KSM Equestrian Enterprises

08/16/2025

🥰. I agree.

What a privilege it is…

…to watch the first few white hairs appear around a horse’s eyes, the face you’ve known for years. Maybe since they were a gangly youngster, or perhaps only in more recent seasons. Either way, you’ve become their constant.

One day, as you run your hand up along their face and brush aside their forelock, you notice something different. A few grey hairs, soft yet stubborn, threaded through the colour you’ve always known. Just a smattering, almost as if they were dabbed on with a brush when your back was turned.
And they stop you in your tracks.
Because there it is.

The first, quiet whisper of time.

There’s a particular kind of privilege in caring for an older horse. Not just the honour of fulfilling their everyday needs. But the deeper, quieter privilege… being the one who will walk beside them as they soften with age. The one whose hands they will come to rely on completely. The one who will know them for the rest of their life.

They won’t be passed along. They won’t be asked to start over with someone new. They’ll only ever know your care, your routine, your way of doing things. Until the day they take their last breath. That’s something profound.

Not everyone gets to be the person who holds space for a horse’s entire arc. You see the wonder of youth, the steadiness of middle age, and the gentleness that so often comes with time. Not everyone chooses it. Not everyone can. But for those of us who do…

…what a privilege it is.

To know them, not just when they were strong and sound and “useful,” but when they slow down and ask for a little more patience. A little more help. A little more softness. To be their person, not just for the ride, but also for the parts of the journey where you walk side by side, even for the times you carry the most weight for them instead.

Because even as their bodies change, their hearts don’t. The bond grows stronger and deeper and even more familiar.

What a privilege it is.

—————————————
©️Lauren Johnson Graveney Equine: Horse Track System - dedicated to Jasper who has graced us with the first few grey hairs this year. With us forever 💚

08/01/2025

I love and appreciate all my vets !!
Kara Stark McGrew

I once stitched up a dog’s throat with fishing line in the back of a pickup, while its owner held a flashlight in his mouth and cried like a child.

That was in ’79, maybe ’80. Just outside a little town near the Tennessee border. No clinic, no clean table, no anesthetic except moonshine. But the dog lived, and that man still sends me a Christmas card every year, even though the dog’s long gone and so is his wife.

I’ve been a vet for forty years. That’s four decades of blood under my nails and fur on my clothes. It used to be you fixed what you could with what you had — not what you could bill. Now I spend half my days explaining insurance codes and financing plans while someone’s beagle bleeds out in the next room.

I used to think this job was about saving lives. Now I know it’s about holding on to the pieces when they fall apart.

I started in ’85. Fresh out of the University of Georgia, still had hair, still had hope. My first clinic was a brick building off a gravel road with a roof that leaked when it rained. The phone was rotary, the fridge rattled, and the heater worked only when it damn well pleased. But folks came. Farmers, factory workers, retirees, even the occasional trucker with a pit bull riding shotgun.

They didn’t ask for much.

A shot here. A stitch there. Euthanasia when it was time — and we always knew when it was time. There was no debate, no guilt-shaming on social media, no “alternative protocols.” Just the quiet understanding between a person and their dog that the suffering had become too much. And they trusted me to carry the weight.

Some days I’d drive out in my old Chevy to a barn where a horse lay with a broken leg, or to a porch where an old hound hadn’t eaten in three days. I’d sit beside the owner, pass them the tissue, and wait. I never rushed it. Because back then, we held them as they left. Now people sign papers and ask if they can just “pick up the ashes next week.”

I remember the first time I had to put down a dog. A German shepherd named Rex. He’d been hit by a combine. The farmer, Walter Jennings, was a World War II vet, tough as barbed wire and twice as sharp. But when I told him Rex was beyond saving, his knees buckled. Right there in my exam room.

He didn’t say a word. Just nodded. And then — I’ll never forget this — he kissed Rex’s snout and whispered, “You done good, boy.” Then he turned to me and said, “Do it quick. Don’t make him wait.”

I did.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat on my front porch with a cigarette and stared at the stars until the sunrise. That’s when I realized this job wasn’t just about animals. It was about people. About the love they poured into something that would never live as long as they did.

Now it’s 2025. My hair’s white — what’s left of it. My hands don’t always cooperate. There’s a tremor that wasn’t there last spring. The clinic is still there, but now it’s got sleek white walls, subscription software, and some 28-year-old marketing guy telling me to film TikToks with my patients. I told him I’d rather neuter myself.

We used to use instinct. Now it’s all algorithms and liability forms.

A woman came in last week with a bulldog in respiratory failure. I said we’d need to intubate and keep him overnight. She pulled out her phone and asked if she could get a second opinion from an influencer she follows online. I just nodded. What else can you do?

Sometimes I think about retiring. Hell, I almost did during COVID. That was a nightmare — parking lot pickups, barking from behind closed doors, masks hiding the tears. Saying goodbye through car windows. No one got to hold them as they left.

That broke something in me.

But then I see a kid come in with a box full of kittens he found in his grandpa’s barn, and his eyes light up when I let him feed one. Or I patch up a golden retriever who got too close to a barbed fence, and the owner brings me a pecan pie the next day. Or an old man calls me just to say thank you — not for the treatment, but because I sat with him after his dog died and didn’t say a damn thing, just let the silence do the healing.

That’s why I stay.

Because despite all the changes — the apps, the forms, the lawsuits, the Google-diagnosing clients — one thing hasn’t changed.

People still love their animals like family.

And when that love is deep enough, it comes out in quiet ways. A trembling hand on a fur-covered flank. A whispered goodbye. A wallet emptied without question. A grown man breaking down in my office because his dog won’t live to see the fall.

No matter the year, the tech, the trends — that never changes.

A few months ago, a man walked in carrying a shoebox. Said he found a kitten near the railroad tracks. Mangled leg, fleas, ribs like piano keys. He looked like hell himself. Told me he’d just gotten out of prison, didn’t have a dime, but could I do anything?

I looked in that box. That kitten opened its eyes and meowed like it knew me. I nodded and said, “Leave him here. Come back Friday.”

We splinted the leg, fed him warm milk every two hours, named him Boomer. That man showed up Friday with a half-eaten apple pie and tears in his eyes. Said no one ever gave him something back without asking what he had first.

I told him animals don’t care what you did. Just how you hold them now.

Forty years.

Thousands of lives.

Some saved. Some not.

But all of them mattered.

I keep a drawer in my desk. Locked. No one touches it. Inside are old photos, thank-you notes, collars, and nametags. A milk bone from a border collie named Scout who saved a boy from drowning. A clay paw print from a cat that used to sleep on a gas station counter. A crayon drawing from a girl who said I was her hero because I helped her hamster breathe again.

I take it out sometimes, late at night, when the clinic’s dark and my hands are still.

And I remember.

I remember what it was like before all the screens. Before the apps. Before the clickbait cures and the credit checks.

Back when being a vet meant driving through mud at midnight because a cow was calving wrong and you were the only one they trusted.

Back when we stitched with fishing line and hope.

Back when we held them as they left — and we held their people, too.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s this:

You don’t get to save them all.

But you damn sure better try.

And when it’s time to say goodbye, you stay. You don’t flinch. You don’t rush. You kneel down, look them in the eyes, and you stay until their last breath leaves the room.

That’s the part no one trains you for. Not in vet school. Not in textbooks.

That’s the part that makes you human.

And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

07/28/2025

Truth

Don Stewart has trained hundreds of riders over his long and storied career—many of whom have gone on to dominate top hunter, jumper, and equitation rings. His longevity in the sport isn’t just about talent; it’s about his ability to evolve without abandoning the values that got him started.

“I think there’s a big difference in how we brought riders up 30 years ago,” Stewart said. “But I’m not here to say one way is better. I think we have to take the best of both.”

It’s this thoughtful mix of tradition and progress that has helped Stewart remain one of the most respected figures in the industry.

One of the biggest shifts Stewart has seen is in how young riders approach the barn and the sport as a whole.

“We used to be there all day, every day,” he recalled. “We cleaned stalls, we swept aisles, we watched every lesson whether we were riding or not. That’s how we learned.”

That “barn rat” mentality, Stewart believes, created a deeper level of horsemanship. “There’s something to be said for just being in the barn,” he said. “You can learn as much listening to a lesson as you can riding in one.”

Still, he understands that times have changed. “Kids today are busy. They’ve got school, they’ve got other responsibilities. I get it. But I do think we lose something when horses are just another activity on the schedule.”

While Stewart embraces evolution, he’s also not afraid to hold the line on certain standards.

“I still want horses to be turned out well. I still want kids to be polite. I still want them to walk the course and have a plan,” he said. “Those things never go out of style.”

He admits there are moments where he misses the old days. “We didn’t have phones in our hands all day. We talked to each other. We learned by watching. That sense of community in the barn—there’s nothing like it.”

But instead of lamenting what’s changed, Stewart focuses on what he can teach today’s riders through his example. “I don’t expect them to know everything right away. But I expect them to want to learn,” he said.

🔗 Read the full article at https://www.theplaidhorse.com/2025/07/23/what-never-goes-out-of-style-don-stewarts-take-on-riding-respect-and-results/
📸 Courtesy of Don Stewart

07/25/2025

Stealing from my college trainer !!

Stop Fixing Problems You Created

There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it plain:

A lot of the problems people bring to me — barn sour horses, buddy sour horses, horses that won’t load, won’t stand at the mounting block, don’t stop, don’t steer, don’t pick up the right lead — didn’t come out of nowhere. They weren’t born that way. And most of the time, they weren’t trained that way either.

They were made that way. And most often? They were made that way by the very people trying to fix them.

Now before you get your feathers ruffled, hear me out. I’m not here to shame anyone. Horses are honest creatures. They respond to the environment they’re in and the leadership they get. If you’ve got a problem horse, that horse isn’t out to make your life miserable. That horse is just reacting to what it’s been taught — directly or indirectly — by you.

So before you go looking for a fix, stop and ask yourself one simple question:

“Did I create this?”

Horses Learn Patterns — Whether You Meant to Teach Them or Not
Horses are masters of pattern recognition. They don’t just learn what we intentionally teach — they learn what we repeatedly allow.

Let me give you a simple example. You ride your horse for 45 minutes, and every single time you dismount right at the gate. After about a week of that, your horse starts pulling toward the gate at the 40-minute mark. Two weeks in, you’re fighting to stay in the arena at all. You say, “He’s barn sour.” No — he’s gate-conditioned. You taught him that the gate is where the ride ends, and he learned it better than you realized.

Same thing with mounting blocks. You let your horse walk off the second your foot hits the stirrup? Don’t be surprised when he refuses to stand still. He’s not being disrespectful — he’s doing exactly what he thinks he’s supposed to do. You taught him that.

Buddy sour? Happens when every ride, every turnout, every trailer ride, every everything happens in pairs. You never ask that horse to be alone, never train it to focus on you instead of the herd, and then act shocked when it melts down the minute its pasture mate walks away.

These are learned behaviors. And if you taught it — even accidentally — then you’re the one who needs to un-teach it.

Avoidance Creates Anxiety
I see it all the time: the rider knows their horse doesn’t like something — maybe it’s going in the trailer, riding out alone, crossing water, walking past a flapping tarp. So what do they do? They just avoid it. Again and again.

And you know what happens? The horse gets more anxious. The issue doesn’t go away. It gets bigger. Because now that thing is associated with stress, and the horse has never been taught how to work through it. The human’s avoidance has created a mental block.

And then one day they try to address it — maybe they need to trailer somewhere, or they’re in a clinic and someone pulls out a tarp — and the horse explodes. And they say, “I don’t know why he’s acting like this!”

I do. You’ve been letting it fester. You taught your horse that he never has to face the thing that scares him. Until now. And now it’s a fight.

Inconsistency is the Fastest Way to Ruin a Good Horse
You can’t train a horse one way on Monday and another way on Wednesday and expect them to understand anything. And yet that’s what a lot of folks do.

Monday: you make him back out of your space.
Tuesday: you let him walk all over you because you’re in a rush.
Wednesday: you smack him with the lead rope for doing the same thing he got away with yesterday.
Thursday: you feel bad and let him be pushy again.

That horse has no idea what the rules are. And when there are no clear rules, a horse will either take charge or check out completely. Either way, it’s not going to end in a safe, willing, responsive partner.

Stop Saying “He Just Started Doing That”
I hear that phrase constantly: “He just started doing that.”

No, he didn’t. You just started noticing it once it became a problem you couldn’t ignore.

Most bad habits start small. A little shoulder lean. A step into your space. A half-second delay in picking up a cue. But when you ignore those things, they grow. Horses don’t suddenly wake up one day and decide to bolt, buck, rear, or refuse. They show you the warning signs first. It’s up to you to listen and respond before it becomes a crisis.

So the next time you say, “He just started doing that,” stop and think: Did I actually miss the signs? Did I allow this to build?

Horses Are Honest — But So Are Results
Your horse is just doing what it was taught. Maybe not on purpose. Maybe not maliciously. But consistently.

The results you’re getting today are a direct reflection of the leadership you’ve given up until now.

And the good news is — that works in reverse too.

If your horse is a problem today, and you take responsibility, and you start showing up consistently, with clear expectations, fair corrections, and better timing — the horse will respond. Horses aren’t holding grudges. They’re not being stubborn just to spite you. They’re not political. They’re not bitter. They’re honest.

They will follow a better leader the moment one shows up.

Final Thought
If you’re spending your time trying to fix a problem, the first place you need to look is the mirror.

Because if you’re the one who taught it — even by accident — then you’re also the one who can fix it. But only if you take responsibility.

Stop blaming the horse. Stop acting surprised. Start being the kind of leader your horse actually needs — not the one that avoids, excuses, and compensates.

The horse isn’t broken. The horse isn’t rebellious. The horse isn’t hard to train.

You’re just trying to fix something you created without first owning the fact that you created it.

And until you do that, nothing is going to change.

07/23/2025

Kara Stark McGrew

In the early afternoon on Feb. 11, 2022, Katharine Chrisley-Schreiber, founder of Dharmahorse Equine Sanctuary in Las Cruces, New Mexico, heard her husband, Mark Schreiber, utter three words she had hoped she would never hear again: “There’s a fire.” Earlier that day, a brush fire started i...

07/21/2025

😀🥰😳😭😔
Kara Stark McGrew

Amateur hunter rider Anna Pavlov has a big heart, and she’d be the first to admit she is quick to respond whenever there is an animal in need. So when a friend shared a social media post with two photos—one showing an extremely thin, rough-looking bay mare, the other showing a screen shot of a U...

05/24/2025

One if my college trainers shared so I am also. ❤️
Kara Stark McGrew

You Can’t Teach What You Can’t Feel...

In the world of horsemanship, there’s a vital truth that separates a good rider from a great teacher: you can’t teach someone how to ride a horse if you can’t feel it for yourself. Horses are not machines—they are individuals, each with their own quirks, sensitivities, and rhythms. And while there are countless methods and theories, the heart of effective teaching lies in the ability to feel what’s happening beneath you and to translate that into guidance for your student.

Every horse responds differently. What works for one might do nothing for another. That’s why rigid instruction often falls flat. It’s not about drilling a technique into the rider but about discovering what works for this horse, in this moment. That discovery begins with feel.

A trainer who has developed this feel—through years of riding, trial, error, and listening—can interpret a horse’s subtle cues: the shift in weight, the tension in a shoulder, the hesitation in a transition. From there, they can guide the rider in using their legs, seat, hand, and voice to create harmony rather than conflict.

The lift of a rein, the softening of the seat, the timing of the leg aid—these are not just mechanical actions but pieces of a conversation with the horse. When a trainer has truly felt this connection, they can better show their students how to achieve it too. It’s not just about what to do, but when and how to do it—adjusting in real time, with sensitivity and awareness.

Ultimately, the most valuable thing a riding instructor can offer isn’t a long list of drills or textbook techniques. It’s empathy for the horse and clarity for the rider, both rooted in personal experience. Because when you can feel it, you can teach it—not just with words, but with wisdom.

05/15/2025

Love this man !

05/11/2025

05/10/2025

The best !

12/09/2024

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1AtgMV2DG1/?mibextid=WC7FNe

Every morning at dawn, at his “home” racetrack of Belmont in New York City, or at whatever track he happened to be, the Thoroughbred racehorse named Secretariat would stick his head out the stall and wait for his pal. The stall had a strong door, of course, but the usual way of keeping horses in their stalls is to slide the door back into its slot and attach strong, foot-high webbing into bolts on either side of the door set at the horse’s chest height.

This allows a curious horse to stick his head out, look down the hallways and watch everything. If a horse hears human footsteps or the clip-clop of another horse, he can check it out. Maybe say hello. Racehorses spend most of their time in stalls, and an open door helps relieve boredom. Early every morning, with sunrise still hours away, groom Edward “Shorty” Sweat would walk down that long hallway to begin his day’s work, and every morning he saw the same thing. Secretary with his head out, watching for, waiting for, his best friend.

Secretariat was a kind horse, and playful. Eddie would toss the horse’s halter into the corner of the stall. Secretariat would pick up the halter with his teeth and drop it at Eddie’s feet; it was a game they played. Secretariat would try to steal the brush from Eddie’s hand, and he would pull on Eddie’s shirt like a pup playing tug-of-war.
Eddie was Secretariats groom, the man who cleaned his stall, gave him his food and water, put on his bridle and saddle, picked the dirt and stones from his hooves, put on his blanket, loaded him in the van and drove him to the next track and the one after that. This was Eddie’s job, and he did it better than anyone, according to many people long familiar with horses and grooms and racetracks. But looking after Secretariat was more than a job for Shorty Sweat. For him, that horse was like a son, brother and best friend all rolled into one.

Eddie knew, for example, that Big Red – as many now called him – hated to have his ears touched. He knew that the horse slept standing, facing a corner. At night, when the barn was quiet, the horse would lie down, but not on his side. He would fold his front legs beneath him and listen for strange sounds. When he heard one, he would quickly stand up. ready to run if called upon.

When Eddie would arrive before dawn, Secretariat always stuck out his tongue. Eddie would grab it playfully and shake it as if he were shaking another man’s hand. Ron Turcotte, the horse’s jockey, or rider, started this by one day reaching into Secretariat‘s mouth and grabbing his tongue as a greeting. The horse must’ve thought this was another good game, because every morning after that, Big Red would stick out that big pink tongue of his, and Eddie would shake it.
“Hey, Eddie,” Secretariat was saying.
Hey, Red,” his groom would reply.
This was their routine morning greeting through late 1972 and into 1973, when Secretariat was The Reigning King of Racehorses.
~By Lawrence Scanlan
THE HORSE GOD BUILT

11/18/2024

Kara Stark McGrew

In the Collective Marks section of all of our national dressage tests, there are two score boxes for the rider. The first of these is for “position and seat.” What the judge assesses to determine this score are elements of equitation that are the foundation for effective communication with the horse. A correct, balanced, and independent seat is necessary for successful training and competition.
The test sheets list five directive ideas that the judge considers in formulating the collective mark for rider position and seat:
* Alignment
* Posture
* Stability
* Weight placement
* Following the mechanics of the gaits.

In this first part in this new series from USDF Connection magazine, Jayne Ayers looks at how judges evaluate the rider in the dressage tests, beginning her focus with the first directive: “alignment”.

Filled with helpful diagrams, you won’t want to miss this rider biomechanics article: https://yourdressage.org/2024/10/18/rider-biomechanics/