“So much for Buckingham,” says the soon-to-be Richard III (he’s still, what, Richard Plantagenet at this point?) after dispatching yet another rival to the throne in Shakespeare’s Richard III (or not).
So much for getting behind riding and trotting over poles and such. God’s Wounds but I was nervous last night. It took forEVer for us to walk over the d***ed poles and I was sure, just as sure as Gabby, that we would DIE if we trotted over them. Melinda said, “Go ahead. Go. You’re the boss. Tell her to do it. It’s her job.” Ah. Gabby’s job. That made sense and I could get her to walk on. Gotta fulfill your job so that during evaluation time your supervisor will say good things rather than “Eh. You could do better.”
Just as the horse picks up on my fear, I pick up on the fear that the horse feels. Thus,we have a nice microwave oven of stuff indeed; a billiard table of emotion with the cue ball struck by a novice player who thinks hitting the ball, any ball, is good enough (not that I know anyone like that).
As soon as we walked over the poles, it was fine. Fear evaporated. Poof. But it was a lot different than Sunday’s lesson, last night’s lesson was. Gabby pulled her head out of my hands over and over and I was back to square one, tsking and tsking and grabbing the reins to pull her big old head back UP. Four steps forward, six steps back. That’s just what it’s like sometimes.