Game of Sales

This could also be titled: “I Really Fucking Hate All the People Ever So I’m Going to Poison Them Like Joffery Was Poisoned”


I don’t usually mind playing “the game” when it comes to maneuvering my way through life. Things need to be said and done to make your way through life and I get that. It’s not always fun, but it is what it is, so I just do what I need to do to get through to the other side. Some life games are easier to play than others, and most of the time, I’m pretty good at keeping my mouth shut about which ones suck.

This is not one of those times.

I really HATE playing the buying and selling of horses game. I have never attempted to sell a horse (and, everyone, you SELL a horse. You do not SALE it. If I get one more fucking email with “are you still saleing him” I’m going to throttle someone). I never, ever want to do it again. Ever. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, never ever again.

Which, of course, is an unattainable goal unless I sell Simba and never purchase another horse again. Admittedly, that’s looking like a solid plan at the moment, but I know myself better than that at this point. However, once Simba finds a new home, I am done d-o-n-e done for awhile, even though I spend more than one hour a day longingly surfing sales sites online (and cried buckets when Dorada came back on the market this week AND I CAN’T GO GET HER). I am extremely intolerant of stupidity and dishonesty to begin with (including my own, should I not be paying attention to what I’m doing), and the astounding abundance of both of these things within the horse world sends my head spinning. I haven’t any interest in dealing with again any time soon.

Unrelated: Simba and Flynn playing nice.

Obviously, this entire situation has made me a stabby douchenozzle who needs to be tossed into a cave for the foreseeable future so she doesn’t decide to bite the head off of some poor, unsuspecting individual’s neck.

Fortunately, there is one interested party at this time, which gives me a little bit of hope that this may be over sooner rather than later. She is a friend of my aunt’s, and the two of them got along quite well on Sunday when they went out on a trail ride. She’ll be back Friday to ride him down the road to her house to try him in her ring.

It was quite strange to see someone else on my horse after a year of exclusively riding him myself, and I found myself surprisingly sad by the prospect of him leaving. I’m not in love with this horse, but we’ve been able to work through our differences and are working relatively well together. I have a feeling a lot of it is stemming from the fact that I’ve done exactly what I’d do for any animal in my care, and have poured quite a bit of myself into him, despite the fact we’re not the best match. I think, even if we were still having battles over who was king (or queen, in my case) of Pride Rock, I’d still be having this twinge of sadness over him potentially leaving. It’s hard to just say “k bye” to something that’s been an active part of your life for awhile…unless, of course, you totally abhor it, but thankfully, we’re past the passionate hate stage.

That being said, he’s not what I want. It’s also becoming increasingly more and more obvious that as he trims down and muscles up, he’s way too narrow for me. I need a chunk of a horse that makes my ass look small, either via height or width (preferably width), and while Simba seems to be able to tolerate my weight well, I’m constantly worried. He climbs hills with gusto and is gaiting well (really well, actually) and can haul ass when I ask him without hesitation, but I am a big girl and he’s narrow and on the shorter side. Simple mechanics dictate this isn’t such a hot match.

Tiny pony, big girl…thankfully, he’s cute. Photo by Tullamore Photography/Kathryn Schaller

So, forward march we go. I’m not sure what Friday will bring, but if it brings nothing, then so be it. I’ve already accepted that I’m likely to have him until next spring at this rate. If it brings him a new person and a new home, then that’s great too.

…and, hopefully, I’ll learn to stop wanting to THROTTLE ALL THE MORONS WHO CONTACT ME AND HAVE A LOWER IQ THAN A POTATO.