I realized in the shower yesterday I’ve never really written in depth about Tarma’s quirks, her likes and dislikes, what makes her tick and what hits her ick. With the spring crazies in full flag, it’s a good time to lunge before riding and capture some of what makes up a Tarma.

A solid case in point of the relationship we currently have: Tarma’s newest trick is best shown at the mounting block, though she does it at the trailer as well. I hop up on the mounting block (or stump, ditch or fence when we’re out and about), then point to where I’d like her to be so I can mount. She’ll ignore me for a hot second, looking off into the distance for cougars I assume, then glance at me in surprise. “But wait!” she tells me, with the twitch of an ear. “I know this answer! Watch me!” She’ll proceed to line herself up next to me, neat as you please. She’ll stand steady as stone as I fuss a bit, grab the breast collar and set my foot to the stirrup, gathering myself to throw a leg over. She won’t twitch, no matter how long I take, just watches me with one brown eye. She accepts the dog on the mounting block next to me with an easy calm, even when he licks her nose.

As soon as my ass hits saddle, sometimes even before I find my other stirrup, she’s off. Usually quickly but sometimes just a slow shuffle forward, I’m on and that’s good enough for her. She used to be quite good about waiting longer for her cookie, but with the arrival of spring she’s got places to be right now, and if she must take me along that’s fine but we’re going NOW.

She is a mare of contradictions, forcing me to constantly evolve my understanding of her. Ask her to trot down an unknown trail for an hour and she’ll motor, no breaking, no silly spooks, all business. Tell her to take 62.5 seconds to open and close a gate, and cue the drama llama. Gates are for suckers and she can’t be bothered with good range riding etiquette. When I’m on her for an obstacle course, she makes me be precise in my signals, always thinking a little bit ahead and of course praising her as we go. Plop my son on her (her actual favorite person) and watch her put every hoof perfectly placed without him doing anything. Butter wouldn’t melt when he’s aboard, but I can mount back up and she’d rather run into a wall than go the direction I’d like to go when we try to canter a circle (true story, this has happened, just ask our dressage trainer!)

During the course of the same trail ride, sometimes within the course of a mile, I can be hanging on the reins almost down to the slobber straps, her head firmly, somehow, in my lap, maintaining less than light speed only by a finger nail. I’m belting out a Hamilton song littered with curse words, seriously regretting my lack of gym going to build adequate fitness. A few minutes or miles later we’re bumping along hands free, breathing evenly and enjoying each other’s peaceful time in the woods. Until we come upon some water, and she immediately starts pawing, trying to get me as wet as she is, to join the Labradork in the joy of water.

The mare ears are clear and epic, ever changing. I see them at their most stringent when she’s being ignored by cats in her food, or the Labradork is trying to grab grass out her mouth. I adore the one ear flick back I get when we’re cruising along and I’m complimenting her, and equally the two ear twitch that acts as her version of eye roll when I ask something dumb, like trotting in a slow, consistent circle in the arena. I love them pointing firmly right at me as she grabs her hard earned treat after figuring out something tricky, like straddling a pole.

Most of all I’m addicted to that eagle eye, even at mile 48 on a hot day and she’s still game to eat up trail. She watched a mule clamber up some rocks and said clear as day “Pffft, I can do that to!” so I held on and stayed out her way. She’s an endless puzzle, my spicy chocolate mare, a love of peppermints, oats, and water, though we’ll always, always have to discuss each gate that dares stand in our path.