(thedrafthorse with Spot on Sixth Street, photo by
trees are the answer on
flickr.com.)
I try not to be too whiny about the ill-informed public that continuously comes up to my horse downtown and puts their hands all in his face (whether or not my horse likes it, and whether or not they ask permission or say
anything at all to me), but I have to admit I've grown rather weary of total strangers approaching me and telling me how my horse feels, or what I should do for my horse, or whatever.
When I assure them that my horse is bored, not sad, or that his winter coat is sufficient for 40 degree weather, or that all horses have chestnuts on the insides of their legs, these strangers have the gall to tell me that
I'm wrong, because
they know horses.
And by "know horses" they usually mean that they have a friend who has horses, or they went to summer riding camp, or read
Black Beauty.
Now, I will be the first to admit that by all counts, I'm still a relative neophyte to the world of horses: I grew up in Lexington, KY ("Horse Capital of the World"), I took three semesters of English riding in graduate school, and have worked full time as a carriage driver in Philadelphia for a year and a half. I'm a not an expert, compared to my coworkers who have spent their whole lives, or at least their entire adult lives, making a living from horses.
That being said, I did the math.
I've been a carriage driver for a year and a half. That's
75 weeks (accounting for a few weeks I was on vacation).
In a given week, let's say I work 40 hours with horses. (That's really a
gross underestimate most of the time, but for the sake of argument and averages, let's leave it at that.) That means I've spent
3000 hours on the job
with horses, doing all sorts of things with them, such asgrooming, tacking, driving, hanging out with, feeding treats, playing in the yard, bathing, loading on to trucks, cleaning harness, administering needles to, braiding tails, etc., etc., etc.
Now, let's suppose that random stranger takes weekly riding lessons. Most lessons are an hour a week for a group lesson. If they are conscientious riding students, let's say they show up half an hour early and stay half an hour late to groom and tack their horse. So, that's 2 hours a week. In order for said random stranger to spend as much time with horses as I have in my job at the carriage company, they would have to take weekly riding lessons for
30 years.
So, can we please agree on who knows best what my beloved coworker is feeling or needs? (For those who can't follow the mathematical argument, the answer would be me, the horse's driver.)
----------
But this bit of a rant about experience allows me to post one of my favorite excerpts from one of my favorite books. Below is an account by James Herriot, from
All Creatures Great and Small:
I tried to think back over my life. Was there any time when I had felt this supreme faith in my own knowledge? And then I remembered.
I was back in Scotland, I was seventeen and I was walking under the arch of the Veterinary College into Montrose Street. I had been a student for three days but not until this afternoon had I felt the thrill of fulfilment. Messing about with botany and zoology was all right but this afternoon had been the real thing; I had had my first lecture in animal husbandry.
The subject had been the points of the horse. Professor Grant had hung up a life size picture of a horse and gone over it from nose to tail, indicating the withers, the stifle, the hock, the poll and all those other rich, equine terms. And the professor had been wise; to make his lecture more interesting he kept throwing in little practical points like "This is where we find curb," or "here is the site for windgalls." He talked of thoroughoins and sidebones, splints and quittor; things the students wouldn't learn about for another four years, but it brought it all to life.
The words were still spinning in my head as I walked slowly down the sloping street. This was what I had come for. I felt as though I had undergone an initiation and become a member of an exclusive club. I really knew about horses. And I was wearing a brand new riding mac with all sorts of extra straps and buckles which slapped against my legs as I turned the corner of the hill into busy Newton Road.
I could hardly believe my luck when I saw the horse. It was standing outside the library below Queen's Cross like something left over from another age. It drooped dispiritedly between the shafts of a coal cart which stood like an island in an eddying stream of cars and buses. Pedestrians hurried by, uncaring, but I had the feeling that fortune was smiling on me.
A horse. Not just a picture but a real, genuine horse. Stray wods from the lecture floated up into my mind; the pastern, cannon bone, coronet and all those markings--snip, blaze, white sock near hind. I stood on the pavement and examined the animal critically.
I thought it must be obvious to every passer-by that here was a true expert. Not just an inquisitive onlooker but a man who knew and understood all. I felt clothed in a visible aura of horsiness.
I took a few steps up and down, hands deep in the pockets of the new riding mac, eyes probing for possible shoeing faults or curbs or bog spavins. SO thorough was my inspection that I worked round to the off side of the horse and stood perilously among the racing traffic.
I glanced around at the people hurrying past. Nobody seemed to care, not even the horse. He was a large one, at least seventeen hands, and he gazed apathetically down the street, easing his hind legs alternately in a bored manner. I hated to leave him but I had completed my examination and it was time I was on my way. But I felt that I ought to make a gesture before I left; something to communicate to the horse that I understood his problems and that we belonged to the same brotherhood. I stepped briskly forward and patted him on the neck.
Quick as a striking snake, the horse whipped downwards and seized my shoulder in his great strong teeth. He laid back his ears, rolled his eyes wickedly and hoisted me up, almost off my feet. I hung there helplessly, suspended like a lopsided puppet. I wriggled and kicked but the teeth were clamped immovably in the material of my coat.
There was no doubt about the interest of the passers-by now. The grotesque sight of a man hanging from a horse's mouth brought them to a sudden halt and a crowd formed with people looking over each other's shoulders and others fighting at the back to see what was going on.
A horrified old lady was crying: "Oh, poor boy! Help him, somebody!" Some of the braver characters tried pulling at me but the horse whickered ominously and hung on tighter. Conflicting advice was shouted from all sides. With deep shame I saw two attractive girls in the fron row giggling helplessly.
Appalled at the absurdity of my position, I began to thrash about wildly; my shirt collar tightened round my throat; a stream of the horse's saliva trickled down the front of my mac. I could feel myself choking and was giving up hope when a man pushed his way through the crowd.
He was very small. Angry eyes glared froma face blackened by coal dust. two empty sacks were draped over an arm.
"Whit the hell's this?" he shouted. A dozen replies babbled in the air.
"Can ye no leave the bloody hoarse alone?" he yelled into my face. I made no reply, being pop-eyed, half throttled and in no mood for conversation.
The coal man turned his fury on the horse. "Drop him, ya big bastard! Go on , let go, drop him!"
Getting no response he dug the animal visciously in the belly with his thumb. The horse took the point at once and released me like an obedient dog dropping a bone. I fell on my knees and ruminated in the gutter for a while till I could breathe more easily. As from a great distance I could still hear the little man shouting at me.
After some time I stood up. The coalman was still shouting and the crowd was listening appreciatively. "Whit d'ye think you're playing at--keep yer hands off ma bloody hoarse--get the poliss tae ye."
I looked down at my new mac. The shoulder was chewed to a sodden mass. I felt I must escape and began to edge my way through the crowd. Some of the faces were concerned but most were grinning. Once clear I started to walk away rapidly and as I turned the corner the last faint cry from the coalman reached me.
"Dinna meddle wi'things ye ken {know} nuthin' aboot!"
From
James Herriot, All Creatures Great and Small (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1972), 109-111.
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