SUCCESS!!!!!

Ahhh, the sweet, sweet smell of success. Or maybe that’s just the fly spray, sweaty saddle pads, and a whiff of manure that somehow made it onto my glove. Either way, SUCCESS!!!

After two and a half months of what can only be described as the equine equivalent of kindergarten drama club, Talon has finally done it—he’s officially hitched to the cart and being driven. By an actual human. Who’s sitting in the cart. And not being dragged, trampled, or ignored. Cue the trumpets! ?

Now, to be fair, Talon’s journey into cart horse-hood wasn’t exactly the straightest of lines. This is the same horse who, when asked to walk across a tarp, acted like it was a portal to hell. A few highlights from his "training montage" include:

• Fly spray:
  “You want me to stand still while you coat me in the smell of betrayal and broken promises? No thank you. It feels like a million tiny ninjas attacking my skin. Hard pass.”

• Plastic bags:
  “Why would a bag make that sound? That is not a noise things should make. That’s the sound of danger. Of doom. Of something that wants to EAT ME WHOLE.”

• The bit:
  “Excuse me, but I’m not a sword swallower. You could’ve at least warmed it up, or dipped it in molasses, or something! You want me to carry metal in my mouth while I work? Would you like to carry a spoon around all day? No? Then hush.”

• Group turnout:
  “I know those other horses. They looked at me funny. I saw one flatten his ears. I'm pretty sure one of them mouthed, ‘Nice legs, loser.’ So yeah, I hid behind the trainer. That’s called strategy, not cowardice.”

For a while, it was starting to feel like Talon might only ever drive me crazy and not, you know, an actual cart.

But then—breakthrough!

A few days ago, the trainer hitched him up to the cart and decided, with the calm confidence of someone who knows what they’re doing (unlike me), to climb in. I held my breath. Talon didn’t. He just flicked one ear back like, “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

I swear, if horses could talk, he’d have said:

“Oh thank heavens, you're finally doing something that makes sense. I’m a Gypsy Cob, for crying out loud. Cart-pulling is LITERALLY in my job description. What did you think these feathered legs were for? Ballet?”

And just like that, he was off—ears forward, legs moving with purpose, chest puffed out like he was on parade.

You’d never know this was the same horse who once tried to hide behind a boulder because a pony two paddocks over sneezed.

Apparently, he’s decided that everything else we tried to teach him was optional. Lunging? Optional. Standing tied? Optional. Not flinching when the barn cat sneezes? Optional. But the cart? Now that was finally worthy of his attention.

“Now that we’ve gotten past all the nonsense,” he said (probably), “let’s proceed with my career. I expect carrots, applause, and a dramatic entrance at every outing.”

So now, with blinders on, reins over the rump, and just the slightest air of superiority, Talon is officially a driving horse. Or, in his words:

“I am now Talon the Magnificent. Cart Horse Extraordinaire. Ambassador of Swagger. Destroyer of Plastic Bags.”

Well, okay, he still flinches at plastic bags. But hey—progress is progress.

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