dikki-tikki-tavi

One of my favorite childhood stories was Rudyard Kipling's Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. I had fond dreams of having my own mongoose, who would protect me during the night and keep a watch over the house and yard by day.

A little while ago I was at the barn doing some afternoon chores. The geldings were munching rinsed hay from their hay nets, and Salina and the donkeys had wandered out to the round bale (which now has a hanging tarp that is meant to be a shelter but today it's blowing like a giant flag - and no, they are not afraid - but stand there and let it blow up and away right over them as they eat).

I heard a commotion in the forest and immediately looked at Salina, who is my barometer of all things not quite right. And she too had heard the noise and was staring intently into the trees.

The skittering sounded again and suddenly Dickens E. Wickens bounded out of the trees into the sunshine, intently chasing something that I at first thought was a shadow.

Then Rikki-tikki went out into the garden to see what was to be seen. It was a large garden, only half cultivated, with bushes as big as summer-houses of Marshal Niel roses, lime and orange trees, clumps of bamboos, and thickets of high grass. Rikki-tikki licked his lips. ``This is a splendid hunting-ground,'' he said, and his tail grew bottle-brushy at the thought of it, and he scuttled up and down the garden, snuffing here and there till he heard very sorrowful voices in a thorn-bush.

He proceeded to chase something and I peeled my eyes to see what it was. Something long and black and slithery, winding hither and yonder as Dickens pursued.

Darzee and his wife only cowered down in the nest without answering, for from the thick grass at the foot of the bush there came a low hiss --- a horrid cold sound that made Rikki-tikki jump back two clear feet. Then inch by inch out of the grass rose up the head and spread hood of Nag, the big black cobra, and he was five feet long from tongue to tail. When he had lifted one-third of himself clear of the ground, he stayed balancing to and fro exactly as a dandelion-tuft balances in the wind, and he looked at Rikki-tikki with the wicked snake's eyes that never change their expression, whatever the snake may be thinking of.

It was not, thank goodness, a cobra, but probably a black snake, about three feet long. Suddenly the snake turned to face Dickens, rose up in the air, and struck, one, two, half a dozen times. Dickens bravely battled the snake, swatting it with his paws, until the snake resumed its path to the platform by the arena.

Dickens got on top and paraded around, watching for the serpent to come out again. And then he sat and began to lick his paws.

Rikki-tikki curled himself up in the grass and slept where he was -- slept and slept till it was late in the afternoon, for he had done a hard day's work.

On my way inside, I scooped up the snake-eating cowboy and brought him inside, where he restored himself with cat food.

When Rikki got to the house, Teddy and Teddy's mother (she still looked very white, for she had been fainting) and Teddy's father came out and almost cried over him; and that night he ate all that was givn him till he could eat no more, and went to bed on Teddy's shoulder, where Teddy's mother saw him when she came to look late at night.

He's now curled up on the foot rest beneath my desk, taking a well-deserved break. I enjoyed re-reading Kipling's story today, and realizing that another childhood dream has come true.

Who needs Rikki-tikki when we have Dickens E. Wickens?

Rikki-tikki had a right to be proud of himself; but he did not grow too proud, and he kept that garden as a mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bit, till never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls.

the view from the porch and a few thoughts on dressage

It's been a hot day and a lazy one. I've not done much of anything and yet the day has slipped by, hour by hour, until now it's evening and dusk is turning the sun to shadow outside. The cats are lazing on the front porch, and horses are grazing in various spots until later when they'll all go out to the field for the evening.

Last night my daughter and I went to the annual dressage competition that attracts a lot of upper level riders and horses. I hoped as we drove over that I wouldn't see anything that caused me to regret supporting the show. Unfortunately the very first ride we saw was a young rider doing an FEI pony class, and between her rigid hands, the tight noseband, flash, and her quite agitated rotating leg jabs, the pony was straining to open his mouth, showing the whites of his eyes, and threatening to spook and/or bolt about every 5 strides. He was the very image of a horse pushed to explosion, but he didn't. She held him in from every angle and as far as I'm concerned, he was being a saint not to spontaneously combust out from under her.

This was not my idea of dressage, and it was difficult to watch, but we stayed on and were happy to see more harmonious riding later in the afternoon and evening.

My eyes roamed from the horses' mouths to the riders' legs and then up to the hands again. It was no surprise that quiet, kind hands and legs plus a relaxed mouth/jaw/poll yielded elegant, fluid rides.

I found this quote earlier in the week, and it was appropriate last night as I watched many horses and riders, most at the upper levels of the sport. Only a few had what Albrecht is talking about.

The “aids” that have become a technical term in horsemanship are no real help for the horse, as long as he perceives them clearly as interference from the outside. They only deserve to be called “aids” when they blend into the horse’s movement so seamlessly that the horse’s desired response becomes “instinctual” and that the rider’s “orders” direct the horse without him perceiving it this way. The observer on the outside will therefore always have to get the impression that “the rider thinks and the horse carries out on his own.

-Kurt Albrecht (1996; translation: T. Ritter)


There were many illustrations of collected work, including the piaffe, the pirouette, and tempi changes. Some were truly beautiful and others looked forced and almost mechanical, and it isn't hard to imagine those mechanical renderings of what should be freely flowing movement creating, over the longer term, joint issues.

Ritter's quote reminded me of the conversation my daughter and I had on our way home last night, having to do with which of our horses would be good at what higher level movements. In my mind that's as it should be - the work should come out of what comes naturally and beautifully to the individual horse. Our pony does levades in the field and I'm sure he could easily be taught to do them in hand. Cody has a natural piaffe that is quite beautiful. Keil Bay floats when he does an extended trot. Salina has the style and elegance to do flying changes that even an amateur rider can sit with ease.

I've experienced some mistaken upper level movements on Keil Bay, and for all I know, that may be the closest he and I come to a canter pirouette. But when it happened, it was fluid and graceful and I sat it well because I had no idea it was coming and it was over before I could start trying to control it. On some level, I love the concept of "accidental dressage" and now that I think of it, it's the sort of sport Keil Bay and I can manage quite nicely. :)


In the course of his education a horse will sooner or later offer most dressage movements on his own, either out of a misunderstanding or as an evasion - travers, counter canter, flying changes, piaffe, passage, even airs above the ground. So, in order to "train" the horse to do them, the rider merely has to seize the right moment and polish what the horse is offering. Before the right time has come, however, the thinking rider will not punish the horse for the premature execution of a movement he wants him to perform at some point in the future. Rather, he will observe and remember the circumstances that made the horse volunteer the movement, so he can use them to his advantage when the time has come.

-Thomas Ritter


I watched the faces of the riders, and the ones who impressed me were the ones who kept the same focused expression no matter what the horse did. It was nice to see the smiles when things went well, but better still seeing the measured faces of patience and acceptance, because you know when you see that in a competition, the horse has experienced it at home.


The biggest enemy to the partnership of dressage is impatience and the human nature to dominate other creatures.

-Walter Zettl

There were a few idiot people walking around, as usual. One supposed trainer and competitor sat behind us during the Grand Prix musical freestyles and did loud, piercing catcall whistles when the winning horses rode their victory lap, in an effort to make the horses spook. I felt like spooking myself, and in the process accidentally belting her one.

There were several musical freestyles that were good, but only one that revealed a horse and rider in their element with the music and the movement. The crowd responded with spontaneous applause a number of times during the ride, and a huge ovation afterward. The judges rewarded the pair with winning scores, and that was good enough to overpower the noise of the banshee behind us.

Today the only horse movement going on here is tail swishing and the occasional snort and shake of the head. We're pondering dressage from the porch while the temperatures fall. As far I'm concerned every equine here gets a blue ribbon.



For true equestrian art there are no recipes and no tricks, regardless of what saddle we ride in. One has to learn that the greatest attention must be paid to the seemingly easiest things and that that is often the most difficult thing. One of the most important principles for a rider is always to put the horse first, in other words, to look out for his wellbeing in his stabling, care, and training. The moment the human starts working with the horse determines whether he will become a great athlete and artist who will be able to look back on a long, healthy life, or whether his path ends all too soon due to poor handling and incorrect work. With knowledge, time, discipline, and body control it is possible to bring the horse almost without training aids into a relaxed position by honest work. You don't have to reach the highest level, but you must always have the feeling that whatever you have accomplished was accomplished well and with honest work. Then you and your horse will always be content.

- Dorothee Baumann-Pellny (Im Damensattel: Eine Reitlehre f�r die Frau, Olms Press - 1997; translation: T. Ritter)

addendum from billie

If you enjoy reading about the donkeys and seeing their photos, you will LOVE Sheaffer's blog.

You may also visit Primrose Donkey Sanctuary online and can send donations to:

PrimRose Donkey Sanctuary
1296 Bowmanton Road - RR 4
Roseneath, ON
KOK 2GO

happy birthday to our dear friend sheaffer!

Dear Sheaffer,

We tried our best to come but they said it was too far.

So we decided to have our own little party in your honor.



First I had some hay.



Then Redford tried to play Pin The Tail on Rafer Johnson.






Then (Redford here!) we ate some grass. See how good we are at dodging the buttercups?



And then I went over to say my own special Happy Birthday to my favorite uncle!



I (Rafer Johnson back again) send you a tip of the ear



and a roll in the dust, and my very best donkey wishes for your birthday!



Then she made us pose for a birthday portrait in your honor.



Happy Birthday, Sheaffer!! We wish we were ALL there to celebrate with you!

Love,
Rafer Johnson, Redford, and the whole November Hill Menagerie

we have a chimney swallow!

For the past few days I've been hearing noises in our woodstove's chimney, which rises through the air to the ceiling right in the middle of our living room/kitchen area.

At first the sounds seemed like pieces of debris falling, and I figured some of the stuff on the inside of the chimney had loosened and was tumbling down the pipe. Yesterday, the noises became a bit more intense, and it began to sound more purposeful.

This morning I asked my husband to check it out. He opened the lid to the woodstove, stuck his hand into the chimney hole, and then jerked back with a start. I thought he had been bitten, but he had been startled by the feel of something soft.

Initially we thought it might be a mouse. Then a squirrel. Then we got serious and my son aimed the big flashlight into the chimney hole. It was a bird!

My husband gently took the bird and released it off the back deck. Probably 15 minutes or so later, the noises resumed.

I'm not sure why any bird would want to live inside a sooty chimney, but apparently this one (these? we think there were two) do. They are busily cleaning out my chimney every time they go in and out, as evidenced by the growing pile of cinders in the stovetop.

The funny thing is that they seem quite comfortable with the noises WE make. The chimney is a metal tube, not enclosed with brick or stone, and yesterday they were scrabbling away as my children, my mom, and I played a roaringly loud game of Apples to Apples, and then, even more funny, my mom started teaching us to play Rook.

For now, we are co-habitating quite nicely.