse, he stayed at home, enjoying paddock life and teaching mum a few things.

I grew into my late-teens and twenties, moving away, but always visiting. Every time I went back home, I would go out and call out to him, and he would call back out and come over. No matter how long between visits.

He lived until the age of 30, being pampered in his later years by my mum (and fed all sorts of sweet treats from my dad).

My childhood is filled with memories of this little freckled quarter horse and he formed the rider I became.

We spend so many years losing ourselves to societal pressures, traumatic experiences and patriarchy, until we either break or end up someone we’re not.

I think back on this time now, and that is what I want to go back to. That connection, love, trust, respect and unfiltered joy.