palace of winds

“He looks like a damn warmblood,” says my instructor, setting a fond hand on his sweat-damp neck.

I grin. He does a bit, I think. Is bound to get only bigger, stronger. I’ve been eyeing some of those cut Quarter Horse hind ends around the barn, wondering if Ev will ever have booty like that. Maybe if I can get him back off that big old forehand. We’ve spent the lesson in canter work, though, and he’s done well. I’ve managed to stand his shoulders up both directions; earned, even, a decisive, “Good! I liked that correction!”

Earned, too, chastisement over my tendency to come up out of the saddle on downward transitions. “We’ll make a hunter out of you yet,” she says. “Get you out of that jump seat.” I can’t wait for that part, though; the jumping. We’ll be tearing it up cross-country in no time. He can be one lazy cuss, especially on the lunge, but I have a feeling he’s going to be a whole other horse once we hit the open.