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I hacked Cappy along one of the side roads of our glorified subdivision, pleased with his work in the yard arena. "Work" being more speed rating and transitions. His steering was still abysmal. He would go where you pointed, more or less, but in no way through with his body. His head would crane in odd fashions, and galump galump we would go.

Hacking along the road, he remained quiet and straight on a loose rein, so in many ways this was not only his reward after the hard mental work we did in the open field, but encouragement to me that he wasn't totally hopeless.

He was very much an internal processing sort of horse. When he first moved to Marilyn's, he had loose piles for a couple of days, but showed few other outward signs of stress about his sudden change in circumstances. All other moves, he was calm and collected because he knew I was there.

He was not one to find a removed jacket freshly draped on the arena fence scary. I can only think of three spooks in the many years I knew him. Unless something directly affected his person, he was content to observe and see what happened. There are not many horses who are comfortable with ground shake from artillery exercises or watching paratroopers fluttering in the sky on their very first experiences with them.

Another oddity about my non-spooking, not overly reactive horse was the fact that he didn't "talk." My friend and the woman she bought him from both said they had never heard him vocalize, other than the little whale noises he made while sleeping. I speculated whether he truly didn't make noise, or if he was just depressed from so many changes and homes in such a short time frame. As weeks passed, though he seemed settled and happy, he still remained mute.

He didn't nicker for grain, even when the other horses did.

Not a peep was heard from him as I led him down to the sheep pastures, though the horses left at the barn would call out to him as he clip-clopped down the drive.

I was pondering this very thing as we walked along the road that led away from the riding field. There was a small house with miniature horses in paddocks that we had ridden past several times before, which barely garnered more than a brief interested glance from my strange bay horse.

A small platoon of short and shaggy creatures careened up to the fence and called to Cappy as we went by.

Clip Clop clip clop.

I walked him to another yard, and turned him to head for home. Suddenly, his barrel swelled up underneath me, and I closed my reins expecting some sort of bolt. Instead, he let out a tremendous neigh that shook his whole body and me as well.

"Holy Shit! You can talk!" I said aloud. We walked on, then he started bubbling up for another neigh.

I whacked him on the shoulder with my crop. "Ennhn-Ahhn! You do not talk under saddle!" His bugle snuffled out and he walked along, head raised, eager to see the ponies that called to him.

Having dealt with other horses who had to learn not to call while working, my reaction had been instinctive, instantaneous. I felt immediate remorse, however. Poor guy, finally decides to whinny and he gets beat for it. I patted him apologetically on the shoulder. S'all right, my abbreviation for "Sorry" and "You're all right".


From that day onward, however, he did start to vocalize like a normal horse. He would nicker to greet me, and nicker for grain. And he only neighed one or two other times under saddle the whole time I owned him...
He was rather a thinking (and remembering!) sort of horse.