Last week, the title of my blog post was “Bucky, Kicky, Belle-y.”

This week, it should be “Belle, the Angel.”

Mares, you gotta love em. And is there something to the Red Mare stereotype? Whenever I have problems with her and I tell another horse person about those problems, they invariably say, “She’s a red mare. What do you expect?” Has someone actually done a study about red mares and their behavior?

I did a little google search on “Red Mare Personalities” and the closest I got was a tack store called The Red Mare, and apparently the owner has red mares. Here’s the copy from the opening page of the website: “you know, those sassy equines that live life on their terms and train their humans oh, so effectively. We have spent a lot of time making sure our Red Mares were happy. We want our equines with attitude to flourish, and our ponies with personality to be as spoiled as they know they deserve to be.”

I expected more out there in the Internet universe about this red mare phenomenon, since it’s so well known and apparently part of our equine lore. Lots of people mention it—on their blogs, on their web pages, but no one explains it.

And since Belle’s trainer (besides me) is also a red-head (although a man) and frequently points out during Belle’s fits that “We have that temper, we red-heads,” I wondered if there was some information about red-headed people somewhere on the web. All I found (science-wise), was that red heads need more pain medication and anesthesia than blondes or brunettes. If you read my early-on posts about Belle’s fear of needles, you can see that some of this science might actually be right-on.

Anyway, back to this morning’s ride: A week ago I worried I’d really have trouble with her. She was really behind my leg and bucking and kicking every time I asked her to move forward. Apparently, we’ve overcome that stage of her life, for now. For the past three rides, she’s been an absolute model 4-yr-old pre-dressage horse. Today we even did the single loop serpentine from training level test 4 with a great change of bend in the middle. She carried herself beautifully and roundly. I had nice canter departures (nearly at the letter) with no bucking. I had a beautiful forward trot. It was a beautiful day.

Afterwards, I gave Belle a good curry-and-brush, and had she been a cat, she might have even purred. She was so cuddly and pleased with herself. When I turned her out in the pasture, she gave me an affectionate nuzzle, and then she put her tail straight up in the air and bucked away.

Okay, I have to remember that she’s only four. That she’s been under saddle for only six months, and that she’s a mare. And a red mare at that. And that 90 percent of the time she’s really good.

Belle does not want me to use my leg, and to protest said leg, she kicks at it, and she’ll give me a nice buck, too, hard enough to put a little air between me and the saddle, but so far (knock wood) not hard enough to really launch me. I tend to blame myself for bucky-kicky Belle, that maybe I’m squeezing too hard or pushing her too much or asking for more than she’s capable of.

But if I analyze the facts, I can feel assured that sweet, malleable Belle is going through a phase: An adolescent “I don’t wanna” type of tantrum. Here are the facts:

Belle only kicks at my leg on the south side of the arena.

The south side is where Baleno, her buddy, lives.

Baleno is often standing at the fence, waiting for Belle to finish her lesson.

Belle particularly has tantrums near the arena gate: go figure.

Yesterday, on our weekly trail ride, Belle decided that it was kind of boring so she got bucky-kicky there, too. Rather than go into battle perched atop an irrigation canal with a five foot concrete drop below, I got off. Maybe this was the wrong thing to do, but I’m paranoid about falling into those ditches.

I worked her in hand for a bit and then got back on her in the alfalfa field, where if she wanted to buck and kick neither one of us would end up in a ditch. She was great for the rest of the ride.

I’m hoping this is just a phase and not a problem I’ve somehow created. Of course, it’s easy to blame oneself, but she’s done it with Sean (trainer) too—so maybe I just have to be a little tougher on her and convince her that it’s my way or no way.

Taking lessons on one horse surely helps my riding overall. Having a three-times-a-week reminder to quiet my right hand and keep my shoulders up and back and track the line of travel with my eyes is transferring to all the horses I ride. Baleno, despite his sore back and stifle, is going very well, too. He’s gotten a lot steadier in the bridle and much more relaxed over his top line. Even though he’s taking a break from lessons, he’s benefiting from them.

This is the most intense training period I’ve ever had in my life. For years, I rode maybe once every two weeks with a trainer…never three times in one week. There are times (like this morning, when the wind is blowing, my hands are cold inside, I have a persistent pain in my right shoulder, and I have a lot of work to do) that I’m a little ambivalent about taking another lesson, yet another lesson. But once I’m on the horse and we’re working on new exercises and it’s clear how quickly little Belle is learning, I feel a lot better.

And I remember, too, just how hard learning is. It can be frustrating. It can be discouraging. And even someone like me, who devours books and misses school nearly every day, can find learning a little bit exhausting.

I remind myself that after December, Nicole will be gone and once again I’ll be mostly alone in the wilderness of horse training—a vast place without much support. I’ll likely back off on Belle’s work a little during the winter months. I have help—good help—in a local instructor, but I’ve been working with Nicole for so long that I feel we click in a “teacher-student” way that benefits us both—as well as Baleno and Belle.

And so, even though the wind is blowing, and my back is very stiff, and it’s about 10 degrees colder than it was yesterday, I’m going to change into my breeches and soldier on.

Is it myth or is it fact? No one really knows, but I can tell you that I can predict the weather by Volare’s tummy.

Yesterday afternoon I was riding Belle in a lesson. The geldings were in the corral since it was getting close to dinnertime.

We’ve had an incredibly beautiful fall here—perfect sunny days with temperatures in the seventies and mild nights. Suffice it to say I’m still picking the occasional tomato from the garden.

But yesterday afternoon, a heavy layer of clouds gathered in the west and a stiff wind was blowing cottonwood leaves around; I kept putting my jacket on, and then taking it off again. The temperature was hovering between mild and cold.

“Is he supposed to be doing that?” my instructor, Sean, asked.

Volare was banging his hoof incessantly on the pipe fence. Clang, clang, clang. He’s such a smart horse, he knows how to get my attention when he’s in distress. Where Baleno bangs because he’s hungry (and, lord knows, that horse is ALWAYS hungry—the horse that cried wolf), Volare only bangs when he’s in distress.

I stopped Belle and watched. Indeed, Volare was kicking at his belly and pawing. He stretched out like he was going to pee, but didn’t. He tried to roll.

I jumped off Belle and threw the reins to Sean. “He’s definitely colicking.”

For the first 19 years of his life, Volare never had a single belly ache. In the past two, however, he’s battled colic four or five times, once badly enough for me to put him in the trailer and take him to the horse hospital.

I gave him a dose of Banamine and walked him for a while. I called the vet, just in case, to let him know. He told me, “Well, I don’t know, could be the weather change—I had three calls yesterday and two today.”

Now my vet tends to be a practical guy, cautious and conservative. He’s not prone to spouting wives’ tales but he is surely interested in anecdotal evidence. There may not be any studies out that there show a correlation between barometric pressure and colic, but the anecdotal evidence is surely there. Just ask Volare. If I journal each time he’s colicked in the past two years, with the exception of the one bad time in the summer when he just got too hot, I can tell you they were all timed almost precisely with a seasonal change in the weather.

Volare’s fine this morning. It’s cold and cloudy for the first time this fall. I found three happy manure piles in his run and he gulped down his warm bran mash eagerly this morning. The weather has changed, and he is fine.