Bucking Horse Quotes

Discipline isn't a dirty word. Far from it. Discipline is the one thing that separates us from chaos and anarchy. Discipline implies timing. It's the precursor to good behavior, and it never comes from bad behavior. People who associate discipline with punishment are wrong: with discipline, punishment is unnecessary.

In life, we don't know why things happen. I believe God is not responsible for the bad things that happen to you. Sometimes I think He's responsible for the good things, but sometimes it's something you shape up for yourself.

They say nerves heal real slowly. Lots of things about us heal real slowly.

The revolution has no leader, I said. It was more like a raging wild horse that would buck anyone who tried to mount it against its will.

The road may bend out of sight at times, but I know what lies ahead: the faraway horses.

As a rider, you must slowly and methodically show your horse what is appropriate. You also have to discourage what's inappropriate, not by making the inappropriate impossible, but by making it difficult so that the horse himself chooses appropriate behavior. You can't choose it for him; you can only make it difficult for him to make the wrong choices. If, however, you make it impossible for him to make the wrong choices, you're making war.

Timing is everything.

I've often told people who ask if there is a God: Get around enough people with horses and see what happens. See how they survive in spite of all the things they do, and you'll become a believer!

I’d jumped into raging rivers, ridden wild bulls, bucking horses and fought off deadly snakes. I’d done a thousand crazy things in my life that made Ma yell at me, but I’d never—never—been as scared as I was when I looked at him.   *

A closed book will lie there like a dead horse. But an open book will kick, buck, and bolt through perceived adventures like a wild and free stallion. So hold on.

The important thing is to make sure the last word you have with the horse is good for both of you.

As parents, we have a chance when our children are young to turn them into good citizens rather than wait for the government to raise them for us.

The horse is a mirror to your soul...and sometimes you might not like what you see in the mirror. ~Buck Brannaman

When working with a horse, particularly a troubled horse, you’ll notice that he will spend a good portion of his time avoiding contact, physical and mental.

In America the quirk was that people were things. Best to cut your losses on an old man who won’t survive a trip across the ocean. A young buck from strong tribal stock got customers into a froth. A slave girl squeezing out pups was like a mint, money that bred money. If you were a thing—a cart or a horse or a slave—your value determined your possibilities.

Most of you who are reading this book feel a deep-down ancient bond, a connection between yourself and horses.

Closer and closer, they hauled her like a bucking horse toward the open cell door. The two waiting guards sniggered, eyes on the flap of the robe that fell open as she kicked, revealing her thighs, her stomach, everything to them. Elide sobbed, even as she knew the tears would do her no good. They just laughed, devouring her with their eyes— Until a hand with glittering iron nails shoved through the throat of one of them, puncturing it wholly. The guards froze, the one at the door whirling at the spray of blood— He screamed as his eyes were slashed into ribbons by one hand, his throat shredded by another. Both guards collapsed to the ground, revealing Manon Blackbeak standing behind them. Blood ran down her hands, her forearms. And Manon’s golden eyes glowed as if they were living embers as she looked at the two guards gripping Elide. As she beheld the disheveled robe. They released Elide to grab their weapons, and she sagged to the floor. Manon just said, “You’re already dead men.” And then she moved.

Mr. Edwards admired the well-built, pleasant house and heartily enjoyed the good dinner. But he said he was going on West with the train when it pulled out. Pa could not persuade him to stay longer. "I'm aiming to go far West in the spring," he said. "This here, country, it's too settled up for me. The politicians are a-swarming in already, and ma'am if'n there's any worse pest than grasshoppers it surely is politicians. Why, they'll tax the lining out'n a man's pockets to keep up these here county-seat towns..." "Feller come along and taxed me last summer. Told me I got to put in every last thing I had. So I put in Tom and Jerry, my horses, at fifty dollars apiece, and my oxen yoke, Buck and Bright, I put in at fifty, and my cow at thirty five. 'Is that all you got?' he says. Well I told him I'd put in five children I reckoned was worth a dollar apiece. 'Is that all?' he says. 'How about your wife?' he says. 'By Mighty!' I says to him. 'She says I don't own her and I don't aim to pay no taxes on her,' I says. And I didn't.

Once Buck gets a saddle on a young clinic horse he goes through all the same actions he had previously done with the horse unsaddled. This is to reinforce that the horse has nothing to fear after the saddle is cinched up.

At the southwest corner Malvern joined its fields to that of his nearest neighbor, John MacBain. Pierce held his horse just short of the border and looked across a meadow. Part of the MacBain house had been burned down. He had heard of it, but he had not seen it. Now it was plain. The east wing was grey and gaunt, a skeleton attached to the main house. Strange how crippled the house looked—like a man with his right arm withered! No, he was not going to let himself think about crippled men.

Now when I go out, the wind pulls me into the grave. I go out to part the hair of a child I left behind, and he pushes his face into my cuffs, to smell the wind. If I carry my father with me, it is the way a horse carries autumn in its mane. If I remember my brother, it is as if a buck had knelt down in a room I was in. I kneel, and the wind kneels down in me. What is it to have a history, a flock buried in the blindness of winter? Try crawling with two violins into the hallway of your father’s hearse. It is filled with sparrows. Sometimes I go to the field and the field is bare. There is the wind, which entrusts me; there is a woman walking with a pail of milk, a man who tilts his bread in the sun; there is the black heart of a mare in the milk—or is it the wind, the way it goes? I don’t know about the wind, about the way it goes. All I know is that sometimes someone will pick up the black violin of his childhood and start playing—that it sits there on his shoulder like a thin gray falcon asleep in its blinders, and that we carry each other this way because it is the way we would like to be carried: sometimes with mercy, sometimes without.

If the horse hurts an owner, the animal gets the blame. The BLM also created a program in which prisoners are given the opportunity to work with captive wild horses. They gentle them and get them to the point where they are ridable. This is an excellent idea.

He had bucked harder with me than the fellows expected him to, and I don't know how I stayed on. I guess I was just too scared to fall off. Anyway, Mr. Cooper shook hands with me after Hi lifted me down. He said, "By God, you're going to make a cow poke, Little Britches. As long as you're with me you can call him your own horse." Then he laughed, and said to the other men, "I thought, by God, the kid was going to pull that one-inch hackamore rope in two before the music stopped." Father never swore, and I know I wouldn't ever have said it out loud, but before I really knew what I was thinking, "By God, I thought so, too," went through my head.

Those instincts were my guardians. They had saved me before, guiding my movements on a dozen bucking horses, telling me when to cling to the saddle and when to pitch myself clear of pounding hooves. They were the same instincts that, years before, had prompted me to hoist myself from the scrap bin when Dad was dumping it, because they had understood, even if I had not, that it was better to fall from that great height rather than hope Dad would intervene. All my life those instincts had been instructing me in this single doctrine—that the odds are better if you rely only on yourself.

I’ve often told people who ask if there is a God: “Get around enough people with horses and see what happens. See how they survive in spite of all the things that they do, and you’ll become a believer!

The BLM also created a program in which prisoners are given the opportunity to work with captive wild horses. They gentle them and get them to the point where they are ridable. This is an excellent idea.

When I came out of the Charity Ward of the L.A. County General Hospital in 1955 after drinking ten years without missing a night or day (except while in jail) they told me that if I ever took another drink I would be dead. I went back to my shack job and I asked her, “What the hell am I going to do now?” “We’ll play the horses,” she said. “Horses?” “Yeah, they run and you bet on them.” She had found some money on the boulevard so we went out. I had 3 winners, one of them paid over 50 bucks. It seemed very easy. We went out a second time and I won again. That night I decided that if I mixed some wine with milk it might not hurt me. I tried a glass, half wine, half milk. I didn’t die. The next glass I tried a little less milk and a little more wine. By the time the night was over I had been drinking straight wine. In the morning I got up without hemorrhaging. After that I drank and played the horses. 27 years later I am still doing both. Time is made to be wasted...

And medicine was fascinating, a great match, at least at first. It was a natural fit for my brain. But now the book-learning portion was over, and suddenly medicine felt like a horse I’d borrowed that didn’t like me and was doing its damnedest to buck me off.

The capaill uisce plunged down the sand, skirmishing and bucking, shaking the sea foam out of their manes and the Atlantic from their hooves. They screamed back to the others still in the water, high wails that raised the hair on my arms. They were swift and deadly, savage and beautiful. The horses were giants, at once the ocean and the island, and that was when I loved them.

In America the quirk was that people were things. Best to cut your losses on an old man who won’t survive a trip across the ocean. A young buck from strong tribal stock got customers into a froth. A slave girl squeezing out pups was like a mint, money that bred money. If you were a thing—a cart or a horse or a slave—your value determined your possibilities. She minded her place.

The cracks grew over him like vines, faster and faster. At first he bucked, whinnying metallic screeches. Then he gradually stilled, looking up at me with frightened glass eyes. He was growing. New, molten glass leeched out between his fissures, cooled and hardened only to crack again and make room for more liquid glass. The gears inside him moaned and creaked, and metal filings gathered at the base of his transparent stomach, only to fly up again and form more joints and chains and gears. Black smoke poured from his nostrils. Soon he was the size of a large dog, then a man, and still he grew and grew until he towered over my bed, as big as any plow horse I’d ever seen. Glass dripped down his flanks like sweat, a few rivulets still glowing with molten heat.

The moment a man traverses a mountain range on a bicycle, he is like the first Mongolian you ever lept onto a wild horse on the steppe -- a rearing, snorting, bucking creature no one had ever thought to tame, because taming it would be on thinkable. The rider's body senses the Earth moving underfoot, a sensation humans have never known before, and which remains impossible to measure.

When Hamilton, debilitated from illness, rejoined his comrades at Valley Forge in January 1778, he must have shuddered at the mud and log huts and the slovenly state of the men who shivered around the campfires. There was a dearth of gunpowder, tents, uniforms, and blankets. Hideous sights abounded: snow stained with blood from bare, bruised feet; the carcasses of hundreds of decomposing horses; troops gaunt from smallpox, typhus, and scurvy. Washington’s staff was not exempt from the misery and had to bolt down cornmeal mush for breakfast. “For some days past there has been little less than a famine in the camp,” Washington said in mid-February. Before winter’s end, some 2,500 men, almost a quarter of the army, perished from disease, famine, or the cold. 1 To endure such suffering required stoicism reminiscent of the ancient Romans, so Washington had his favorite play, Addison’s Cato, the story of a self-sacrificing Roman statesman, staged at Valley Forge to buck up his weary men. That

Let’s define a Crapitalist: A well-connected friend of the powers that be who scores big bucks at taxpayer expense. From bagging millions in tax dollars for phony “green energy” companies that go bust, to vacuuming public coffers to build glitzy sports stadiums, to utilizing little-known tax credit loopholes to loot $1.5 billion a year for Hollywood movies—Crapitalists know how to use every trick to enrich themselves at taxpayer expense. Rather than playing and winning in the rough-and-tumble world of business competition, Crapitalists use government to rig the game in their favor and leave you and me—the taxpayers—holding the bill. These corporate sissies know their ideas suck, so they try to stack the deck to privatize their profits and socialize their losses. And there’s the rub: crony capitalism is socialism’s Trojan horse.

Mounted on the fairground's magic horses As among the children I pranced by -- Bucking hard, we raised our blissful faces To the marvellous clear evening sky -- All the passers-by just stood there laughing And I heard them say, exactly like my mother: Oh, he's so different, he's so different Oh, he's so very different from us. Seated with the cream of our society As I outline my unusual views They keep staring, till I'm sweating slightly -- They don't sweat, it's one of their taboos -- And I see them sitting there and laughing And I hear them say, exactly like my mother: Oh, he's so different, he's so different Oh, he's so very different from us. Up to heaven as one day I'm flying (And they'll let me in, you'll see they will) I shall hear the blessed spirits crying: He is here, our cup of bliss to fill! Then they'll stare at me and burst out laughing And I'll hear them say, exactly like my mother: Oh, he's so different, he's so different Oh, he's so very different from us.

Buck up, Bree,” said Cor. “It’s far worse for me than for you. You aren’t going to be educated. I shall be learning reading and writing and heraldry and dancing and history and music while you’ll be galloping and rolling on the hills of Narnia to your heart’s content.” “But that’s just the point,” groaned Bree. “Do Talking Horses roll? Supposing they don’t? I can’t bear to give it up. What do you think, Hwin?” “I’m going to roll anyway,” said Hwin. “I don’t suppose any of them will care two lumps of sugar whether you roll or not.” “Are we near that castle?” said Bree to Cor. “Round the next bend,” said the Prince. “Well,” said Bree, “I’m going to have a good one now: it may be the last. Wait for me a minute.” It was five minutes before he rose again, blowing hard and covered with bits of bracken. “Now I’m ready,” he said in a voice of profound gloom. “Lead on, Prince Cor, Narnia and the North.” But he looked more like a horse going to a funeral than a long-lost captive returning to home and freedom.

From Bralloc’s mounted position he could see over the heads of most of his men, but the thickening darkness of evening coupled with the storm made it impossible to see more than a few yards. He jerked at the reins and swung his horse around, pushing into the crowd. The large grey charger was nearly as mean-spirited as her owner; she snorted and bucked her head, then nipped, stomped and shoved her way through, giving every indication that she was enjoying herself. His men drew to either side, and the crawling excitement in Bralloc’s belly became an angry swarm of insects. The scout – the ballsy woman whose name he could never remember - stood several paces away. Bralloc paid her no heed, however, and the mixture of nervousness, relief and fear on her face didn’t even register in his mind: his eyes were locked on the captive at her side. His lips twitched into a smile and he licked them, like a ghoul eyeing a fresh corpse. He forced himself to move slowly, deliberately – sucking each individual drop of marrow from the bones of his anticipation..." -From 'Feral

There’s an old Taoist parable about a farmer whose horse ran away. “How unlucky!” his brother tells him. The farmer shrugs. “Good thing, bad thing, who knows,” he says. A week later, the wayward horse finds its way home, and with it is a beautiful wild mare. “That’s amazing!” his brother says, admiring the new horse with no small envy. Again, the farmer is unmoved. “Good thing, bad thing, who knows,” he says. A few days later, the farmer’s son climbs up on the mare, hoping to tame the wild beast, but the horse bucks and rears, and the boy, hurled to the ground, breaks a leg. “How unlucky!” his brother says, with a tinge of satisfaction. “Good thing, bad thing, who knows,” the farmer replies again. The next day, the young men of the village are called into military service, but because the son’s leg is broken, he is excused from the draft. His brother tells the farmer that this, surely, is the best news of all. “Good thing, bad thing, who knows,” the farmer says. The farmer in this story didn’t get lost in “what if” but instead focused on “what is.” During my monk training, we were taught, “Don’t judge the moment.

What are you talking about?” Major Danby asked in confusion. “What are you both talking about?” “Bring me apples, Danby, and chestnuts too. Run, Danby, run. Bring me crab apples and horse chestnuts before it’s too late, and get some for yourself.” “Horse chestnuts? Crab apples? What in the world for?” “To pop into our cheeks, of course.” Yossarian threw his arms up into the air in a gesture of mighty and despairing self-recrimination. “Oh, why didn’t I listen to him? Why wouldn’t I have some faith?” “Have you gone crazy?” Major Danby demanded with alarm and bewilderment. “Yossarian, will you please tell me what you are talking about?” “Danby, Orr planned it that way. Don’t you understand—he planned it that way from the beginning. He even practiced getting shot down. He rehearsed for it on every mission he flew. And I wouldn’t go with him! Oh, why wouldn’t I listen? He invited me along, and I wouldn’t go with him! Danby, bring me buck teeth too, and a valve to fix and a look of stupid innocence that nobody would ever suspect of any cleverness. I’ll need them all. Oh, why wouldn’t I listen to him. Now I understand what he was trying to tell me.

You’re worried about Anna?” “Anna and the baby, who, I can assure you, are not worried about me.” “Westhaven, are you pouting?” Westhaven glanced over to see his brother smiling, but it was a commiserating sort of smile. “Yes. Care to join me?” The commiserating smile became the signature St. Just Black Irish piratical grin. “Only until Valentine joins us. He’s so eager to get under way, we’ll let him break the trail when we depart in the morning.” “Where is he? I thought you were just going out to the stables to check on your babies.” “They’re horses, Westhaven. I do know the difference.” “You know it much differently than you knew it a year ago. Anna reports you sing your daughter to sleep more nights than not.” Two very large booted feet thunked onto the coffee table. “Do I take it your wife has been corresponding with my wife?” “And your daughter with my wife, and on and on.” Westhaven did not glance at his brother but, rather, kept his gaze trained on St. Just’s feet. Devlin could exude great good cheer among his familiars, but he was at heart a very private man. “The Royal Mail would go bankrupt if women were forbidden to correspond with each other.” St. Just’s tone was grumpy. “Does your wife let you read her mail in order that my personal marital business may now be known to all and sundry?” “I am not all and sundry,” Westhaven said. “I am your brother, and no, I do not read Anna’s mail. It will astound you to know this, but on occasion, say on days ending in y, I am known to talk with my very own wife. Not at all fashionable, but one must occasionally buck trends. I daresay you and Emmie indulge in the same eccentricity.” St. Just was silent for a moment while the fire hissed and popped in the hearth. “So I like to sing to my daughters. Emmie bears so much of the burden, it’s little enough I can do to look after my own children.” “You love them all more than you ever thought possible, and you’re scared witless,” Westhaven said, feeling a pang of gratitude to be able to offer the simple comfort of a shared truth. “I believe we’re just getting started on that part. With every child, we’ll fret more for our ladies, more for the children, for the ones we have, the one to come.” “You’re such a wonderful help to a man, Westhaven. Perhaps I’ll lock you in that nice cozy privy next time nature calls.” Which

I hadn’t noticed, through all my inner torture and turmoil, that Marlboro Man and the horses had been walking closer to me. Before I knew it, Marlboro Man’s right arm was wrapped around my waist while his other hand held the reins of the two horses. In another instant, he pulled me toward him in a tight grip and leaned in for a sweet, tender kiss--a kiss he seemed to savor even after our lips parted. “Good morning,” he said sweetly, grinning that magical grin. My knees went weak. I wasn’t sure if it was the kiss itself…or the dread of riding. We mounted our horses and began walking slowly up the hillside. When we reached the top, Marlboro Man pointed across a vast prairie. “See that thicket of trees over there?” he said. “That’s where we’re headed.” Almost immediately, he gave his horse a kick and began to trot across the flat plain. With no prompting from me at all, my horse followed suit. I braced myself, becoming stiff and rigid and resigning myself to looking like a freak in front of my love and also to at least a week of being too sore to move. I held on to the saddle, the reins, and my life as my horse took off in the same direction as Marlboro Man’s. Not two minutes into our ride, my horse slightly faltered after stepping in a shallow hole. Having no experience with this kind of thing, I reacted, shrieking loudly and pulling wildly on my reins, simultaneously stiffening my body further. The combination didn’t suit my horse, who decided, understandably, that he pretty much didn’t want me on his back anymore. He began to buck, and my life flashed before my eyes--for the first time, I was deathly afraid of horses. I held on for dear life as the huge creature underneath me bounced and reared, but my body caught air, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d go flying. In the distance, I heard Marlboro Man’s voice. “Pull up on the reins! Pull up! Pull up!” My body acted immediately--it was used to responding instantly to that voice, after all--and I pulled up tightly on the horse’s reins. This forced its head to an upright position, which made bucking virtually impossible for the horse. Problem was, I pulled up too tightly and quickly, and the horse reared up. I leaned forward and hugged the saddle, praying I wouldn’t fall off backward and sustain a massive head injury. I liked my head. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to it. By the time the horse’s front legs hit the ground, my left leg was dangling out of its stirrup, even as all my dignity was dangling by a thread. Using my balletic agility, I quickly hopped off the horse, tripping and stumbling away the second my feet hit the ground. Instinctively, I began hurriedly walking away--from the horse, from the ranch, from the burning. I didn’t know where I was going--back to L.A., I figured, or maybe I’d go through with Chicago after all. I didn’t care; I just knew I had to keep walking. In the meantime, Marlboro Man had arrived at the scene and quickly calmed my horse, who by now was eating a leisurely morning snack of dead winter grass that had yet to be burned. The nag. “You okay?” Marlboro Man called out. I didn’t answer. I just kept on walking, determined to get the hell out of Dodge. It took him about five seconds to catch up with me; I wasn’t a very fast walker. “Hey,” he said, grabbing me around the waist and whipping me around so I was facing him. “Aww, it’s okay. It happens.

The game jostled back and forth, and then came the final inning. Some player named Casey came to bat, like his teammates, looking like a rock. Lightning ripped through the air as rain came down in sheets. The scoreboard said the horses were beating the rocks by two points, but there were two men on base. If Casey hit a homerun, the rocks would beat the horses. If not, too bad for the rocks. This man, Ben, and the two people with him looked horrified as this Casey came to bat. They had red shirts with horses painted on them. They jumped up and down for joy when they saw the final pitch, and Casey sulking back to the dugout. He had struck out. After the game, the four hiked back to a very small car.

energy.” Reluctantly, I shifted my seat bone back a hair and Folly rewarded me with a large buck and a leap to the right that nearly tore my arms from their sockets, before surging into a canter. Even though it was terrifying and pretty much out of control, for a moment, I could feel why everyone thought Folly was a great horse. She propelled us forward across the area like a Pegasus, all power and wind and terrifying speed. If she hadn’t also been trying to kill me, it would have been amazing. Cole shouted some things I couldn’t hear, and I just concentrated on staying upright and keeping Folly turning in smaller figure eight circles in the hopes that she’d eventually tire herself out and stop. Every time we switched directions, she surged forward with her ears pinned into what was either a buck or a lead change, I couldn’t quite tell. All I knew was that when she eventually slowed to a jarring trot of her own accord, we were both covered in sweat and exhausted. Folly’s ears sagged to the sides and there were big strands of sweaty foam lathering her neck.

bucker that when he threw a rider he turned and went for him with intent to kill. He was lean, rawboned, and irritable, yet Bowdrie had developed an affection for him. Pet the roan and he would try to bite you. Curry him and he’d kick. But on a trail he would go all day and all night with a sort of ugly determination. Bowdrie had never known a horse with so much personality, and all of it bad. Nor did the roan associate much with other horses. He seemed to like being in a corral where they were, but he held himself aloof. Of one thing Bowdrie was sure. No stranger was going to mount the roan. As for horse thieves, only one had tried to steal the roan, for in a herd of horses the roan would be the last anyone would select. The one attempt had been by a man in a hurry and the roan was there. The horse thief jerked free of the tie-rope and leaped into the saddle. The roan spun like a top and then bucked and the would-be rider was piled into the water trough and his screams brought Bowdrie and the marshal running, for the roan had grabbed the thief’s shoulder in his teeth. Bowdrie took the bridle, spoke to the horse, then mounted and rode away. The thief, badly shaken and bloody, was helped from the trough. Aside from the savage bite, he had a broken shoulder. “What

Who d’you reckon,” said Strike, watching the horse plunge and buck, “first took a look at something like that and thought, ‘I should get on its back’?” “There’s an old saying,” said Robin, trying to steer around the worst of the potholes, “‘the horse is your mirror.

The horse shot out a bolt of energy, but instead of incinerating the log, he arched it around a tree and exploded a hiding buck. Deer bits flew everywhere. I laughed and patted Diablo with approval.

Sir Gallopad, a pure-white horse with a glossy white mane, had been chosen for Darling specifically for his size and demeanor. He was small, shy, and quiet. He'd never thrown anyone from the saddle, had never bucked or kicked. Riding him could be a chore because he liked to stop and nibble on shrubbery. The Charming Committee on Appropriate Pets had been delighted with Sir Gallopad, confident that the princess would be safe with such a timid creature. And they were thrilled to learn that he possessed the magical ability to change colors, which allowed him to camouflage himself if danger should appear. But what the committee didn't know was that, like Darling, Sir Gallopad also had a secret. He loved to gallop!

When riding, ask yourself, ‘What will my horse get out of this if I get what I want?’ Many times, human nature is to take and to not give anything back.

You can be a leader without being intimidating. The horse can be your partner without being your slave. I’m trying to keep the best part of the horse in there. I’m not trying to take anything away from him.

The horse isn’t so different from us. In order to learn, you have to make mistakes. Then you recalibrate, make a decision, try something different, and try again.

A lot of people, they want it all to be fuzzy and warm and cosmic, but it’s no different with a horse than with a kid…You can’t always be the kid’s best friend. First you have to be the parent.

My Order emerged,” he breathed and the terror in his voice told me all I needed to about what had happened. “You’re not a Dragon?” I asked, my own voice cracking with fear for him. Father would have been more than furious to discover that his son was anything other than a full blooded Dragon Shifter. It was a matter of pride and respect; he ridiculed families with mixed blood, he believed wholeheartedly in the superiority of our kind. One of his sons being anything other was totally unthinkable. Xavier shook his head slowly, trying to withdraw his hand from mine as footsteps sounded on the stairs behind me but I refused to release him. “It doesn’t change anything for me,” I growled. “You’re still my brother, I don’t care if you’re a Werewolf or a Vampire or a-” “So he told you, did he?” Father’s cold voice came from the doorway behind me and the hairs along the back of my neck stood to attention in warning. Xavier snatched his hand out of mine, blinking away the evidence of the tears which hadn’t even fallen. I stood before him, placing myself between him and Father. “It doesn’t matter,” I said firmly, though the simmering rage in my father’s eyes told a very different story. “I’m the oldest. I’m the first in line anyway, Xavier never wanted to challenge me for that role so-” “Yes, I still have my Heir but I’ve lost the spare. Did he tell you exactly what Order he is?” Father snarled, his eyes changing to their Dragon form and a trail of smoke leaving his nostrils. He was so angry about this that he was battling against the urge to shift. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him look so close to the edge before. “Not yet. But surely it’s not the end of the world if-” “Shift,” Father commanded, his gaze passing me to land on my brother. Xavier got out of his chair and backed up, shaking his head in panic. His skin looked odd though, like there was light shining from within it, trying to break free. “I told you, I’ll get control of it; I won’t shift ever,” he said anxiously. “No one will ever find out that I’m-” “SHIFT!” Father bellowed, using fear to force the change on him. Xavier cried out in panic as the light beneath his skin grew to a powerful glow and he bucked forward as his Order form took over. I backed up as his form changed, giving him room to become- “Fucking hell,” I breathed, my eyes widening in panic. “My thoughts precisely,” Father hissed venomously. Xavier had transformed into a lilac Pegasus complete with golden horn and rainbow patterned wings. His coat shone with glitter in the light of my magical orbs and his wide, horsey eyes looked back at us fearfully. I stared at him with my mouth hanging open, scrambling for something, anything to say. “I... didn’t know we had any recessive Pegasus genes in the bloodline...maybe he's linked to the constellation,” I muttered, unsure what else I could say. Father hated the weaker, more common Orders. He was a Dragon through and through; he loved power, invoking fear and breathing fire. A Pegasus was about as far as you could get to the opposite end of the Order spectrum. They were flying horses who pooped glitter, granted wishes and were... cute. Xavier hadn’t even been lucky enough to have a dark coloured coat, it was lilac. Lilac! (DARIUS POV)

Stopped by a sudden thought, though, he turned back. “I dinna suppose ye really are an angel, are ye?” he asked, quite seriously. “No,” Roger said, smiling as best he could, despite the coldness in his belly. And it isn’t you that’s talking to a ghost. He stood with Buck, watching the MacKenzies depart, Geordie and Thomas keeping up with little effort, as the horses went slowly on the steep, rocky path. The phrase “Blessed are those who have not seen but have believed” floated through his head. It was maybe not the believing that was the blessing; it was the not having to look. Seeing, sometimes, was bloody awful.

I’d looked around my room at the ribbons and sashes and rosettes hanging from the walls, at the photos of my ponies clearing the highest fences with me crouched in the saddle, a look of utter determination on my face. I’d made myself look hard at the pictures, at my legs swinging backwards over the fences, at my body lying low over my pony’s neck, my hands grasping at the reins as I turned them in mid-air. At the way that Teddy’s eyes were bulging as I pulled him around a tight turn, at the way the veins popped out on Buck’s lathered neck, at Springbok’s open mouth, dripping with foam. I’d looked hard at them all, and I hadn’t liked what I’d seen.

controls us. Diabetes is the Honey Badger….it just does not care!  It is like putting the reins on an untamed horse.  Sometimes, pulling on the reins will work, sometimes the horse will buck the other way.  As parents, because we love our children, we try everything to keep Diabetes under control (see # 3 above). The only control we have is consistency, timing and SWAG’ing!

Giddy-up, giddy-up!" she cried, switching her horse's flanks with one of her mother's long knitting needles as a riding crop. "Take it easy!" Bear protested. "I'm going as fast as I can!" Caroline had to laugh at the sight. "Now if you don't ride nicely, I'll buck you off and run for the woods!" "No, you won't," retorted Bianca smugly. "It's too cold out there. Giddy-up!

Seriously? You tried to ride a bucking horse?" "You did the same thing." He nodded. "But you're..." "Female? You noticed." She grinned at him and realized she was flirting about the same time he did.

The pony is mad. She can go from a relaxed walk to a flat out gallop in seconds if something spooks her, and she won’t stop until she practically crashes into something. I’ve seen her buck, rear and spin around in circles. She’s completely unpredictable and I don’t even trust her on the ground. As far as I’m concerned, Alec’s welcome to her, and he relishes the challenge. For some reason, he loves that pony most of all. Perhaps it’s because no-one else would give her a chance, that they’d written her off as crazy, mean, dangerous. Alec admires her independent spirit, I think, and maybe he likes that she still has that strength of spirit, that she still challenges him every time he rides her. He can’t completely dominate her, and he doesn’t try. He wants a partnership with her. And slowly, slowly, his father is taking that away from him, bullying the mare and his son at the same time, seeking to fit them into the same mould, the only one he knows. The strong succeed while the weak fall behind.

tilted her head in gentle inquiry. Lavinia’s laugh floated on the autumn breeze. Thomas wanted suddenly to shout at Lady Hero, to make that gentle expression fall from her face, to shake her until she quit her questions and her perceptive looks, and then he wanted to jump from the carriage and plant a facer in that stupid young buck with Lavinia. But he did none of that, of course. Gentlemen of his rank never acted in such a way. Instead, he merely urged the horses on, waiting interminably to pass Lavinia’s carriage. “She’s in my past,” he said through cold lips. “I met her when I was rather down, I’m afraid.” He remembered when he was the man who she laughed up at, the way it had made his chest swell. And he remembered the sight of her in the morning light, so carnal, so wise. He’d been able to see every single line in her face, the slight sag to her breasts, and strangely it hadn’t made a whit of difference. She’d been

My men are spoiling for a fight, Imperial. It will not do to deny them blood.” “What suggest you, oh mighty Bugzan? I will inform the Emperor himself of your recommendation on how to um… entertain your men.” “Tell your master that when this day is done, I will be drinking my liquor from his skull.” “I do not understand…” “Then, understand this,” the Bugzan cried, taking the herald’s horse’s head in his massive hands. The poor beast let out a piteous whinny and bucked wildly but to no avail. With a great wrenching motion, the Bugzan twisted and cracked the steed’s head right off its flailing body. The herald fell hard to the ground, scrambled onto the rear of his companion’s horse, and the two darted back to safety. The Odium army hooted with mirth as their Bugzan flung the decapitated head after the retreating messengers. Patting Soulfire’s neck, Will fought back sickness.

This is Buck in a nutshell. He either has no clue what I’m saying, or he has a really warped sense of humor. I’ve tried, and failed at, everything I know to get him to follow directions.  Mostly he just wanders around ignoring me, like I’m not even on his back. But sometimes he does the exact OPPOSITE of what I say. Some examples include: “Whoa!” means “Run!” and “Giddyup!” means “Stop now!” (I may have flown off once or twice).

Good News: I have a donkey. (Hmm…actually, I’m not sure if having Buck is good news or bad news.) Bad News: No saddle.

I knew you'd be lucky today. I was pretty lucky myself, 693 came out and I played 698. Had the first two numbers right, anyway." Andy smiled. "Are you a ducker for that number racket. I guess everybody is a sucker for some kind of racket. Horses, numbers, cards, bingo, pinball machines...the great American hobbies. Everybody trying anything to make a few bucks." "I only play two cents a day," Charley said weakly. "Go ahead, play, if you get a bang out of it. Maybe you'll hit...one of these days! There's our old pal, one of these days, and some day, popping up.

She’s ready to come back to the living.” But my daughter was wrong. I wasn’t. I liked living in the dream world of Morpheus, believing I was safe, knowing that in real time, tragedy cannot be undone. Tragedy was a bucking horse. Sometimes you were able to stay in the saddle and ride it out–sometimes not.

Loosen the reins and let your horses run instead of pulling the reins and making your horses buck.

The band Erase Errata recorded an eighty-second song about it: ‘The White Horse is bucking. It smashes you with its hoof. It wants you to go for a night of gay dancing. So picture yourself at the White Horse. And picture yourself among the beautiful. And picture yourself alive.’ The lyrics may be ironic, but they assert something many queer people know well: an unshakable fondness for the only gay bar in town. It’s not about holding out for a good night, but rather a letting go—accepting the gay bar’s unconvincing promise of escape.

He’d done his best to lock himself off from the past, and yet here it was again, rearing its head, threatening to buck him like a horse.

Both were careful not to look at Phillip, but it was clear they wanted to change the subject when Buck said, “What kind of expression was that, Shane?”   “Hey! What the hell?” Shea raised a hand to her head. “I was trying to look delicate and frail.”   Buck hooted and cackled. “Delicate? You looked like you were about to take a dump.”   “I did not.”   Eamon roared in laughter. “Yes. Yes, you did. I thought I was going to fall off my horse trying not to laugh.”   “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shea muttered, spurring her horse to move faster. “That was my delicate look.”   The two just roared louder as Shea cantered away. Rounding the bend, Shea shook her head. Something she had learned over the years, men could be immature regardless of age.

Where you end up your ride on a horse is so important. It’s a little bit like when you were young and you were dating—that last two minutes of the date can be a real deal breaker. With these horses it’s the same thing…You got to quit on a good note.

Whether it’s horses or whatever it is you do, it doesn’t become an art until your soul goes into what you do.

Anxiety changes thinking — for better or for worse. Anxiety is the horse that gallops you toward truth or bucks you off.

Sometimes I look out the window and see a bird and cry out to anyone who will listen, although inwardly, and usually these people are dead or living far away or imagined.

Sam had come over from the fireplace to stand beside us. My heart began bucking like a stallion and I looked at Cecelia, then up at Sam, the proud father beaming down at his boy, his face full of love. Everything went dim. For seven years, I’d hunted this man the length and breadth of our Republic, and now I stood up, putting a hand on the table top to steady myself, knocking over my stool in the process. “Are you poorly?” Sam asked. He nodded at the far side of the room to a sunken bed—likely the very bed where he and Cecelia had conceived this baby boy—and said, “Lie down a minute.” Well, that was the last feather. I turned and stumbled out the door. Outside, the autumn sun was blinding. My mare grazed in a patch of grass, and I walked her down and mounted up. I felt old of a sudden, very old. Sam was in the doorway now and he called something to me. I wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t show my pitiful face. I walked my horse back along the cow path and pushed up to a trot. Directly, we commenced to burn the breeze, the leaves blurring by. I did not feel betrayed: let me say that right out. Rather, I felt that the hard hand of the Lord had swung down to swat me a final blow. And I deserved it. I’d done everything to beg Him for such a slap—all my lust and foolishness—and for some strange reason, I began to laugh. Or, it was laughter that came out of me. It didn’t seem to be me who was doing it—certainly, there was nothing amusing. I felt like He had borrowed my mouth, just like He’d borrowed that of Balaam’s ass, that the Lord Himself was laughing, and I thought of my father all those years ago, riding Young Roger through the Kentucky forest to find me and Tom Yarbrough bached up together. The laughter died away, and I began weeping as my father had wept decades before, and now I understood. It hadn’t been out of shame as I’d supposed, but rather, my father had seen this very moment coming for me. He’d known if I pursued my heart’s desire, I’d find myself galloping through a wilderness in an unfamiliar land, an old man without home or family, learning at long last how all things end in judgment.

You can have a go, too,” I said. “If you want.” But Carl pulled a face. “Horse hates me,” he said. “He’d buck me off, then trample me.

Mook, always attentive to cash flow, knew that it was much more costly to try to persuade undecided voters to back Hillary than it was to register her supporters or to make sure they went to the polls. The analytics team could also conduct less expensive surveys than the pollsters to get a snapshot of the horse race in a given state. Separate from the three scores, the analytics experts would do quick surveys with a small universe of voters and then extrapolate how many other voters with similar demographic profiles were likely to vote and for whom they would cast their ballots. The same methods had been used in the primaries, when adjustments could be made based on the outcome of a string of contests. The general election was different, in part, because there was only one Election Day. The analytics were also thought to be more precise at predicting general-election outcomes in each state than primary outcomes because the exact shape of the electorate could be harder to project in lower-turnout contests. But in both cases, Mook relied heavily on the data to figure out where the campaign could get the most bang for its buck. Like a baseball executive in the Moneyball era, Mook looked at the data as the means for taking the least costly route to victory.

One does wonder, however, what Gallo would have made of Dylan's tribute to him; and one receives a possible answer in [Donald] Goddard's book, where Gallo's ex-wife describes borrowing a hundred bucks from Joey's father to buy records so that the Prince of Brooklyn, always a fan of contemporary music, could catch up on what had been happening in soundsville during that decade he'd been away reading [Wilhelm] Reich in the slams: 'He got especially mad over a Byrds album called "Chestnut Mare" that I wanted him to hear. "Listen to the lyrics," I said. "They're so pretty, and so well done." "I don't want to hear any fags singing about any fucking horse," he says--and he's really venomous. "It's not about a fucking horse," I said. "If you'll listen, it's about life." But he doesn't want to hear about life either. . . . Next thing I know, he jumps out of the bathtub, snatches the record off the machine, stomps out in the hall stark-naked and pitches it down the incinerator.

for anyone, more like mounting a wild stallion in a Texas rodeo and endeavoring to stay in the saddle on a bucking horse. And to be aware that danger always lurked round every corner,

We pulled up behind a huge red barn where we were met by two young women. They greeted us with friendly smiles. I noticed the taller of the two had her blond hair braided perfectly over her shoulders. Dale waved as he walked past them into the barn. “Morning, ladies.” “Morning, Dale,” they said in unison. “I’m Nate.” I put my hand out as I approached, but they started laughing. The shorter, dark-haired girl looked away shyly. “We know,” the girl with braids said. “You’re the doctor.” “Yes, I’m a doctor.” “I’m a doctor, too,” my father interrupted wryly, but the girls didn’t seem to care. They followed us into the barn where we found Dale in one of the stalls looking over a mare. “Get in here, Nate, and put on one of those gloves.” He pointed to a long plastic glove hanging out of his case. My father leaned over the stall door and watched the show. “Go on, Nate. Get the glove on, son.” I moved into the stall, took the glove in hand, and proceeded to pull it all the way up to my shoulder. The girls watched and tried to suppress their laughter. “What’s going on?” “Come on, Nate. You can’t be that clueless,” my dad said. Dale turned to him. “See how smart that fancy college made your boy?” I looked to the girls for a clue. The short one laughed into her hands before the one in braids said, “You’re gonna have to stick your hand up the horse’s ass and pull out the poo.” She burst into laughter and then they scurried away. “What? No. No. I can’t. Do you know how much these hands are worth?” “Come on, Nate, give me a break. Nothing is going to happen to your hand, just be gentle with her. You don’t want to get kicked in the balls. I can’t imagine it feels very good to have a bony arm like yours up her ass.” My father was really enjoying himself. “Why do I have to do this?” “Because we’ve both paid our dues.” “Dear god.” I moved toward the rear of the mare and looked up to Dale. “Pet her real nice, right there on her behind. Let her know you come in peace.” “Jesus Christ.” “And a horse’s ass.” “Stop it, Dad!” Dale came over with a large milk jug full of clear gel. “Hand out, son. Got to lube her up first.” “You’ve got to be kidding me. You two are enjoying this.” “Immensely,” my father said. Uncle Dale continued petting the mare’s head and trying to calm her. “Nate, I’ve done this a million times. Dolly here is constipated. She needs us to help her out. Now work your way in there and see if you can’t find the blockage.” I hesitated, staring at Dolly’s hindquarters as she whipped her tail around. “She seems pissed,” I said. “She’s just really uncomfortable. You’ll see once you grow a set and get this procedure under way.” “I don’t know if I should be doing this. This horse isn’t familiar with me.” “What do you want to do, take her out on a date? You’re a doctor, kid. Buck up.” With no expression on my face, I looked back toward the stall door and my father’s smug grin. “No more talking, Dad.” I pushed my hand into poor Dolly’s backside and immediately discovered the culprit. The odor alone could have killed a small animal. Gagging, I pulled handful after handful of . . . well . . . poo, out of the horse’s enormous anal cavity. About ten minutes into the procedure, Dolly seemed to relax and feel better. “She likes you, Nate,” my uncle said. I’d had too many encounters with shit since I’d been on the ranch to find humor in anything my father or uncle said. “That’s it. She’s good,” I mumbled as I pulled the disgusting glove off my hand. I walked out into the main part of the barn to a sink where I attempted to wash the skin off my hands.

But, she had to know. “So, they say when you get thrown off a horse, you should get right back on.” She looked him in the eye, “I’m sorry I threw you. But, would you like to get back on?” Tarc glanced away. After a moment, without looking at her, he said, “Um…” Lizeth slapped the table, “It’s a simple yes or no question. By the way you’re dithering, I assume the answer’s ‘no,’ but it’d be nice if you just said it.” He turned and looked her in the eye for a moment. Then he grinned, “To use your analogy, that didn’t make me feel like getting back on the horse. I think you should wait until they’ve stopped kicking, bucking, and biting before you try to get back on.” Lizeth snorted, “Yeah, sorry. But I feel like you’re torturing me here.

The next year, when Evan told his ma he wanted to tame a wild horse, she said he wasn't ready. But Cully thought differently. "The boy's going to be running your spread soon enough, ma'am. I think he can break that filly if he has a mind to do it." Evan smiled when he recalled that day. The horse had thrown him four times. He was scraped and sore, but Cully wouldn't let him give up, not even when the horse bucked him over the corral fence. The cowboy laughed until tears streamed down his face. "I didn't know anything without wings could fly that far!" he exclaimed.

No one asked you, boy,” Gawain said. “Get back with the other soldiers.”   Clark flinched, his shoulders climbing to his ears and his face falling. His gaze darted to Fallon and away as he took the dressing down.   “I asked him here,” Shea said, staring Gawain down.   He snorted but didn’t say anything, Fallon’s presence keeping him from voicing his opinion.   “I’ll just go, Shea. It’s alright. I should probably report back to see if they need any scouts.” Clark didn’t wait for a reply, turning his horse and sending it galloping back to the line.   She watched him go before taking a deep breath. She turned back around. Eamon and Buck watched her for a moment before giving the Rain Clan’s elder hard glances. He didn’t pay them any attention, probably deciding they were no worthier of being here, than Clark had been.   “You do the boy no favors by making him think he can break the chain of command,” Gawain said, his tone patronizing. “You won’t always be there to protect him.”   Shea’s hands tightened on the reins of her mount. It took considerable effort to bite back the words that wanted to escape her. Only the knowledge that Fallon might have need of this man kept her from the scathing retort she had forming.   In a coordinated movement, made all the more comical for it, Buck and Eamon stuck their tongues out and rolled their eyes before assuming their normal stone-faced expressions—the ones they wore around Trateri expedition leaders whom they found obnoxious.   Shea smothered the brief giggle the sight caused her. She schooled her face and gave them a nod of gratitude. She looked up and blinked, as she found herself pinned under the enigmatic gaze of Fallon. His eyes flicked to her two friends then back to her.   She held her breath, sensing a chastisement coming. He lowered one eyelid in an exaggerated wink before sticking just the tip of his tongue out and wrinkling his nose. This time she didn’t quite contain her laugh.   Fallon’s face was cool and implacable as Shea lost the battle and her chortles rolled out. The rest of the party besides Fallon, Eamon and Buck eyed her with concern, not seeing what she found so funny.   “If the Telroi could compose herself, perhaps we could get back to the business at hand,” Braden said.   “My name is Shea. I suggest you remember it.

She took a deep breath as she stared up at all that separated her from home. When she’d first thought of coming back here, she hadn’t realized how nostalgic she would be or how much she’d missed the Highlands. It was like an old, crotchety friend that probably hadn’t even noticed she was gone. Still, it felt like a piece of her that had been missing was suddenly back in its rightful place.   “You came down that?” Clark asked, his voice hushed and shocked.   Shea nodded.   “I always knew you were crazy,” Buck said, his mount coming up on the other side of Shea’s horse. “No wonder you have no problem jumping off things.” He had a look of consternation as he looked up at the cliffs.   “I’d like to say it’s not as high as it looks, but it really is,” Shea told them. “On the Highland side, approaching the fault is like walking off the edge of the world—scary, and exh ilarating, and oh so fun.”   Buck gave her a look that said she was proving his point.   “Since meeting you, I feel my life has gotten increasingly more interesting,” Eamon said from the other side of Buck. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

I’ve been telling everyone to make sure to stay on the trail,” he said. “It’s more important here in Yellowstone than anywhere else.” He gestured toward a large white patch of ground to their right about a hundred feet away. “See that there?” “Yes.” “See anything unusual about it?” “There’s no grass on it, I guess.” “Look closer. Look at it about an inch above the ground.” She squinted and noticed how the air seemed to undulate slightly, as if it were underwater. In the center of the white patch, a slight wisp of steam or smoke curled out of a hole the size of a quarter. “What is it?” “This is the thing about this place,” he said. “That’s a fumarole, or steam vent. The white is a dried mineral crust that’s covering a place where superheated water comes up out of the ground. The hole there releases some of the steam. Otherwise, it might build up too much pressure and erupt.” “Wow,” she said, shaking her head. “The crust is brittle,” he said. “If you walked over the top of it or took your horse over there you’d break right through. The water underneath would scald the hell out of you or your horse. Might even kill you if you got bucked off in it.

heifer for a joke. The heifer bucked and Autie was thrown to the ground, receiving a bad cut on his forehead.) Lydia wanted Autie to come to Monroe to live with her, help David in his draying business and on the farm, and attend school. Maria agreed—she had more than enough children to look after and Monroe’s schools were thought to be superior to those of New Rumley.16 So Autie left home. Monroe had a population of 3,500 in 1849, equal parts French, English, and German. The second oldest town in southern Michigan, it had pretensions of sophistication. There was an established class, a group of leading citizens who owned or controlled the community’s economic life and liked to think of itself as composing an elect society. In Monroe, in short, Autie encountered snobbery for the first time. He saw it from the underside, too, for the Reeds were not members of the better classes. A retired Army officer with aristocratic pretensions, Major Joseph R. Smith, dismissed the Reeds with a

The right to buck off a human being is one of the universal rights of horses

And out in front of the grocery store, there was still that plastic horse you could ride that’d buck and rock if you put a quarter in.

LARGE FUNERAL HOMES Same with real estate: most people, I am convinced, are happier in close quarters, in a real barrio-style neighborhood, where they can feel human warmth and company. But when they have big bucks they end up pressured to move into outsized, impersonal, and silent mansions, far away from neighbors. On late afternoons, the silence of these large galleries has a funereal feel to it, but without the soothing music. This is something historically rare: in the past, large mansions were teeming with servants, head-servants, butlers, cooks, assistants, maids, private tutors, impoverished cousins, horse grooms, even personal musicians. And nobody today will come to console you for having a mansion—few will realize that it is quite sad to be there on Sunday evening.

Then – NeEeIiiIghH!, as the horse bucked and Lucifer went flying through the air. aaAAaaAgGgHhhH!

In the Vienna Folklore Museum is a yellowing wooden goat head on a pole. It has flapping black ears, short, curved horns, wide black eyes and an enormous, gaping, snapping mouth, lined with sharp little rows of carved wooden teeth. The jaw is rigged so that it snaps closed when the performer, holding the pole and hidden beneath a sheet, pulls on a thin piece of string dangling from the back of the monster’s head. This creature is called a Habergeiß, a name almost certainly related to goats (‘geiß’ is the Austrian for ‘goat’) and it can be found prowling the streets and snapping at the unwary in Bavarian towns over Epiphany.ix Over in Poland there’s the Turon, another horned, shaggy monster head with a clacking jaw that’s held on a pole by a performer under a sheet. The Turon is led on a rope house to house, where its escort sings carols and the Turon jumps and claps his jaw, chasing the householders. In Romania there are the Corlata, monsters who appear at the end of the year led by groups visiting houses, and are made from (you’ll never guess) a horned, wooden head – a stag’s, this time – with a clacking jaw, held on a pole by a performer who hides under a sheet (although the sheet that covers the Corlata can often be extremely brightly patterned – one photograph from 2010 shows it covered in brilliant flowers). In North-East Germany there’s the Klapperbock (the snapping buck), in the Italian Tyrol there are the Schanppvieh – snapbeasts (although these normally appeared at Carnival rather than Christmas). In Switzerland there’s the Schnabelgeiß, the ‘beak goat’, which looks like all the other goat monsters except that the snout narrows to a point, to take the form of a beak. In Finland and Sweden there are the Nuuttipukki, more stags who bother householders, this time on St Knut’s Day, on 13 January (hence their name). And we’ve already come across the Finnish Julebukk – the Yule goat – another goat monster portrayed by a performer hiding under a sheet, this time made of animal hides. In some parts of Lithuania and Silesia, meanwhile, there was the Schimmelreiter – the grey rider – which came with a new innovation. As in Britain, this monster was a horse, with a snapping head that was often a horse’s skull held on a pole, but this one was played by multiple people and could be ridden.x It starts to feel like you can’t go to Europe over the Christmas period without being snapped at by an animal head on a pole, held by a performer lurking under a cloth.

He loves getting into trouble. You can often find him on the back of a horse. Buck as much as you want, he’ll stick the ride.