The Pickle Eater
Marta had already been burned once by a horse trader. When she purchased her first horse, she was 34 years old and a complete novice. She fell in love with a black Tennessee Walker filly and had ended up in the hospital with a concussion and sprained ankle. The filly was a wild one, and her husband had insisted that the filly be sold. With some trepidation, Marta began looking for a new horse, one that was older and far more experienced. She didn’t like the phrase that everyone used when advising her. She didn’t want a “baby sitter,” exactly: it sounded so dull. She wanted a horse with a personality, one she could keep for twenty years, a horse with which she could build a bond and a long, happy relationship.
Jerry, the owner of the stables where she had boarded the filly, suggested they visit the Echo Hill ranch, a few miles away. Jerry said the owners were old friends of his, and they had over 200 horses for sale. The farm was nestled in the Ozarks. He said the horses were free range, free fed, and spent their days roaming the scenic hills around the ranch. Jerry introduced Marta to Victor and Lisa, the proprietors of the business.
“Good to meet you, Marta,” said Victor. “Jerry told us about your last experience, so we’re looking for a horse that’s dead broke, right?”
Marta was gun-shy, without question. She had trusted the woman who had sold her the filly, and the hurt she felt was as much over the breach of trust with the trader as her injuries and failure with her first horse.
“Well, I want a horse I can ride safely…I want a gentle horse, but please, please don’t sell me an old horse! I wouldn’t mind a gaited horse. I want something younger than 15. I want a horse I can have for a long time.”
The four of them talked for quite awhile, standing idly by two enormous horse trailers, the size a semi truck might pull. They could see several of the horses that grazed in the pasture on the other side of the drive. Marta told them she could spend up to $800. She didn’t care about breed, size or color. She didn’t care whether she bought a mare or gelding. She just wanted a safe horse in the prime of his life.
Lisa suggested that Marta should return in a few days. They would take a look at their stock and pick one they thought might work for Marta.
When the day came to return to Echo Hill, they arrived as quite an entourage. Marta and her husband, Wade, brought Wade’s mom. Jerry was with them, along with one of the young women, Samantha, who rode at the boarding stables with Marta.
Victor and Lisa greeted them with the news that they had the perfect horse for Marta. Lisa went into the barn and returned leading a liver chestnut gelding. The horse was not wearing a halter; he was just being guided with a cotton lead rope looped around his neck. Marta’s first impression was that this was hardly the horse of her dreams. He was plain looking, in poor condition, and seemed uninterested in the people standing in a circle around him. His hipbones jutted, his neck seemed a funny shape, almost upside down. Lisa said they had just gotten him in, and that he was about 11 years old. The gelding had a white blaze, and a funny white patch low on his right side that was shaped like a bell.
“I cleaned him up a little for you, Marta,” grinned Lisa. “He was a worse mess than this when we brought him in.”
As the horse lowered his head, Marta did notice that his bridle path, ears and whiskers were freshly trimmed. Even his fetlocks were smooth and his black hooves wore a gloss of hoof treatment.
“I didn’t even need to tie him up when I clipped him; he’s dog gentle.”
Marta had never seen a horse with such unusual coloring around his face. He looked almost like a roan, but only on his rather chiseled head. Except for his white markings, the rest of his coat was a deep, rich chestnut. He had a kind eye, and bumped her gently with his nose when she stood next to him.
“He needs to gain about 350 lbs,” said Victor, “and he’ll look like a different horse.”
“Well, I’m looking for personality and safety,” said Marta, “Not beauty.”
Marta remembered a starved, horrible looking dog her neighbor had rescued years ago. Much to her surprise, the dog blossomed into a sleek and handsome specimen, so perhaps there was hope for this unattractive red horse.
“What’s his name?” Marta asked.
“His name?” Lisa looked at Victor.
“Red Rover,” Victor said. “That’s what they called him, but I’m sure you could change it if you want.”
Lisa swung up onto the horse’s back and with only the lead rope around his neck, Rover walked, trotted, cantered, turned, and stopped. Marta was in love.
“Come on Marta, you get on him.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve never ridden bareback before!”
They all coaxed, until Victor showed Marta how to accept a “leg up” and she clumsily scrambled onto Rover’s back.
“Oh, he’s so bony! I couldn’t do this for very long, it would kill me,”
Still, a funny thing happens sometimes when you make a connection with an animal, regardless of his outward appearance, or the length of time you’ve known him. Marta, during the brief few moments atop the horse, felt that exaltation of riding, of merging and morphing into one, through absence of fear and love of the animal. She realized that this horse would be her partner in a way the black filly never could.
Slightly stupefied by her ride on Rover, she only half-listened to Jerry and Lisa talking about the selling price of the horse. They concluded that Marta could buy Red Rover for $750.
“You try him for an entire week, and see how you like him,” said Lisa.
As they were walking back to their cars, Jerry leaned over to Marta.
“I really like this horse.”
Wade’s mother, Samantha, and Wade all nodded agreement.
At Jerry’s stable the following day, Rover was bedded down in his own stall and had his own food. Marta sat on an overturned bucket watching her horse eat.
“Jerry, why does he drop so much of his food out of his mouth when he eats? He can’t afford to drop it. He needs every bite.”
“He needs to have his teeth floated. We have a vet coming out next month for vaccinations and he can do it then.”
Marta’s obvious confusion prompted Jerry to continue.
“Horses’ teeth need to be filed down once in a while. As a horse gets older, he can develop sharp edges on his teeth that make it hard to chew. Sometimes, the sharp edges can make sores in the horse’s mouth. It’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it.”
“Jerry, Lisa and Victor didn’t sell me an old horse, did they?”
Jerry laughed.
“No.”
The other thing that niggled at Marta and caused her concern was the condition of the gelding’s feet. Jerry told her that she shouldn’t ride Rover just yet; the farrier needed to trim his feet, and he would be at the ranch in the next “week or two.”
Marta used the time that she couldn’t ride her horse to learn him in other ways. She spent hours brushing him, combing his mane and tail, feeding him carrots and finding that he enjoyed all manner of unlikely foods. On the way to the stables one afternoon, she stopped at a local sandwich shop. She sat on the manger of Rover’s stall to eat, and suddenly, the pickle spear at the edge of her waxed paper disappeared. Rover smacked his lips and began nuzzling her hands, presumably looking for another. She discovered that her friend also liked sushi, glazed donuts and garlic cheese bread.
When the farrier finally turned up, Marta got more bad news. Jerry told her that the farrier had done his best, but Rover’s feet were still uneven and would need more work. Furthermore, he had an abscess in the sole of one foot and would need daily treatment to cure it.
Weeks passed. Marta worried that Rover wasn’t gaining weight like he should, although his bones were a little less evident now. Jerry told her to stop fretting. The farrier returned. Rover’s feet were still sore and tender. The farrier told Marta that the horse needed special pads on his front feet. Marta paid him $125 for his services.
After about two months, Marta began taking him for walks on the trail. He would trip and stumble, but Jerry said Rover was still getting used to the trimming and shoes. He was a favorite with the boarders, though, particularly the little girls who came out to ride. They called him "Pickle Eater" and would sometimes bring him pickles so they could watch the silly faces he pulled as he hoovered the briny cucumbers from their little hands.
At last, Marta heard that the vet was coming to give annual vaccinations to some of the boarder’s horses, and to float some teeth. She had never seen equine dental work done, and was intrigued when the vet used a speculum to crank open the mouth of a massive Percheron cross belonging to one of the boarders. He inserted a flat metal bar that looked like a giant emery board into the horse’s mouth and rubbed it back and forth along the horse’s teeth, making a dreadful noise as he did so. He filed for a few minutes, ran his hand along the surface of the teeth, feeling for roughness, and filed some more. “Fascinating,” Marta thought. The vet worked his way down the barn aisle, but it was more than an hour before he finally got to Rover.
The vet ran his hand down Rover’s neck and gave his withers a scratch.
“I’ll bet I don’t even need to tie you up for this, do I, old man?” the vet said.
He grasped Rover’s tongue and pulled it slightly out of the horse’s mouth. Holding the tongue in one hand, he used his other hand to feel Rover’s teeth, far back into his mouth. Jerry walked up as the vet was removing his hand and drying it on a towel. Samantha was behind him.
“Okay, we’re done here. Who’s next, Jerry?”
“Done? No, he needs his teeth floated! Marta cried, “He loses half of what he puts in his mouth!”
“He’s really too old for floating to help. I don’t feel any sharp edges, but he’s hardly got any teeth left back there to file, poor guy.”
Marta felt sick.
“How old is too old?”
“Honey, this horse probably remembers when the Beatles played the Ed Sullivan Show.” The vet grinned kindly.
“How old, Doctor? Is he twenty? Twenty five?”
The veterinarian caught the gray look on Marta’s face and his own expression softened.
“Marta, once they get to a certain age, we can only estimate how old they are based on their teeth. I would say this old man is at least thirty, probably older.”
Marta swayed and felt faint.
“There are lots of things you can do to keep him comfortable, though, for the time he has left. Make sure you feed him something formulated for senior horses. It’s a lot more expensive but definitely worth it. Supplements for his joints wouldn’t hurt, either. I’d say he’d be good for another year, maybe two. You’ll know when it’s time to let him go.”
“He'll be fine, Marta,” Jerry said, leaning toward her. “He’ll live at least another five years.”
Marta wept as she drove home that afternoon. She cried for the next two weeks, every time she thought of her horse. She was frightened that each day could be his last.
As the days went by, Marta began to accept that Rover’s time with her was limited. The senior feed, the vitamins and supplements all seemed to help the old horse. Against the odds, he was thriving. They continued to take gentle walks along the base of the Ozark Mountains. Sometimes, they even trotted for short distances. Rover never spooked, he never kicked or bit. He still gave Marta little head bumps when she was slow sharing her lunch pickle. He even seemed to enjoy their peaceful outings. Marta knew that Rover’s basic upkeep was costing her nearly four times what it would have cost for a younger horse but she loved him dearly, and that was that.
On the anniversary of their first year together, Marta made her horse a carrot cake garnished with pickle spears. Wade surprised her by bringing to the stable a professional photographer. He spent the afternoon taking pictures of her life with Rover, while she rode him, as well as their affectionate rituals back at the barn.
Marta says she now realizes that Victor and Lisa broker “killer” horses; horses bound for the slaughterhouse. She knows now the purpose of those massive horse trailers. She also learned what most experienced horse people know. The “roaning” around Rover’s face is a mark of advanced age. She knows now that only a fool would have paid $750 for Rover, a 30+ year-old horse with bad feet and no teeth.
But Marta also says this, in a final message to HTT:
When I look at a herd of horses, I see beauty. I see instinct. I see spirit, and speed, and all the noble traits I attribute to horses. But…when I look into the eyes of this one, individual horse, I know love.
Jerry, the owner of the stables where she had boarded the filly, suggested they visit the Echo Hill ranch, a few miles away. Jerry said the owners were old friends of his, and they had over 200 horses for sale. The farm was nestled in the Ozarks. He said the horses were free range, free fed, and spent their days roaming the scenic hills around the ranch. Jerry introduced Marta to Victor and Lisa, the proprietors of the business.
“Good to meet you, Marta,” said Victor. “Jerry told us about your last experience, so we’re looking for a horse that’s dead broke, right?”
Marta was gun-shy, without question. She had trusted the woman who had sold her the filly, and the hurt she felt was as much over the breach of trust with the trader as her injuries and failure with her first horse.
“Well, I want a horse I can ride safely…I want a gentle horse, but please, please don’t sell me an old horse! I wouldn’t mind a gaited horse. I want something younger than 15. I want a horse I can have for a long time.”
The four of them talked for quite awhile, standing idly by two enormous horse trailers, the size a semi truck might pull. They could see several of the horses that grazed in the pasture on the other side of the drive. Marta told them she could spend up to $800. She didn’t care about breed, size or color. She didn’t care whether she bought a mare or gelding. She just wanted a safe horse in the prime of his life.
Lisa suggested that Marta should return in a few days. They would take a look at their stock and pick one they thought might work for Marta.
When the day came to return to Echo Hill, they arrived as quite an entourage. Marta and her husband, Wade, brought Wade’s mom. Jerry was with them, along with one of the young women, Samantha, who rode at the boarding stables with Marta.
Victor and Lisa greeted them with the news that they had the perfect horse for Marta. Lisa went into the barn and returned leading a liver chestnut gelding. The horse was not wearing a halter; he was just being guided with a cotton lead rope looped around his neck. Marta’s first impression was that this was hardly the horse of her dreams. He was plain looking, in poor condition, and seemed uninterested in the people standing in a circle around him. His hipbones jutted, his neck seemed a funny shape, almost upside down. Lisa said they had just gotten him in, and that he was about 11 years old. The gelding had a white blaze, and a funny white patch low on his right side that was shaped like a bell.
“I cleaned him up a little for you, Marta,” grinned Lisa. “He was a worse mess than this when we brought him in.”
As the horse lowered his head, Marta did notice that his bridle path, ears and whiskers were freshly trimmed. Even his fetlocks were smooth and his black hooves wore a gloss of hoof treatment.
“I didn’t even need to tie him up when I clipped him; he’s dog gentle.”
Marta had never seen a horse with such unusual coloring around his face. He looked almost like a roan, but only on his rather chiseled head. Except for his white markings, the rest of his coat was a deep, rich chestnut. He had a kind eye, and bumped her gently with his nose when she stood next to him.
“He needs to gain about 350 lbs,” said Victor, “and he’ll look like a different horse.”
“Well, I’m looking for personality and safety,” said Marta, “Not beauty.”
Marta remembered a starved, horrible looking dog her neighbor had rescued years ago. Much to her surprise, the dog blossomed into a sleek and handsome specimen, so perhaps there was hope for this unattractive red horse.
“What’s his name?” Marta asked.
“His name?” Lisa looked at Victor.
“Red Rover,” Victor said. “That’s what they called him, but I’m sure you could change it if you want.”
Lisa swung up onto the horse’s back and with only the lead rope around his neck, Rover walked, trotted, cantered, turned, and stopped. Marta was in love.
“Come on Marta, you get on him.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve never ridden bareback before!”
They all coaxed, until Victor showed Marta how to accept a “leg up” and she clumsily scrambled onto Rover’s back.
“Oh, he’s so bony! I couldn’t do this for very long, it would kill me,”
Still, a funny thing happens sometimes when you make a connection with an animal, regardless of his outward appearance, or the length of time you’ve known him. Marta, during the brief few moments atop the horse, felt that exaltation of riding, of merging and morphing into one, through absence of fear and love of the animal. She realized that this horse would be her partner in a way the black filly never could.
Slightly stupefied by her ride on Rover, she only half-listened to Jerry and Lisa talking about the selling price of the horse. They concluded that Marta could buy Red Rover for $750.
“You try him for an entire week, and see how you like him,” said Lisa.
As they were walking back to their cars, Jerry leaned over to Marta.
“I really like this horse.”
Wade’s mother, Samantha, and Wade all nodded agreement.
At Jerry’s stable the following day, Rover was bedded down in his own stall and had his own food. Marta sat on an overturned bucket watching her horse eat.
“Jerry, why does he drop so much of his food out of his mouth when he eats? He can’t afford to drop it. He needs every bite.”
“He needs to have his teeth floated. We have a vet coming out next month for vaccinations and he can do it then.”
Marta’s obvious confusion prompted Jerry to continue.
“Horses’ teeth need to be filed down once in a while. As a horse gets older, he can develop sharp edges on his teeth that make it hard to chew. Sometimes, the sharp edges can make sores in the horse’s mouth. It’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it.”
“Jerry, Lisa and Victor didn’t sell me an old horse, did they?”
Jerry laughed.
“No.”
The other thing that niggled at Marta and caused her concern was the condition of the gelding’s feet. Jerry told her that she shouldn’t ride Rover just yet; the farrier needed to trim his feet, and he would be at the ranch in the next “week or two.”
Marta used the time that she couldn’t ride her horse to learn him in other ways. She spent hours brushing him, combing his mane and tail, feeding him carrots and finding that he enjoyed all manner of unlikely foods. On the way to the stables one afternoon, she stopped at a local sandwich shop. She sat on the manger of Rover’s stall to eat, and suddenly, the pickle spear at the edge of her waxed paper disappeared. Rover smacked his lips and began nuzzling her hands, presumably looking for another. She discovered that her friend also liked sushi, glazed donuts and garlic cheese bread.
When the farrier finally turned up, Marta got more bad news. Jerry told her that the farrier had done his best, but Rover’s feet were still uneven and would need more work. Furthermore, he had an abscess in the sole of one foot and would need daily treatment to cure it.
Weeks passed. Marta worried that Rover wasn’t gaining weight like he should, although his bones were a little less evident now. Jerry told her to stop fretting. The farrier returned. Rover’s feet were still sore and tender. The farrier told Marta that the horse needed special pads on his front feet. Marta paid him $125 for his services.
After about two months, Marta began taking him for walks on the trail. He would trip and stumble, but Jerry said Rover was still getting used to the trimming and shoes. He was a favorite with the boarders, though, particularly the little girls who came out to ride. They called him "Pickle Eater" and would sometimes bring him pickles so they could watch the silly faces he pulled as he hoovered the briny cucumbers from their little hands.
At last, Marta heard that the vet was coming to give annual vaccinations to some of the boarder’s horses, and to float some teeth. She had never seen equine dental work done, and was intrigued when the vet used a speculum to crank open the mouth of a massive Percheron cross belonging to one of the boarders. He inserted a flat metal bar that looked like a giant emery board into the horse’s mouth and rubbed it back and forth along the horse’s teeth, making a dreadful noise as he did so. He filed for a few minutes, ran his hand along the surface of the teeth, feeling for roughness, and filed some more. “Fascinating,” Marta thought. The vet worked his way down the barn aisle, but it was more than an hour before he finally got to Rover.
The vet ran his hand down Rover’s neck and gave his withers a scratch.
“I’ll bet I don’t even need to tie you up for this, do I, old man?” the vet said.
He grasped Rover’s tongue and pulled it slightly out of the horse’s mouth. Holding the tongue in one hand, he used his other hand to feel Rover’s teeth, far back into his mouth. Jerry walked up as the vet was removing his hand and drying it on a towel. Samantha was behind him.
“Okay, we’re done here. Who’s next, Jerry?”
“Done? No, he needs his teeth floated! Marta cried, “He loses half of what he puts in his mouth!”
“He’s really too old for floating to help. I don’t feel any sharp edges, but he’s hardly got any teeth left back there to file, poor guy.”
Marta felt sick.
“How old is too old?”
“Honey, this horse probably remembers when the Beatles played the Ed Sullivan Show.” The vet grinned kindly.
“How old, Doctor? Is he twenty? Twenty five?”
The veterinarian caught the gray look on Marta’s face and his own expression softened.
“Marta, once they get to a certain age, we can only estimate how old they are based on their teeth. I would say this old man is at least thirty, probably older.”
Marta swayed and felt faint.
“There are lots of things you can do to keep him comfortable, though, for the time he has left. Make sure you feed him something formulated for senior horses. It’s a lot more expensive but definitely worth it. Supplements for his joints wouldn’t hurt, either. I’d say he’d be good for another year, maybe two. You’ll know when it’s time to let him go.”
“He'll be fine, Marta,” Jerry said, leaning toward her. “He’ll live at least another five years.”
Marta wept as she drove home that afternoon. She cried for the next two weeks, every time she thought of her horse. She was frightened that each day could be his last.
As the days went by, Marta began to accept that Rover’s time with her was limited. The senior feed, the vitamins and supplements all seemed to help the old horse. Against the odds, he was thriving. They continued to take gentle walks along the base of the Ozark Mountains. Sometimes, they even trotted for short distances. Rover never spooked, he never kicked or bit. He still gave Marta little head bumps when she was slow sharing her lunch pickle. He even seemed to enjoy their peaceful outings. Marta knew that Rover’s basic upkeep was costing her nearly four times what it would have cost for a younger horse but she loved him dearly, and that was that.
On the anniversary of their first year together, Marta made her horse a carrot cake garnished with pickle spears. Wade surprised her by bringing to the stable a professional photographer. He spent the afternoon taking pictures of her life with Rover, while she rode him, as well as their affectionate rituals back at the barn.
Marta says she now realizes that Victor and Lisa broker “killer” horses; horses bound for the slaughterhouse. She knows now the purpose of those massive horse trailers. She also learned what most experienced horse people know. The “roaning” around Rover’s face is a mark of advanced age. She knows now that only a fool would have paid $750 for Rover, a 30+ year-old horse with bad feet and no teeth.
But Marta also says this, in a final message to HTT:
When I look at a herd of horses, I see beauty. I see instinct. I see spirit, and speed, and all the noble traits I attribute to horses. But…when I look into the eyes of this one, individual horse, I know love.
This work by horsetradertricks.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.