I have a student named Katie. At age 13, she is late starting her riding career, compared to my other students, but now that she has discovered horses, she’s determined to make up for lost time.

Katie rides an overgrown, founder-prone pony named Black Beauty. His favorite gait is the halt, and if he could wear a T-shirt, it would say, “Legalize grass.” Katie legs him through the equitation patterns, grimacing with the effort of keeping him at a trot, then goes home to baby-sit and earn money for her next precious lesson.

Katie has been clandestinely horse shopping with the stable owner and has found her perfect first horse, a homebred from a local family, at a fair price. With the hope of convincing her father to purchase said animal, determined Katie wrote a 40-page essay– complete with pie charts and bar graphs–to explain why her parents should buy her a horse. She had to compose this document in longhand, on ruled paper, because she was grounded from the computer for overusing it the week before (probably to surf horses-for-sale websites).

Katie’s honors thesis sounds remarkable, but how many of us haven’t gone to great lengths, extremes of physical or emotional or financial deprivation, where horses are concerned? We seldom ask why; we simply act. On faith. For passion. Be-cause if we scratch below the surface, we can still find a horse-crazy little girl or boy under the barn scurf and farmer’s tan. We remember what it feels like to love a pony so much it physically hurts to walk out the barn doorway and leave the hayloft, water buckets and sweaty tack behind.

I am teaching four little girls hunt seat. Two of them just attempted a boycott of the family vacation because they would “miss learning to post.” They are at the age when horses are part unicorn, part magic carpet ride, and pure bliss. After class, back at the barn where they think I can’t see them, they sink their faces into their ponies’ luxuriant manes, sneak fallen apples from the orchard, and whisper secrets into silky ears.

I was once one of those little girls. I’ve become a woman who can’t drive within 60 miles of a horse show without stopping “just to watch a few classes,” a woman who scopes out potential farms from the highway, and sees split rail fences in front yards and imagines leaping her gelding over them. The girls I teach in the summertime may grow up to be famous riders. They may get their own children lessons someday. They may even become better citizens, nicer mates, and happier people because of the time they spent with horses.

So I have some advice for Katie’s dad, who is stonewalling. Don’t fight it. Embrace it. The horse world will demand much of your daughter, but little of you. You can expect to write checks, carpool smelly children, find damp saddle pads in your washing machine and dirt tracked across the kitchen floor, write more checks, possibly trip over a random boot in the garage at night, and write more checks. If you’re lucky, she’ll let you hold the horse while he dozes between classes at the shows. That was always my Dad’s proudest moment, because it meant I trusted him.

I am convinced that children who grow up in a world of horses are statistically less likely to be unwed parents, drug users, mall rats, displayers of extensive body piercing, or bored on Friday nights. Most of them don’t even have time to date. They’re too busy with their horse.

Horsey kids are, however, more likely to have compassion for animals, be responsible to others, and understand commitment, patience, and perseverance. If my own students are any indication, they mature with less effort and less grief. They may slowly bankrupt their parents, but at least more and more colleges are offering equestrian scholarships.

I pray that Katie’s 40-page thesis does the trick. I myself had to break a leg to get my first pony. After a speed skating accident, I spent the summer in a full-length cast, and my own father, in the distorted depths of sympathy, promised me riding lessons once the bone healed. A winter of lessons and two weeks of riding camp later, I had Briar Patch, a tobiano-colored crossbred of very questionable parentage who became my best friend and constant companion.

My parents had thought competitive skating was costly. Boy, were they in for sticker shock. Luckily, once they took the plunge, they never looked back. Years later, I made good on their investment by paying for six years of graduate school with horses. When I got my master’s degree, I celebrated by buying a young horse to train–and fell in love again, this time with a big-hearted blue roan who has become the Pegasus of my middle age.

Those of us in the horse world, from recreational riders to professionals, can recall what it meant to own our first horse, what it means to still be sharing our lives with horses today. Next time you meet a Katie, kindle her kindred spirit. Take her on a trail ride or to a horse show. Let her help you with chores, baby-sit to earn lesson money, ask questions, touch horses. And when it’s time to convince her parents to take the plunge, share your story with them. Tell them how horses have enriched your life.

Pam Whitfield interned at the Chronicle in 1991. She is an alumnae of St. Andrews Presb. College (N.C.) equestrian program, holds a Ph.D. in English, and teaches English and equine science at Rochester College (Minn.), where she helped design the state’s only two-year equine degree program. Pam gives clinics, judges shows, and serves on the board of directors of the American National Riding Commission.


Pam Whitfield