Remembering Gunner

Another post about horses past.

In 2001, Ginger was bred to our friend’s stud and Windy was born the following year. My friend had also bred her own mares to that same stud and also had foals that spring. One of those born to her mare was a bay colt she called Gunner. He looked a lot like Windy; just a bit more of a star and a short sock on his hind foot, where Windy had none. Windy was willowy built and Gunner was stockier. I liked him from the moment I saw him.


As I mentioned in a prior post, My Dream Horse, I sold Windy as a yearling. One of the many times we downsized and I regretted it the moment I let her go. But later that year, my friend offered me Gunner in exchange for a ½ a side of beef. I certainly didn’t need another horse, but had a weakness for this young colt. So I took the deal.


Gunner moved in and was easily accepted by the herd. He didn’t really fall into a pecking order, just squeezed in whether he was invited or not and the other horses were okay with that. He had a likeable personality and was a favorite among humans and equine alike. He was a cross between a class clown and Houdini. We’d often find him on the other side of the fence and as soon as we’d go to fetch him, he’d be back where he should be. To this day, he was the only horse that could do that.



John started him the fall of his two year old year. As we predicted, it was pretty uneventful. He was going to be an easy ride. On Mother's Day the following year, John, the boys and I loaded up and went to a nearby lake. I rode Gunner for the first time that day. Startled only once by a beastly looking culvert, he moseyed along the trail like he did it every day. I was beginning to come to the conclusion that it wasn’t working with my appaloosa gelding and I wondered that day if perhaps Gunner could be “the one.”



It was now late May, 2005. Looking back, the last 15 months had been pure hell. McCain had broken his femur and laid in traction for a month. We lost John’s dad and after reeling from that, my own mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and died a mere three months later. And now I had broken my ankle just as riding season was about to kick off.

Wrapped in a temporary splint until the swelling could go down enough to cast, I glanced out my home office window. As usual, my attention was focused on the horses, always counting heads. That morning, I found it unusual that Gunner was standing off by himself and even mentioned it to John as he walked by. I went back to what I was doing but a few minutes later, swiveled my chair back to the window. Gunner was still standing alone. A little voice said something was wrong. I asked John to drive me to the pasture.

I hobbled on crutches out to John’s Honda. Tossed my crutches on the seat and settled in. This wasn’t the first time I had broken my ankle, so I knew the drill pretty well. I cautioned John not to hit any bumps. As we got closer to Gunner, I could tell something was terribly wrong. It looked like he’d been shot with an arrow! And as we pulled up next to him, I realized he was impaled by a dead tree branch.

The spring rains came fast that year and a lot of timber washed down the creeks. When the water subsided, it left debris along the edge of our pasture. In my mind, I could see Gunner running down to the pasture and turning the corner quickly and coming in contact with this big dead branch that he didn’t expect to be there.



Leaning on my crutches, I waited with Gunner until the vet arrived. I petted him softly as the vet removed the branch. The doctor examined the it and the wound. He sighed and told me the bad news. The branch had penetrated Gunner’s stomach. It was a mortal injury.

Gunner was in shock and his body was starting to shake. John arrived with the trailer and helped me slip a stable blanket on the colt. We lead him to the trailer and he loaded like a trooper. The vet recommended I put him down. But I wasn’t ready yet to let him go. I wanted a second opinion. And a third. He understood and told me to call him when I was ready.

I left Gunner in the trailer as I hobbled to the house. Surely I would find someone to fix him. I emailed the Horsetales group for support as I started to make calls. And all of those who answered, concurred with the prognosis. The doctor who gelded Gunner quietly told me, “I could have him on the table right now, Tammy, and couldn’t save him.” It was over.

I made one more phone call to the treating veterinarian and asked that he come back to put Gunner to sleep. John and I unloaded him and walked him to the barn. John made himself scarce as I sat down in the doorway of the tack room, looking out into the stall. My heart was breaking. I’d wait with Gunner until the vet arrived. But Gunner’s time was up. I watched as he went down. And just like that, he was gone.



Call it coincidence or opportunity that Windy happened to be for sale shortly after I lost Gunner. There was no doubt I would buy her back. Windy and Gunner were the same age and although they shared the same sire, in the horse world, you don’t call them siblings even though biologically they were. Their personalities were nothing alike but their resemblence was uncanny. As I glance through pictures, I sometimes find myself wondering if it is Windy or Gunner, looking for the white sock to give it away. As I watched Windy mature into a beautiful horse, I can’t help but wonder what Gunner would have been like had he lived? Maybe not as pretty as his sister, but I'm sure he would have been an awesome ride.

A Ride Down Memory Lane

In 2003, we owned a thoroughbred for a brief time. A 12-year-old off-the-track thoroughbred named U R Nice. “Nick” was supposedly retrained for trail riding and barrel racing but no one was using him for either activity. John bought him for all the reasons I didn’t think we should. He was flashy and fast. And tall. John already had Ginger that fit the flashy and fast bill. He certainly didn’t need another one.

I get “new horse fever”, too, and didn’t put up much of a fight about buying UR Nice. The boys were riding the horses I had bought for myself and although “fast” and “tall” were not necessarily traits in a horse I was looking for, I have always been fond of thoroughbreds. Despite harboring deep riding fears, I started riding Nick that spring.

From the day we picked him up, Nick was never easy to load. Even in our big 4-horse trailer, he wouldn’t go in first, middle or last. He just plain wouldn’t go in. So anytime we took him anywhere, John had to run his repel rope through the inside trailer ties and “pulley” him in. And it usually wasn’t very pretty or easy. But it worked. When it came time to come home, we’d make sure no one was looking and go through the same process. Once when he was loaded, he got his front hooves stuck in the mangers. I recall wondering “how in the heck did he do that?” and thinking “now what in the heck do we do about this?” I don’t recall how we freed him, but he came out of it no worse for the wear.

As summer approached that year, I decided we were going on our first big organized trail ride. I don’t remember if I knew there would be close to two hundred riders when I made this decision or if that part was a surprise to us when we got there. All I know is I could now write a book titled “What Not To Do On Your First Big Trail Ride.” Our experience definitely falls under the “live and learn” category with an emphasis on “live”.

When preparing for the ride, I made the following (what turned out to be pea-brained) decisions:
(Strike) 1: I would ride Nick
(Strike) 2: John could take our young 3-year-old gelding, Bo.
(Strike) 3: The kids can ride Blue & Mikey! Won’t they have fun!

I learned quickly that a ride such as this is no place for young kids, who were 6 and 9 years old at the time. My only consolation was they were riding good horses because we quickly found out that John and I would be no help at all to them should they need it!

The morning of the ride, we headed out toward the end of the group. Things were going pretty well, all things considered. The kids’ horses were good, Bo seemed pretty level and Nick was causing me no grief. The feeling of ease quickly ended when a buckboard pulled by drafts or mules (or both) came up behind us.

Nick heard the chains before we saw the wagon. He started to spin. And dance and hop and shake and sidepass. And then he hit reverse. He backed and backed and backed! He backed away from the buckboard. He backed away from our group. He backed with no regard to what was behind him and he backed into a barbwire fence. Even with blood running down his butt cheek, he still tried to escape the terror while too scared to turn his back to it. Only grateful that he backed instead of bolted, I dismounted and did the only thing I could do. I traded horses with John.



I bought Bo as a yearling at the Sutton sale. He was a solid chestnut with no white. Halter bred on the top, race bred quarter horse on the bottom side. He was as pretty as a copper penny. He bucked hard the first time he was saddled as a late two year old, but since then, had settled in pretty well. Although he had no real trail rides on his resume, so to speak, I wasn’t overly concerned about riding him. Unfortunately, the more John worked with Crazy Nick who now seemed to be a Kentucky Derby wannabe; I believe Bo was starting to feel the stress of that plus the two hundred riders. So he started to buck. Not with a lot of gumption, but enough to unnerve me a little more. I felt like I’d gone out of the frying pan and into the fire.

It seemed like it took forever for the team to pass us. We hung back until it was out of view. Nick got his wits about himself and Bo settled down somewhat, so John and I traded horses once more. We had a pretty nice ride…. For about 20 minutes.

Our plan was to stay at the back of the ride. There were just a handful of people further behind us and then the safety riders. Not much time had passed when we heard some commotion and saw that a rider behind us had been thrown from his or her horse. Broken bones were involved. The safety riders radioed ahead to stop the ride and requested transport for the rider. You guessed it. Bring back the buckboard! Ah, jeez….

We needed to leave the scene of the accident. Get the heck out of Dodge. Now! We slowly made our way around the waiting horses and started to ascend a hill off to the side of the trail when Nick saw them. He put on his brakes and started to back down the hill. There were people at the bottom; there was a creek at the bottom. We were NOT going down. In my best effort to change his mind, I whacked him on the butt with the reins. In his best effort to free himself of me, he reared straight up on the incline of that hill. As I fell to the side, I saw all 16 hands of that chestnut horse coming down with me.

Nick landed on his side with my right leg and hip under him. Luckily, he didn’t have the momentum to go on over me, but instead got up and high-tailed it out of there. I met John’s eyes. He quickly turned his attention away from me and took off on his colt in hot pursuit of the racehorse while two men whom I never met before, tended to me.

“Don’t move,” they told me as they pulled ice and Advil out of their saddlebags. Really, I could move and was more embarrassed to be lying there on the ground in front of two hundred riders. And God forbid someone call for the buckboard. So after I convinced them nothing was broken, with their help, I pulled myself up just as John rode back with the steed in hand.

I was always told “If you fall off, get back on!” (Yeah, like this wild-eyed horse was going to acknowledge my moxy.) I climbed back on, but in my heart and head, I was done with him. Then and always. After a short ride, I told John I would take my chances with the colt. John got back on Nick and I settled in on Bo. He felt strong and steady like a quarter horse should and a welcome relief despite his youth. There was no bucking this time. And the four of us headed quietly down the trail.

Shortly after the ride started moving again, the skies opened up and the rain began to pour. We put on our slickers and we rode on. My hip was throbbing and the kids were whining and we rode on. We were going so slowly, the safety riders finally gave up on us and passed us by. But we rode on. We finished that damn ride on the young colt and the racehorse.

I sold Nick not long after that ride. It must have been a good sign when he loaded like a pro in his new owner’s two-horse trailer. We kept in touch for awhile. It was a good match.

Most of the time if asked “Did you have a good ride?” I smile and say “Yes, the best!” and even when it wasn’t necessarily the easiest ride, anytime on a horse is a the best time for me. There were good things about this ride – the kids taking care of themselves and their horses taking care of them when John and I had no control whatsoever. The people who helped us along the way; friends I met on that ride who are still friends today. In that respect, the worst ride of my life was still a good ride.

I’ve grown a lot as a horseperson in the seven years that have passed. From how NOT to load a horse to how to best set myself up for success. Had I known then what I know now, Nick may have been my dream horse. I think of him as the one who got away. Bo, too, for that matter, as he sold the next year. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.

I have no pictures from that day. It took all my effort just to ride.