The Packer

When the sign went up at Traiteurville Farm for the Annual Pig Roast
(September 16, 2006) I was pleased to see that a trail ride was also
planned for 1pm that afternoon.  The only problem was that I was out of
shape and out of practice as allergies had kept me confined within doors
all summer.  I also worried about Rudy's bare feet.  I spent way too
much time fretting as the day came out perfectly.

Rudy was not thrilled to be called in to work, and attempted to hide
behind a mule.  I suppose he thought the long ears would cover him?
Last year, he showed concern about the roaster. The smell of cooking
meat, so yummy to me, doubtless seemed ominous to him.  This year it was
just part of the landscape of home.  When he saw all the other horses
being saddled, he became very alert.  Instead of expanding his chest to
prevent the girth from being drawn tight, he sucked in his ribs and I
was able to tightened the girth one hole tighter than normal.  We were
mounted and ready on time.  Jim the trail boss began hollering for
riders to fall in: "Let's go! let's go!"  Rudy was ready to rock. He
bunched up under me, chuffing like a freight train and kept begging for
more rein.  Rudy fell in line behind Jim's big horse Buck, and although
he was willing to patrol down the line, he was not going to walk at the
back behind all those slow Quarter Horses.

Jim led us through the woods behind his house, knocking down the spider
webs as he went.  We wound around trees, over uneven ground, dry stream
beds and fallen logs.  Sometimes the trail dropped at a stiff angle for
a horse length or two.  Sometimes we had a little climb.  The shade and
the green were wonderful.  Rudy kept his head low and relied on me to
signal what lay ahead.  Dressage rocks, he said, shifting right as my
left leg signaled a drop on that side of the trail, coiling under
himself at a half-halt to take a drop and sliding left to avoid a
stump.  Jim warned everybody that there was a big log coming up.  The
horses may want to jump it, he said, but if you take it slow they can
step over it.  The log was big, over two foot in diameter.  Buck eased
over it.  I took a grip on the handle of the endurance saddle, but Rudy
angled his body so his right shoulder was closest to the log, then swung
his right foreleg over the log without bending it.  He then brought his
left foreleg over and tucked each hind foot in turn against his belly.
Neatly and sweetly over!

The horse behind us tried to jump and the little boy who was riding in
front of his mom got caught in the stomach by the horn of the western
saddle.  When we emerged from the woods, I heard him telling his mom
that he wanted to go back.  By this time, we had been out an hour and
although Jim had more to show us I thought I would go back also as I
wanted to save a little energy for dancing and partying at the pig
roasts.  Rudy was not adverse, but he suffered a moment of confusion as
the others went on without us.  He wanted badly to catch up with another
rider who had headed home earlier, but he stopped and stood while the
mother halted to let her son turn around.

A packer is a horse who will carry anything: cheers to Rudy, my
Tennessee Packing Horse!