The Finished Horse - Flash
By: Kris Peterson
In a lifetime of studying/owning horses and fifteen years
spent training them it's easy to assume I have met a few on my travels. In all honestly I have never met a single one that
fits into the cooker cutter shape of a finished horse. A recent discussion brought this explanation into the light.. It reads:
"A finished horse turns when you look in the direction you
want to go. He works on a very light rein, no arguments or hesitation in responding to your request. Rider can move each foot
independently and place it where ever she decides (down to the very inch), so lots of flex ability, agility, and ability to
take direction from the rider's weight, rein or leg. Knows his leads, lead changes, lead departures, will sidepass at a walk,
trot, or lope both directions. Has vertical and lateral flexion in his body. Comes when called, leaves when directed. Stops
smooth, straight and softly at all gaits. Loads in a trailer easily, ground ties anywhere.... for hours if requested to. Willing
to stand tied on a picket line overnight unattended without incident. Feet.....easy to trim, patient to stand on 3 legs as
needed. All the grooming requirements. ...clippers, ear and leg trimming, bathing. Social and polite with other horses and
new people. This horse is brave with his feet and his mind is clear about what is new to him. He doesn't run and ask questions
later. A horse that would rather be with me than anywhere else."
I found myself with the presence of perplexed scowl. I'm
not arguing with the above in no means, but as I said not all horses fit into this cookie cutter which prompted me to introduce
my soul mate into the conversation. It was his introduction that got him chosen for what I deem an honor.
Flash, began his life the winter of 1991, born in the Salt
Wells area in Sweetwater County, Wyoming. By April of 1993 he was being trucked to extreme Northeast Missouri, a member a
group of Mustangs purchased by private treaty between two ranches.
A stallion, he sported a coat of no discernable color. He
had black points, a silver stripe much like that of a skunk that laced the center of his tail, a blaze that streaked off the
side of his face, a hind sock and a body color that made you curl your nose. He was mostly black, with sorrel intermingled,
roaning frosted the mix which left the beholder thinking the a cow pattiie that had been left to dry in the summer sun.
At what point did our paths collide? A early summer day in
May of 1993 when the ranchers son told me his dad had a colt he was going to shoot. You see Flash was a felon by shear definition.
He had killed an older Quarter Ranch gelding and with that fete he had sealed his fate.
You read of the "Strike" horses that live in holding facilities.
Untouchable. Tormented. These horses are not lost. They can be fixed. But, not by just `someone' wanting to save them. They
have a mate somewhere. A lonely suburban house wife. A lost teenager. Or possibly an average joe. And when those two paths
collide? The sky is the limit.
From the second I laid eyes on him standing solitary in that
corral waiting for the inevitable I knew he was the one. Is he 'finished'? By the above definition? No. Is he "perfect? Yes.
What one person deems the `Ultimate Ride' and what another
seeks are two views that are staged at opposite ends of the spectrum. I want a 'balls to the walls" horse. I want one that
will take you to the edge of reason and beyond. I want a horse that knows how to handle himself in any situation and keep
me along for the ride. I want him brazen enough to know when to strut and when to sit down and work But above all, I want
a horse that can think.
Flash? Where do I even start. Does he fit into the cookie
cutter? Absolutely not. Does he collect? No. Does he back? When he sees it necessary. Trimming? Well that is a weird little
tick in it's own. Today he is eighteen-years old. His hind feet are perfect and have never been touched. His fronts, I round
once a year for my own vanity. A farrier? He'd never allow. The vet? He tolerates because he has to and only sees doc once
a year for his Coggins. He has never been sick a day in his life.
Is he broke? No. He allows me and a select few to ride him.
And to ride him is a step back in history. He `is" the perfect horse. Under saddle he is the epitome of profession and nothing
more. Naked, well, that's his time not mine.
He's been everywhere and done it all. Trail rides, working
cattle, parades, shows and show offs. He goes anywhere and everywhere. We were at an event one summer and honestly I did not
want to leave him `just tied' for the masses so I took him with me. Where? The bathroom. It was one of those public campground
outhouses and without a thought he simply went in with me and waited patiently. You should have seen the looks of the ladies
that followed only to find themselves face to face with the rump of a gray Mustang.
His exploits are legendary in these parts. He's been in a
small town gazebo. On a dare one night I rode him into an ancient Catholic Church - I'm sure we're going to go to hell for
that one. We even jumped picnic tables at a county fair to prove a point to a pair of wannabe cowboys. Before the café closed,
it was not uncommon to find him standing at the dumpster waiting on me with our Australian Cattle Dog sitting in his saddle.
And our crutch? I'm also a rural mail carrier for the USPS and so he's had his picture snapped at every post office we've
passed on our journeys!
Has it all been fun and games? Far from it. We like to run.
He lives for it. One night we were racing another gelding and tragedy nearly took him. He dropped his right leg into an abandoned
post hole that had never been filled. Being the horse he is he had the presence of mind to roll left. It was a split second
decision that saved his life. Had he fallen right he would have most certainly broken his shoulder. His decision took it's
toll. He rolled completely over the top of me but had somehow managed to arch his back so that his weight never landed on
me.
The summer of 04 I nearly lost him in a pool of quick sand
in the dry river bed of the Grand River. It took three girls and two other horses to drag him out. In the process we wrenched
his hip and literally he did not speak to me for 5 months.
Most generally when we get in trouble we're doing something
we shouldn't. But my heart is as wild as his and when we're together, it's just a bad deal. But he trusts me. Because if he
didn't he sure would have never bailed off that sixty foot river bluff into the Mussel Fork River. That stunt pretty much
sealed his fate as a dare devil because now at every ride we show up to you hear: "Hey…tell Kris we found a bluff for
Flash!"
And yes, they know him by name. He is the "Mustang" now.
He is also the horse that "Hangs" with his trailer and is never tied to it. He is the horse that no one can catch but his
little blonde rider who only has to catch his eye to get him to come.
But this designation was hard in coming. Trapped in
"Quarter Horse" country I kept my prize's heritage a secret. On a ride at Bible Grove I had a cowboy argue with me for four
hours that my gelding was had a Doc Bar rump, a Poco head and I was going to ruin him riding him in the rocks with no shoes.
He tried repeatedly to get me to price him and finally caved and asked what was on his pedigree. I simply replied, "If he
had a pedigree it would start with three letters, B-L-M." the conversation was over with , "Why in the hell would you want
to own something like that!?"
He nails everything with precision. Saddles without being
tied, trims without being tied, heels on command, ground ties, you name it. I taught him early on to "stop" when he felt he
was caught. I was laughed at right up until the day he struck his leg in the barbed wire fence. Grass `is" greener on the
other side of the fence and somehow he stuck his right foreleg through the fence. The top two wires were in his armpit while
the bottom three rested taught against his cannon bone. My father-in-law was baling hay on the hill and for a fact knew he
had stood there for 7 hours. I asked him why he didn't check him or think it was odd? His reply was, "Flash is odd…I
thought nothing of it." I found him patiently waiting with a pyramid of poop at his heels. I cut the wires and backed him
out with only a rusty stain on his hair.
Well, Flash is odd. He's also a turd. If you run him against
an electric fence and only have one wire he will lay down and scoot under it. He will untie other horses, take his own saddle
off if you leave him to his own devises, can get any kind of halter off his head and roll in any snow drift if your not paying
attention. He loves Mountain Dew straight from the bottle - you have to watch him close at trail rides he simply wanders trailer
to trailer snooping. He'll tear the pocket off your pants for an atomic fireball and will never turn down a twinkie, granola
bar or cracker. He'll also open trailer doors and we now have `special" latches on our pipe corral because he's mastered all
the commercial ones. But it doesn't matter if he gets out because it's not uncommon to drive by our farm and see him free
grazing in the yard.
You hear the term `soul mate" broadcast on the television
regarding lovers. I always disagree. Your `soul mate" compliments you . Makes you whole. And no where does it ever say that
`mate' has to be in human form. Flash knows what I'm thinking before I think it. If I'm upset he somehow knows. I farmed with
my father up until two years ago when we split our ways. You see I was not the "son". That night I came home to my farm and
cried like a child sealed up inside my truck. When I got out in the wee hours of the morning and headed for the back door
I heard him. The horses had been all turned out in the lower pasture and there was no earthly reason for any of them to be
up in the corrals. But somehow he knew and was standing at the corral gate. Knowing. I threw a rope over his head and we took
off bareback into the night and rode until dawn.
So now you sit back and you say, "He's eighteen….you've
had that long to dominate him." I smile at this point.
My answer. Not as long as you might think. When I got Flash
he was just shy of his second year and still a stallion. Our dance was a battle of who was the more stubborn, or stupid which
ever happens to apply.
To say he was rank would be putting it lightly. He bucked,
bit, kicked, stomped, would rear and come down on you . He was just basically not having any of it. At the time I was a pre-vet
student at the University of Missouri and had only weekends with him and so the following year was spent on ground work. He
was a bastard. Any time I tried to exude any kind of dominance over him he retaliated. The first time I ever rode him he charged
a five board fence, jumped through it then threw himself on me on the other side.
I live in the middle of nowhere. The closest town to me growing
up was 239 people. Small towns have small minds and I was told repeatedly I would never ride him or even be able to manage
him.
But I knew what I was doing. At the time I was a stallion
handler for Sunny Ridge Farms. I asked the owner for advise - if she had known he was a Mustang she would have had a fit!.
She advised me to geld him.
On December 23, 1994 he was gelded in the street outside
the sale barn during a cattle sale.. Hardly opportune, but it was the only time I had from school and the only time the old
vet was available. He was just shy of 3.
The next six months I spent mostly on the ground at his feet
looking up. That is until July 3, 1995. That is the date that the wills battled for the last time. I wasn't backing off and
he wasn't; either He was in a remote pasture on the farm. Had a 43 acre calving pasture solely to himself. As i said...I have
never had to "call" this horse. Despite his reluctance to give in he was always in my back pocket. But that day I had had
enough. I drug my saddle and bridle out of my truck, tacked him untied as usual, only today I had an extra item. The deer
rifle. When I was finished I showed it to him and no lie I told him four things. ONE You are not beating me. TWO there was
no sale barn in his future. THREE.I do not own pasture ornaments...and FOUR....He either let me ride or he was going
to the ditch to be vulture bait.
I have no idea if he had any comprehension of my words. But
I will say this that day was a beautiful ride. The very next day I turned around and took him to the annual 4th of July Parade
in my hometown...and he took first place out of forty horses that showed up that day and had technically been broke for only
two days.
After that I'd say I polished him for a year. Exposing him
to cattle wrangling, trail rides, rivers, bluffs and whatever other stupid things I could think to assault him with. He ate
up every single minute of it and nailed every single task I presented him with.
I've had five Mustangs so far in life and have kept only
one. Truthfully, not all horses are created equal. I loved the others, but they just didn't have `it'. I have other horses
as well and have trained half again as many and honestly I have run across others who have that "it' as well. It's a priceless
commodity in an equine. It's called sanity.
For all means and purposes Flash is "sane". He always has
a direction. He knows what is expected and quite honestly projects an image. He is quite cocky and will show off at the drop
of a hat. He absolutely LOVES to run. I mean LOVES it. He lives for it and there is nothing like taking him out and giving
him his head. He's like a piston exploding underneath you. Trotting? I don't recommend him for that. My kidneys cry.
In a world of Quarter Horses he had carved his own reputation.
I hid his heritage for years because of a simple reason. I got tired of people telling me my horse was unworthy especially
after they had praised him all day for his actions and abilities. I let my horse speak for himself.
I can stand on his back, he can be ridden bareback with nothing
more than a lead rope, he neck reins, loads without me, can be groomed and personal needs met without altercation. If I sit
in the pasture he'll come lay beside me and if I catch him napping in the sun I can lay on top of him. Could I take him to
a dressage show? Yeah. I'd get laughed at. But he wouldn't care.
He was basically know as the "little gray horse that could
do anything" and so little by little I leaked his background and folks were astounded to lean he was a Mustang. Several years
ago I took him to a trail ride at Lentner MO. After the ride I had taken him to the water trough for a drink and that is quite
a sight. An obedient silver horse simply following his mistress up through trailer row with no rope. Along the way we passed
three little girls fighting over a pony. The two older ones being mean to the younger one. So on the way back the underdog
was crying in the dirt where they had pushed her down. I simply asked is she wanted a BIG horse. I clipped a roping rein on
Flash's halter, threw the child up on his bare back and turned her loose. She rode him all evening in and out of trailer row...with
a ton of marveled club members looking at the "Wild Mustang" toting the 6 year old.
In all I'd say I have two years of hard training in him and
two years of polishing. The rest has just been endless trails and adventures. Today, at eighteen he is perfect, his color
transformation has not altered who is in the least. He had begun life as a horrid "Whathcamacallit" color. By five he was
a blue roan, ten, a sterling silver dappled after that it has been a steady but interesting decline. The only "color" he has
left is some gray patches on his knees and a charcoal mane. His color is irrelevant. He is still known for who he is.
In 2003 I was offered $7000 for him and refused. You see
he has access to this strange little world that rests on the edge of reason. I often take him out on the flat and cut him
loose. Her will absolutely explode underneath you. The ground beneath his strides becomes a blur as his shoulder's pull and
his hind quarters push. The wind races over you like an ocean wave and for a few brief minutes your in `his' world. And it's
a cool place to be.
