Patches

Patches was a grumpy old paint gelding I used to lease. Part of the lesson horse herd, he had long ago decided not to work for a living. He would poke along at a slug-like crawl and buck if you tried to get him to go any faster. I have no idea how old he was, but he was likely much older than my preteen self.

I loved Patches. He was loudly patterned, small, dumpy and so ugly he was cute. His barrel was almost perfectly round, and I would ride him bareback as none of the lesson saddles seemed to fit him. If you insisted on using a saddle you could look forward to a ride full of balking, bucking and general disobedience. Not really understanding why, I soon learned that he was much more tractable when ridden in a simple fleece bareback pad.

So that’s how I rode him. I even rode in lessons bareback. Full on w/t/c group lessons where I posted the trot for at least 30 minutes. My thighs had never been as strong and lean as when I rode Patches in my lessons.

I had a secret weapon I used to make him move. Spurs. Patches hated the whip, and would buck if you used it. If you tried to discipline him with the whip for bucking, he’d just buck harder. I found a pair of teeny tiny ½ inch spurs at the tack shop and tried them. Magically, those tiny little spurs did the trick. While Patches was never about to beat land speed records, the spurs definitely worked. The afore-mentioned slug-like crawl became a decent walk, a slightly pokey trot and a really nice rocking horse canter. I could even get him to hand gallop if I prodded him enough.

Riding bareback with my spurs, I could get Patches to do anything I wanted. Well, almost.

He had a knack for catching me off guard and dumping me. He never bucked me off, but he expertly stepped out from under me on more than one occasion. Mostly this was my fault, as I spent long hours sitting or laying on him jabbering with my friends. When Patches had had enough of the chit-chat, he’d take a big, sudden step sideways and I’d tumble off. I swear he was laughing at me.

When I bought my first horse, Cherry, I didn’t have much time for Patches. I felt bad, and took him carrots and treats whenever I could. He was showing his age, starting to have trouble using his lips and would take the treats as gently as he could with his teeth. He moved even more slowly than before.

When Cherry popped a splint right before a big summer campout, I was devastated until I remembered Patches. I asked his owner (also the barn owner) if I could take him. She agreed, as long as I didn’t ride him too hard or do anything too stressful. He’s getting up there in years, she told me.

I was ecstatic, but then I remember his lips. Maybe he’d have trouble with a bit too. I hunted in the lesson tack room for something to use and came up with an ancient mechanical hackamore. It was old and huge, with giant shanks and a big leather noseband.

It fit Patches’ head, so I figured we were good to go. As I didn’t want to go out bareback, I hesitantly looked for a saddle to use. My wonderful saddle, the saddle that fit every horse I’ve put it on, didn’t quite fit Patches. He was too round for the medium tree. Luckily a lady at the barn had an extra wide saddle that she was willing to loan me.

I saddled him up (for the first time in over a year) and off we went with my friends to the campout. Patches’ normal distaste for the saddle was overshadowed by the fact that he clearly loved being out on the trail. He still didn’t move very fast, but there was no bucking and no resistance.

We had a great time plodding down the trail in our borrowed saddle and stolen hackamore. If they didn’t fit, he never complained.

I don’t remember details of the night, but the next day we went out for a big group trail ride. Patches was almost speedy, keeping up with the other horses. I was worried that it might be too much for him, but he never complained and was anxious to stay with the group.

When we got home from the campout, I gave him a bath and spent the rest of the day letting him graze awkwardly on the grass around the barn. The hackamore I kept, as nobody seemed to want it, and I had delusions of taking Patches out again in it.

Poor Patches died not too long after that ride. I don’t know if he was put down or died naturally, but one day he was gone. Even though I had my own horse, I was grief stricken. I’d had so much fun on that horse, and he’d been “mine” for a few short months. In an impulsive act, I stole his bit from the tack room, to keep as a memento of him. I still have that full check snaffle in my tack trunk.

Thinking back, I’m glad I was able to take him to that campout. It was a “last hurrah” of sorts for us. We were able to do something together that both of us enjoyed. He was loved, he was part of my life, and there was something incredibly special about that ugly little paint that so many passed by. I hope he died knowing that was loved and will never be forgotten.