When Loving the Horse Business Gets Hard

I've spent most of my life around horses and horse people, and the longer I'm in this business, the more I realize that loving horses and loving the horse business are two entirely different things.

I still love the horses.

It's some of the rest of it that has gotten harder.

Training horses has never been an exact science. They are living, thinking animals. They develop at different rates. They have good days and bad days. Some have tremendous natural ability. Others need more time. Sometimes a horse exceeds every expectation, and sometimes one simply isn't going to become what everyone hoped it would.

Experience teaches you that.

It also teaches you that one of the hardest parts of being a professional horse trainer isn't always training the horse. Sometimes it's managing all the expectations surrounding it.

We live in a world of instant information and instant opinions. Everyone has access to videos, social media, conversations at the rail and an endless supply of people willing to offer advice.

But advice from the outside is easy.

The person caring for and working with a horse every day sees the things that can't be captured in a fifteen-minute show-ring performance or a thirty-second video. Progress with horses is rarely a perfectly straight line.

And somewhere along the way, I think we've started expecting horses to operate more like machines.

No mistakes. No bad days. No imperfect performances.

And most importantly, win.

Not make a good show.

Not show improvement.

Not be better than last month.

Win.

When winning becomes the only measurement of success, I think we lose sight of an awful lot of good horsemanship.

Because there is an enormous amount of work that happens before a horse ever walks through the gate.

Horses need care seven days a week, whether there's a blue ribbon at the end of that week or not. There are early mornings and late nights. There are horses that need extra time, extra patience or simply a different approach. There are countless decisions made every day that nobody outside the barn will ever see.

Then we go to the horse show, where another set of opinions enters the equation.

A judge gets a few minutes to evaluate what trainers, riders and caretakers have spent months preparing. Sometimes you agree with the result. Sometimes you don't.

That's showing horses.

I've been around long enough to understand that.

But if I'm truthful, somewhere along the way some of it began to wear on me.

There was a time when I couldn't imagine a horse show happening without me being there. If there was a show, I was going.

Now a horse show can be a few miles down the road and I may stay home.

That realization surprised me.

Because I haven't stopped loving the horses. I still enjoy that part of the business. I enjoy being at the farm. I care deeply about our horses and the people who entrust them to us.

But maybe there comes a point when you've seen enough, done enough and know enough that you experience the horse business differently than you once did.

I see things from another perspective through Spencer.

I watch him spend countless hours trying to help this industry have a future.

He believes trainers have to hold themselves to a higher standard. He believes we have to take exceptional care of our horses. He believes professionals have a responsibility to conduct themselves like professionals. And he believes that if we want the Tennessee Walking Horse to have a future, the people inside this industry have to be willing to do their part.

I agree with him.

But I also remind him fairly regularly that he cannot save everybody.

I see him, and others, trying to carry an industry and that is heavy.

Especially when the people working hardest to move it forward sometimes find themselves carrying people who aren't particularly interested in moving.

That has caused me to rethink something.

For years, those of us who love the Tennessee Walking Horse have felt compelled to defend our industry against people who would like to see the performance horse disappear.

And there is a great deal here worth defending.

There are wonderful horsemen and horsewomen in this business. There are trainers who quietly do the right thing every single day. There are owners who put the welfare of their horses ahead of trophies. There are families who have loved this breed for generations. There are young people coming along who deserve the opportunity to experience what so many of us have loved.

And there are extraordinary horses.

But maybe defending an industry doesn't mean defending everything that happens within it.

Maybe that also means understanding the difference between defending our industry and defending every person who happens to participate in it.

Those are not the same thing.

For too long, I think our instinct has sometimes been to close ranks whenever criticism comes from outside our world. We know how easily the actions of one person can be used to characterize an entire breed and everyone associated with it, so our natural response is to defend.

I understand that instinct.

But there have to be lines.

When horses are not properly cared for, there is no defense to make.

It shouldn't matter who owns them, who trains them, how many shows they've attended, what positions they've held, who their friends are or how long they've been around the breed. Our standards for the care of a Tennessee Walking Horse shouldn't change according to the name attached to the horse.

And when someone crosses that line, perhaps the people who truly love this breed should be among the first to say:

That does not represent us.

Not because we are trying to protect ourselves from bad publicity, but because it is true.

Accountability doesn't damage a good industry.

Refusing to demand it does.

If we want the public to believe us when we say that the overwhelming majority of people in this industry love and properly care for their horses, then we have to be willing to stand just as firmly against those who don't.

Some things aren't politics.

Some things aren't differences of opinion.

Some things aren't about which side of an industry debate you're on.

Some things are simply right and wrong.

And the basic care and humane treatment of the horse should be one of them.

Maybe that's part of what has become so difficult for me over the years.

We expect an extraordinary amount from these horses.

We expect them to perform.

We expect them to behave.

We expect them to walk through the gate under bright lights and noise and pressure and give us everything they have.

We analyze every step. We notice every mistake. We discuss every performance. We compare them to the horse standing beside them and to horses that came before them.

And sometimes I wonder whether we hold ourselves to the same standard.

Because if we're going to demand so much from the horse, surely the very least we can demand from ourselves is that he is fed, comfortable, safe and properly cared for.

Surely that part shouldn't be controversial.

Maybe accountability isn't the enemy of preservation.

Maybe sometimes the strongest defense of something you love is being willing to say, That isn't good enough. We can do better.

Because ultimately, standing in the middle of every argument about this industry is a horse.

The horse doesn't understand politics.

He doesn't understand social media.

He doesn't understand rumors, regulations, judging controversies or who is winning the most blue ribbons.

He knows his world.

He knows the people who show up every morning.

He knows whether he's fed, comfortable and cared for.

He knows consistency.

He knows patience.

He knows kindness.

And maybe after all these years, that's where I've landed.

I don't know how to solve every problem facing the Tennessee Walking Horse industry.

I don't know how to make everyone agree on what its future should look like.

I don't know how to remove politics from horse shows or opinions from a business built largely around opinions.

And I certainly don't know how to make everyone understand just how much work happens every day before a horse ever walks through a show-ring gate.

But I know what we can control.

We can take care of the horse in front of us.

We can be truthful about what that horse is and what he needs.

We can give horses the time they need rather than the timeline we wish they were on.

We can recognize that a good performance doesn't always come with a blue ribbon.

We can hold ourselves and each other to a standard worthy of the breed we say we love.

We can be willing to call something wrong when it is wrong—even when the person responsible happens to be one of our own.

And we can stop believing that protecting the Tennessee Walking Horse requires us to defend everything simply because it has always been part of our world.

I still believe this industry is worth saving.

I'm just increasingly convinced that saving it doesn't mean saving everyone.

It means protecting what is worth protecting.

The good horsemen.

The responsible owners.

The people quietly doing things right when nobody is watching.

The traditions that deserve to continue.

The next generation who deserves the chance to love this horse the way so many of us have.

And most importantly, the horse himself.

Because when all the arguments are over, all the opinions have been expressed, all the politics have played out and all the ribbons have been handed out, there is still a horse standing there.

And for me, it has to start—and end—with him.

~Carrie