Giddy Up

If I'm completely honest, I'm not really much of an animal person. It's not that I don't love my three cats and two dogs, I do, but had I not been in my post marriage crazy stage, I might have settled on just one cat being enough to teach the kids about caring for other living creatures.

I don't like dog saliva, or cat pooh, or animal pee, or pet hair all over my couch or favorite black dress, so I am digging deep to find tolerance of the mess my zoo are continuously making, and spend way too many hours cleaning up after them.

My daughter, however, is a true animal lover and has been since she was wee. She's suffered many a smooch with a dog and, in fact, thought she was one when she was tiny. There were months where she would spend most of her day on all fours barking instead of talking...she even got us to put her food in a bowl on the floor after she went on a hunger strike for two days.

So it's hardly surprising that she also loves horses. I am not and never have been remotely interested in horses; they're big, smelly, and really scary looking. I thought I'd managed to skip the whole horse-riding thing, but in true form, tweedle dumb took her riding on her last visit to Vegas and she's talked about nothing else since.

Ever indulgent, I found out about the equestrian centre here in Burbank and went down to book her in for an assessment. Horse people and ex-showgirls are very different breeds. After tiptoeing my way over the pot-holed horse poop filled street to get to the main office I was greeted by three very lovely women who all looked like Princess Anne, the ultimate horse lady, at different stages in her life. They all had on those dreadful jodhpur things that make your bum look triple its size and a variety of navy blue and forest green layers keeping them warm. I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt not one of them has ever worn false eyelashes or fishnet tights!

I could tell by their frosty looks and lack of hilarity at my attempted humor that telling them that I was not a "horsey" person was a mistake. But they booked my daughter in for an assessment anyway. Oh, and for a "tack" lesson too. They very kindly invited me to attend the latter as they said "your daughter might need some help at first".

What exactly was I paying them for if I had to "help" get the ruddy horse ready?

Anyway, my daughter is thankfully born to ride (and smart enough to know that if I had to touch either the horse or it's pooh she wouldn't be riding much) and therefore needed very little help whilst "tacking" her horse...all I do is stand there with a carrot incase a bribe is needed...interestingly enough I've found carrots to be the way not only to a horse's heart but to the hearts of the Princesses Anne in the office too...as long as I get out of my car swinging a bag of carrots around my head like a crazed cowboy swings his lasso they all crack an indulgent smile my way when I show up with my poor, mortified, daughter.