Years ago, my search for a horse took me to a farmhouse with a sign in front that read "Canadian Horses for Sale". I parked and craned my neck to see a stout chestnut horse in the pasture. He wasn’t what I had in mind, and I was about to drive away, but then I saw her.
An elegant horse with a glossy, jet-black coat stepped from behind the barn. Something startled her, and she took off at a graceful trot around the fenced pasture. Her long black mane and tail floated behind her.
She took my breath away. Some people fall in love with the doggie in the window. I fell in love with the black horse in the pasture.
Her name was Heidi. She was two years old and was not yet broken. The owner said she was a skittish filly who needed a firm hand.
I had no business buying a horse like that. I was a good rider, but I had no training experience. The heart wants what the heart wants, though. Within days, I was the proud owner of a majestic Canadian mare named Heidi.
To quote Sheryl Crowe, Heidi is ‘my favourite mistake’.
THE HISTORY OF THE CANADIAN HORSE
The first Canadian horses were a gift from France’s King Louis XIV and arrived in Canada in the 17th century. Only the strongest and most determined to survive adapted to the harsh climate.
They worked hard, plowing the land and pulling lumber or blocks of ice. On Sundays, they were hitched to a sleigh or carriage and pulled families to mass. When ice racing became popular, they galloped across hazardous ice surfaces, braving blasting winds, freezing temperatures and injury. Their strength, stamina and versatility earned them the nickname Little Horse of Iron.
In April 2002, a bill was passed establishing the breed as Canada’s national horse.
LIFE WITH ‘MY FAVOURITE MISTAKE’
Heidi inherited the powerful build of her ancestors but not their calm demeanour. I had help breaking her in, but her trust was hard to earn. She was afraid of leaving the barn without other horses. She spooked at puddles, mailboxes on the side of the road, boulders and tree stumps. It was discouraging and a little dangerous at times, like the day I rode out alone with her for the first time.
To get to the wooded trail, we had to ride up a steep, narrow hill flanked by a ditch on either side. Heidi tried to turn back a few times, but I encouraged her to keep going. Finally, she refused to go any further and backed into a ditch with speed and agility remarkable for her size. There she was, standing almost upright with her hind legs at the bottom of the ditch and her front legs resting on the top. And there I was, hanging on for dear life.
I was terrified she would fall backward or sideways and crush me beneath her. My heart was pounding as I tried to coax her out of the ditch with voice cues. When that didn’t work, I bumped my legs against her flanks, first gently, then hard. She stayed frozen in position. Finally, I grabbed the end of my rein and slapped her firmly on the backside. This shocked her into scrambling back onto high ground.
Horses need to trust their riders. Heidi was telling me she didn’t trust me enough to go into the woods with me. I didn’t blame her. I was scared to death by then, too. Going back to the barn was not an option, though; she would back into the ditch each time we went out if she thought it meant we would go home.
So we continued on our way. Heidi was on high alert, with her ears pricked up and her nostrils flared. The muscles in her broad back were so rigid it felt like I was sitting on a cement block. I fought to keep my thighs and calves relaxed to convince her there was nothing to fear. Slowly and cautiously we went into the woods together.
My husband, Ben, was at the barn when we got back. “How did it go?” he asked and I told him. He listened, then said, “OK, can we go home now?” I swallowed hard. “No. I’m going back out. She has to learn to do this without almost killing me in the process.”
That was more than 20 years ago and Heidi is now in her first year of a well-earned retirement. She never became what could be called a calm horse. I never became a trainer either, but we made it work.
I taught her a little about trust and building a partnership, and she taught me a lot about patience, respect and leading with confidence. Not to mention that being in the presence of this gentle giant gave me countless hours of pure joy.
Was buying her a mistake? If it was, it’s my favourite mistake.
We all have a “favourite mistake”. Share yours, if you can.
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For more information on the Canadian breed, author Lawrence Scanlan wrote a great little book called Little Horse Of Iron. Chapters alternate between the history of the Canadian horse and his adventures with a green Canadian gelding named Dali.
Our little black cat, Shuri, is my favourite mistake. She’s also skittish, even now in her fourth year. She’s the kitten we shouldn’t have adopted for a family cat, because she was scared of her own shadow and clearly the runt of the litter. The shelter had so many sociable, silly, playful kittens vying for our affection. Shuri was hunched under the furthest corner of the pen looking like a terrified baby bat, all scrawny with disproportionately massive ears. But like you say, the heart knows and my heart knew that as a black cat she would be less likely to get adopted in the first place and her temperament would not be a selling point. So we took her home. She has come so far. She’s quietly confident but with very clear boundaries. I’m convinced she has a sense of humour. We are absolutely in love with her, and she with us. In another three years, she may even sit on my lap…!
Beautiful story of Heidi and you!
I'll share a story about Cooky. One day, many years ago when I arrived home from a long weekend of classes, I was met at the door by a cute little beige puppy with a toy heart in his mouth (my kids named him Cooky)! He was such a wonderful addition to our family (even though I must admit that I wasn't really prepared to have a dog at that time!). He did have a bit of an attitude too. One day when I picked up my youngest son at the bus stop just around the corner from our home with Cooky walking at my side, we decided to walk back home through the park. It had rained earlier in the day so the grass was a bit wet. As my son and I decided to cut across the park to reach our home faster, Cooky decided that he didn't want his paws getting wet, so he took the paved path around the park to get home! Our neighbors, who were also picking up their kids, were laughing and saying that he was quite the 'dignified princess'! I miss him still, even though it has been many years since he's passed.