Bolting

Starr bolted with me twice. Did I forget to mention that he was strong willed? That, combined with his competitive spirit, made him hard to control at times, especially in the company of other horses, which was why I rode mostly alone. The last time I rode with a group, everything was fine until the other girls decided to canter, whereupon Starr, thinking the race was on, proceeded to overtake from the back, with me hauling on the reins to no effect. When we reached the front, the girl in the lead decided to give us a run for our money. Boy, was that ever a mistake!

Starr took off. We were riding along the edge of the sugar cane fields at the time, next to a road, where telephone poles had steel cables that crossed our path at regular intervals. Starr, on the outside of the track, careered along it at break-neck speed, having already left the group behind. The cables whizzed past over my head, and, since I’d lost control of him, I couldn’t even guide him away from them. I decided the only way to slow him down was to turn him into the field. The sugar cane had been recently cut and the fields were ploughed. It took a great deal of tugging to turn him, but turn him I did, and we thundered across the ploughed up ground, the group now far behind.

I hauled on those reins, I yanked and yawed him, all to no avail. Starr was not going to slow down. He was a powerful horse with a lot of stamina, and I had visions of ending up on the freeway. There was a barbed wire fence around the sugar cane fields, however, and when we reached the far side, which must have been a good couple of kilometres from where we started – covered in lightning fast time at a flat out gallop – he allowed me to turn him, and finally stopped.
I rode home, and vowed never to ride with a group again.

So, we rode alone, and that was more fun in many ways, since I didn’t have to worry about other riders sparking Starr’s need for speed, or at least, for being in front. Then one day I cantered him up a long, fairly steep hill. I preferred to canter uphill, since down hills scared me, with Starr’s not so certain brakes and ticklish accelerator. About three quarters of the way up the hill, however, Starr decided this was far too much like hard work, and going down would be much easier. He swung around and took off downhill at an astonishing speed.

Once more, I hauled on the reins, but that only pulled me onto the Western saddle’s pommel, which I clung to. Each time I pulled on the reins, he would slow a little, but then I would overbalance, due to the steep incline, and loosen the reins, whereupon he would speed up again. We careered down a rutted road, heading for a much larger dirt road at the bottom of the hill, frequented by busses. My heart hammered in my mouth as we headed for this road, hell for leather. As we reached it, a bus approached, and I managed to turn Starr so we were racing away from the vehicle.

The passengers and driver of that bus must have been most surprised to be overtaken by a gold and white horse with a white-faced, wild-eyed rider. We left the bus in the dust, too. I never rode him up that hill again. Lesson learnt.

Assegai

Several months later, I was out riding one day on a quiet road in Assegai, enjoying the peacefulness as we walked along, when Starr bucked without warning. I was flung onto his neck – I did that a lot – and he bolted. I had lost both my stirrups, and clung to his mane, trying to keep my seat as we careered along a narrow road with even narrower hedged verges. As it turned out, he hadn’t bucked, but had kicked the two Doberman pinchers that had attacked his hind legs. He must have hit one, for I’m sure I heard a soft whine. The Dobermans were in hot pursuit, but gave up the chase after a few hundred metres.

With my heart in my throat, I regained my balance, although not my stirrups, and, as we rounded a corner and started down a hill, I was able to lean back and pull on the reins. Starr stopped within a few dozen metres. I dismounted and inspected his hind legs, but could find no sign of blood. The dogs must have bitten him fairly hard, though, for him to lash out like that. The fact that he had not taken off until after they had bitten him, while he had probably been aware of them racing up behind him, was a testament to his steadiness, even at the tender age of four.

Then again, Starr didn’t expect to be hurt, and his trust extended to other animals as well as humans. After that, however, he was warier of dogs. Needless to say, my mum, when I told her the story, insisted I take her to the house were it had happened, whereupon she called out the home owners and berated them roundly about allowing their dogs to roam the streets and attack unsuspecting children on horseback. Mum to the rescue! When I rode that way again, the dogs were locked in the garden.

Also in Assegai, we had our encounter with what Starr considered to be the scariest thing he’d ever seen. A cement truck. These, of course, have that huge drum on the back that rotates, and this particular truck was painted a particularly virulent shade of orange with grey stripes. We were heading towards it, and Starr watched it warily, but continued to walk. Again, it was a narrow road with a narrow verge bordered by a hedge. As the truck approached, he grew more and more nervous, until, as it started to pass us, he decided he didn’t like the look of it at all, and tried to turn to run.

Unfortunately, by that time it was next to us, and swinging around only brought him closer to it. He turned away, into the hedge, and I hung onto the reins, preventing him from turning around so he could bolt. It passed us while he shuddered and shook, but then it was behind us. The next time we encountered a cement truck, I flagged the poor man down and forced him to stop while I walked past, but this time Starr was okay, and only snorted a little.

Some time after that, Starr developed a nasty cough, and I called out the vet, who diagnosed rhinopneumonitis and gave him a long acting antibiotic injection. He also left a few more shots with me, since one wouldn’t be enough. Now, I was okay with giving injections to any horse except Starr. Somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to stick a needle in him. I found a nice man – the father of a riding friend – who said he could give Starr his jabs. The first one went off without a hitch, but when he injected him the second time, Starr staggered and almost collapsed when he pulled the needle out. I let him out of the stable, since he was reeling around still, and raced to the house to phone the vet.

Dr Cairns told me that the kindly neighbour must have injected Starr in the vein, and the antibiotic had gone straight to his brain. I was lucky, he said, because most horses dropped dead off the needle. The next time the poor man came to give Starr his shot, he must have stuck the needle in ten or twelve times before he was sure there was no blood. Starr must have felt like a pincushion!

At that time, I was cleaning the stables myself, and noticed that right after Starr had finished his food, he would have a huge pee on the bedding. Thinking to reduce my workload by at least one pee, one day I took him out on a halter right after he’d finished eating, led him to the back of the stables where there were soft pine needles, and told him to ‘PEE!’. Believe it or not, he got the message, and from then on I took him behind the stables every day, and he would immediately pee. Smart boy!