The scrambling sounds of tiny hooves scraping my wooden kitchen floor jarred me awake. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I donned my slippers and pattered down the stairs. I flipped on the kitchen light. The three-day-old, lanky, brown mule foal stood in the kitchen inside a small area I’d fenced off. With her long ears pointed straight toward me, she squinted and blinked her long, black eyelashes.

I grinned. “Good morning, Little Girl. You get to see your mama today.”

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I stood in the center of the 60-foot, metal, round pen with my hands hanging by my sides. A coiled lariat was in my right hand. Shaking my head in frustration, I watched my new black Tennessee walker mare fly around the rails like she was a raving lunatic. Dazzle’s head was arched as she looked over the rail and away from me. Her hooves thundered over the soft ground, occasionally kicking up clods of dirt. I dropped my eyes and stared at the ground to “release” the pressure from her, but she kept charging full-speed ahead. What happened? I wondered. I’d ridden her before I’d purchased her a couple of days ago. She hadn’t been anything like this.

My goal was to shape the beginning of my relationship with Dazzle by establishing myself as her leader. I wanted to end her training session on a positive note, but she wouldn’t even look at me! I frowned. She’s acting crazy. God, what should I do?

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