~ August's Inspection
The morning was already slipping sideways by the time Taylor trudged out into the lower pasture, lead rope in hand and her hat pulled low over her brow. She had been up since dawn prepping for today's inspections - brushing out every inch of some of her beautiful mares, polishing their hooves until they glowed like obsidian, and making sure every hair was in place. But before any of that chaos began, Taylor's morning had already taken a turn; and not because of Daylight, Afterglow or Peace - no, the trouble had started with August. The Red Roan Tobiano mare was officially known as My Tears Ricochet, a stunner no question with her bold blaze, her white patches which danced across her coat like bursts of cloud against sun-warmed brick red, and her deep, thoughtful eyes which always seemed to be weighing the world like a season philosopher. A stubborn streak a mile wide, and today - she was not interested in philosophy whatsoever.
She was not interested in the trailer. Taylor had parked it in the drive, opened the ramp, lined it with shavings, and tossed in a generous helping of hay and apple slices. She'd even left the front window open to let in extra light, hoping it would make things feel less like a prison and more like a spa retreat. August took one look and planted her feet. "Oh come on!", the woman groaned, gently tugging the lead rope., "You've literally done this a dozen times before." August flicked an ear, sniffed the ramp... and then she backed up two steps. Taylor tried again with her soft voice, soothing hands, that typical pressure-and-release. She led the teddy cob in circles, even gave her breaks, and tried walking her up and away, then back towards the ramp like it was all just a happy little game. August sniffed the hay from a cautious distance, reached her nose forward, then abruptly spun around and trotted off in the opposite direction, lead rope snapping through the blonde's gloves.
"AUGUST!" The mare stopped at the far end of the gravel drive and looked back over her shoulder with the kind of infuriating calm only a pony could muster. Her ears flicked forward innocently, as if to say, Oh, were you not done? By the time Taylor caught her again, her arms were sore, her patience was threadbare, and the clock had moved far past her planned departure. And thus, she tried bribery again: carrots, peppermints, even a half-eaten granola bar from her pocket. Obviously, August took the granola bar and still refused the ramp. Then, she tried encouragement, light pressure on the haunches, a ground pole leading up... at one point she'd even enlisted the help of a friend to gently cluck and coax from behind. And always, August would put one hoof on the ramp, then pause dramatically, before sighing like some Shakespearean heroine and stepping back off again.
"You are the definition of difficult.", Taylor muttered through clenched teeth, "You are-" But then, August took another step forward, and instanlty, the woman held her breath. Then, finally - finally - the mare climbed aboard. It wasn't exactly graceful. As expected, there was tail swishing, and foot stomping, and a lot of snorting... and a solid ten seconds where Taylor was sure August was about to launch herself backwards out of the trailer. But to everyone's surprise, the mare stayed. The woman instantly fastened the butt bar, latched the door, and stepped back with a disbelieving laugh. She was drenched in sweat, bits of hay stuck to her sleeve, and her hair had come loose from its braid, but she didn't care. August was finally in the trailer. "Victory!", she muttered, before climbing into the truck and starting the long drive to the inspection grounds, praying her other three mares would be easier.
When Taylor finally pulled into the inspection grounds, the sun had risen high enough to turn the dew-laced grass into a glittering sea of green. Trailers were lined up like dominos along the edge of the fields, horses shifting inside them, the air thick with the familiar scents of hay and hoof oil. The woman parked in a shaded corner, turned off the truck, and exhaled slowly. "Okay, August, you're up first.", she muttered as she slid out of the cab, "Moment of truth." She dropped the ramp and stepped up into the trailer, half expecting the roan mare to have found some clever way to escape her halter or rearrange the hay net, but the mare was standing quietly, her head lowered, her eyes watchful. "Good girl-", Taylor mumbled, unclipping the tie, "Let's make this easier than the last part, huh?" August backed down the ramp like she'd been doing it her whole life: without any fuss, and certainly without theatrics. Once on solid ground, she gave a long, luxurious stretch and a snort that sent dust motes dancing in the air.
Taylor tied her to the side of the trailer and set to work. She ran a damp cloth over her coat to bring out the shine, then brushed down her legs, smoothing each white ankle with care. She picked out her hooves, applied a final coat of hoof oil, and gave her mane a once-over with a comb. August tolerated it all with an expression of mild superiority, her round ears swiveling lazily as she watched the activity unfolding across the inspection grounds. Finally, the blonde stepped back to admire her handiwork: the roan patches on August's coat caught the sun like rubies, the white glowed with a pearlescent sheen, and her muscles rippled under the surface like coiled silk. She looked powerful, and proud, and unapologetically herself: beautiful. Taylor fastened the lead rope to her halter again and offered her a peppermint. August took it gently, then flicked her tail with satisfaction. "Alright, beauty queen-", the woman murmured, giving her one last pat, "Let's go knock some socks off."
As always, the inspection ring was buzzing with this quiet expectation of having to succeed. A hush settled over the group as Taylor entered, August gliding beside her with the grace of a queen who had finally decided the red carpet was worth her time. Some heads turned, and whispers followed because that mare... she didn't just move; she claimed her space. The blonde squared her up in the center of the arena, and the mare stood with regal composure, her eyes half-lidded but alert, yet her muscles taut under her glossy coat. The sun filtered through the clouds, spotlighting her in a natural glow, and even the judges seemed briefly taken aback. As always, they approached slowly, their blue pens ready.
One murmured, "Strong hip, well-defined gaskins...", and August raised her head as if she were listening.
Another added, "That roaning is exceptional. Good pigment balance.", and the mare turned her head slightly as the man reached for her shoulder. She didn't flinch, however; and stood there kind of like a monument: elegant and proud, feeling more untouchable than she actually was. Then came the highlight of the day: the trot-out. Taylor clicked softly and began to jog, and August followed. At first, it was smooth and obedient, but as they hit the midpoint of the lane, something shifted: August turned it on. Her stride lengthened, her head lifted, and her front legs arched like dancers at the peak of a performance. She floated over the ground, each step light and rhythmic, her hooves kissing the earth with barely a sound. Her tail flagged out behind her, and her entire body pulsed with motion. The judges leaned forward, and one of them pointed to her hocks, then muttered, "Elasticity. Good extension through the shoulder. She moves like she knows what she's carrying."
Taylor turned them around, and August shifted gears again, settling into a more controlled rhythm, her body gathering power with every step. It was subtle, but clear: she could contain the energy just as easily as she could unleash it. Back in the center, the mare then halted cleanly, her rotund ears flicking towards Taylor. There was silence from the judges, then some aggressive scribbling. A second later, a steward stepped forward and let the blonde know that they were cleared for free movement. Taylor unhooked the lead and sent the mare off with a clap and a soft whoop, and August took flight: she didn't just trot, it appeared as though she was dancing. The field became her stage, and she moved with grace and precision that left no doubt she knew exactly how good she looked. Circles, figure-eights, bursts of canter with flying changes so smooth they looked choreographed. A few spectators even gasped aloud when she transitioned down into a sweeping extended trot with her tail lifted and her nostrils flaring.
One of the judges muttered, "She's showing off." There was a pause before he added, "And gosh, she knows it." Taylor stood at the edge of the arena, her heart thudding, her dual-colored eyes stinging a little. All the stress of the morning, the stubbornness, that stubborn brilliance of this mare... it all led to this: a perfect moment, owned by none other than August herself.
