And Here are the Budweiser Horse commercials. Love these!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
New Online Community Site for all Horse Lovers!
Hi there,
I just wanted to let you all know that there will soon be a new Online Horse Community FREE for Everyone to Join In. We plan on having lots of information on Horse Care, Training, Videos, Events, Tack Store, Horse Properties for sale and lots of games and other fun stuff!
We are projecting completion of the basic site April 27, 2008. Please stop by after Feb 27th, to see our new site, post any stories you would like to share, and post some pics of your favourite horse.
Invite lots of friends and earn referral points for free stuff which will be available on the site soon. Stop by www.TheHorseNetwork.ca and check it out April 27th 2009!
If you have any feedback or would like to see anything in particular on this site, send me an email and i would be happy to hear your thoughts!
Thanks
I just wanted to let you all know that there will soon be a new Online Horse Community FREE for Everyone to Join In. We plan on having lots of information on Horse Care, Training, Videos, Events, Tack Store, Horse Properties for sale and lots of games and other fun stuff!
We are projecting completion of the basic site April 27, 2008. Please stop by after Feb 27th, to see our new site, post any stories you would like to share, and post some pics of your favourite horse.
Invite lots of friends and earn referral points for free stuff which will be available on the site soon. Stop by www.TheHorseNetwork.ca and check it out April 27th 2009!
If you have any feedback or would like to see anything in particular on this site, send me an email and i would be happy to hear your thoughts!
Thanks
Moonlight Rides - Personal Story for The Horse Network (Canada)
Moonlight Rides
I grew up in Southern Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, with a father who adored horses. He used to order a truck load of horses from South Africa, then ask my brother Kerry and me to meet them at the railway station and ride them back to Msasa, where we lived.
Dad also had African stable hands who met the train and rode some of the horses back, as there were usually at least fifteen horses per truck load. Dad used to get us to help groom the horses and ride them so he could sell them and know what he was selling.
I was fifteen at the time, and adored horses as much as my father did. The funny thing was that my mother hated horses. She seldom consented to ride one, and never did after the Thing on the Side of the Road episode.
Kerry, Dad, Mom and I went for a ride through the bush and all was going well until Mom’s docile old horse spied something on the side of the road. Old Shylock leaned over to see what the Thing was, and so did Mom, since she was also shortsighted. They both leaned forward, then quiet, good natured Old Shylock shied away from the object and Mom fell off and landed in the dirt beside a discarded coat.
The fall didn’t hurt anything except her temper, but Kerry kindly offered to let her ride his horse, Scarface. Scarface was a holy terror … he would bolt with his neck and head twisted around facing back so he could bite his rider’s foot. This meant he couldn’t see where he was going. Kerry had to exert a great deal of pressure to pull Scarface’s head round so he could see what he was bolting towards. Usually oncoming traffic. It didn’t surprise us that Mom pithily declined Kerry’s offer. She said she’d rather walk home.
I was riding Punch, a sturdy black pony like polished ebony, with a thick, stand up mane and flowing tail … he was my pride and joy, but he too shied at any and everything he spotted along the road. Punch and I loved each other but at some point someone had hurt him so he’d jerk his head away when you tried to put the bridle on him, unless you approached very carefully and patted his neck while sliding your hand and the bridle up toward his ears.
Mom refused to ride Punch. I think she thought Old Shylock had dumped her on purpose, and that was enough to put her off riding for life.
Tommy was another of the horses Dad brought up from South Africa. He was a big rangy looking chestnut animal about 16 hands, with a white blaze on his forehead. He hated me. I think he hated women in general, but my feelings were hurt. Tommy tried to buck me off every time I tried to ride him. Dad thought it was funny because Tommy liked him.
I remember riding Tommy along the side of the road after it had rained, and Tommy put his hoof in a rabbit hole and the next thing I knew was that I was lying on my back with Tommy’s front hoofs planted on either side of my face. Tommy looked smug, and a man driving a forklift towards us yelled, “Are you okay?” and when I yelled back, “Yes, thank you,” he burst out laughing. I managed to stand up with shreds of dignity still attached and I got on Tommy’s back and rode home.
I told Dad and he said, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I admitted, then he burst out laughing. Apparently there was something excruciatingly funny about someone falling off a horse, probably the same as slipping on a banana skin.
I think a general favourite of ours was Purple Passion. Purple Passion was a small horse with a large temperament. He liked to kick anyone who tried to get on his back. So the strategy was to back him against a brick building on the property, and as he was lashing out at the bricks, vault into the saddle. He would then get annoyed and try to bite his rider while circling round and round and being very huffy. After a while he usually tired of this and would allow us to take him for a ride. He had a hard rocking gait that jarred one’s teeth but we were all fond of him.
I had never ridden a race horse before Dad put me up on Puffing Billy. He stood about 17 hands high, and my instructions were to ride him gently around the race track. Puffing Billy either didn’t like or didn’t understand instructions so the next moment we were flying around the race track. I felt as if I were riding a giant rocking horse going like the wind. In fact, the wind blew my mouth open and I couldn’t get it shut.
As we flashed past Puffing Billy’s owner, I heard him shouting, “Be careful! Oh, oh, oh, be be be careful!”
We circled twice around the track and Puffing Billy fortunately decided he’d had enough exercise, so he slowed to a canter and then stopped in front of his owner, looking pleased with himself. I slid off his back and confess that my knees were trembling.
When I look back at our life with the horses, the times I enjoyed most were the times we went riding in the moonlight. Dad and Kerry and I would saddle up and head into the bush. The horses walked daintily, ears pricked, sensing the night sounds and whisper of leaves in the wind, listening to the crickets and insects singing in the bush.
The dust in the road shone white in the moonlight. The trees on the side of the road seemed to be standing on tiptoe, bathed in light and deep shadow. The horses were so alive, so alert, so conscious of every sound and every movement that we were too. We could feel their emotions ripple through their muscles, and every so often one of them would snort and toss his head and pretend to be frightened of something, which was usually an excuse to shy left or right.
We seldom spoke. It was enough to be together and to feel the magic of those moonlight rides. We’d come home and off saddle the horses and rub them down and Mom would be at the back door, asking rather anxiously if everything were all right.
“Yes, thanks, Mom … “
Everything was more than all right.
Pene
I grew up in Southern Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, with a father who adored horses. He used to order a truck load of horses from South Africa, then ask my brother Kerry and me to meet them at the railway station and ride them back to Msasa, where we lived.
Dad also had African stable hands who met the train and rode some of the horses back, as there were usually at least fifteen horses per truck load. Dad used to get us to help groom the horses and ride them so he could sell them and know what he was selling.
I was fifteen at the time, and adored horses as much as my father did. The funny thing was that my mother hated horses. She seldom consented to ride one, and never did after the Thing on the Side of the Road episode.
Kerry, Dad, Mom and I went for a ride through the bush and all was going well until Mom’s docile old horse spied something on the side of the road. Old Shylock leaned over to see what the Thing was, and so did Mom, since she was also shortsighted. They both leaned forward, then quiet, good natured Old Shylock shied away from the object and Mom fell off and landed in the dirt beside a discarded coat.
The fall didn’t hurt anything except her temper, but Kerry kindly offered to let her ride his horse, Scarface. Scarface was a holy terror … he would bolt with his neck and head twisted around facing back so he could bite his rider’s foot. This meant he couldn’t see where he was going. Kerry had to exert a great deal of pressure to pull Scarface’s head round so he could see what he was bolting towards. Usually oncoming traffic. It didn’t surprise us that Mom pithily declined Kerry’s offer. She said she’d rather walk home.
I was riding Punch, a sturdy black pony like polished ebony, with a thick, stand up mane and flowing tail … he was my pride and joy, but he too shied at any and everything he spotted along the road. Punch and I loved each other but at some point someone had hurt him so he’d jerk his head away when you tried to put the bridle on him, unless you approached very carefully and patted his neck while sliding your hand and the bridle up toward his ears.
Mom refused to ride Punch. I think she thought Old Shylock had dumped her on purpose, and that was enough to put her off riding for life.
Tommy was another of the horses Dad brought up from South Africa. He was a big rangy looking chestnut animal about 16 hands, with a white blaze on his forehead. He hated me. I think he hated women in general, but my feelings were hurt. Tommy tried to buck me off every time I tried to ride him. Dad thought it was funny because Tommy liked him.
I remember riding Tommy along the side of the road after it had rained, and Tommy put his hoof in a rabbit hole and the next thing I knew was that I was lying on my back with Tommy’s front hoofs planted on either side of my face. Tommy looked smug, and a man driving a forklift towards us yelled, “Are you okay?” and when I yelled back, “Yes, thank you,” he burst out laughing. I managed to stand up with shreds of dignity still attached and I got on Tommy’s back and rode home.
I told Dad and he said, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I admitted, then he burst out laughing. Apparently there was something excruciatingly funny about someone falling off a horse, probably the same as slipping on a banana skin.
I think a general favourite of ours was Purple Passion. Purple Passion was a small horse with a large temperament. He liked to kick anyone who tried to get on his back. So the strategy was to back him against a brick building on the property, and as he was lashing out at the bricks, vault into the saddle. He would then get annoyed and try to bite his rider while circling round and round and being very huffy. After a while he usually tired of this and would allow us to take him for a ride. He had a hard rocking gait that jarred one’s teeth but we were all fond of him.
I had never ridden a race horse before Dad put me up on Puffing Billy. He stood about 17 hands high, and my instructions were to ride him gently around the race track. Puffing Billy either didn’t like or didn’t understand instructions so the next moment we were flying around the race track. I felt as if I were riding a giant rocking horse going like the wind. In fact, the wind blew my mouth open and I couldn’t get it shut.
As we flashed past Puffing Billy’s owner, I heard him shouting, “Be careful! Oh, oh, oh, be be be careful!”
We circled twice around the track and Puffing Billy fortunately decided he’d had enough exercise, so he slowed to a canter and then stopped in front of his owner, looking pleased with himself. I slid off his back and confess that my knees were trembling.
When I look back at our life with the horses, the times I enjoyed most were the times we went riding in the moonlight. Dad and Kerry and I would saddle up and head into the bush. The horses walked daintily, ears pricked, sensing the night sounds and whisper of leaves in the wind, listening to the crickets and insects singing in the bush.
The dust in the road shone white in the moonlight. The trees on the side of the road seemed to be standing on tiptoe, bathed in light and deep shadow. The horses were so alive, so alert, so conscious of every sound and every movement that we were too. We could feel their emotions ripple through their muscles, and every so often one of them would snort and toss his head and pretend to be frightened of something, which was usually an excuse to shy left or right.
We seldom spoke. It was enough to be together and to feel the magic of those moonlight rides. We’d come home and off saddle the horses and rub them down and Mom would be at the back door, asking rather anxiously if everything were all right.
“Yes, thanks, Mom … “
Everything was more than all right.
Pene
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