Remembering Serada

Serada was foaled 50 years ago today. His dam was Gayranna, my very first horse. His sire was Seranej, owned by the Gulleys of Jimjac Arabian Farm, who had virtually taken me in as a member of the family and coached me along in this journey of horse ownership, showing, and breeding.

When Serada was a yearling, I took him to his first horse show. I felt more than a little out of my league as I led this excited young colt across the distance from the show barn to the show ring. It had rained recently, and there were puddles to be passed. It was as if Serada had never seen a puddle before and thought each one was something that might hurt him.

By the time we reached the show ring, Serada was excitedly blowing and snorting; prancing, feet seeming to barely touch the ground; tail over his back; neck arched. He was a sight to see, beautiful always, but brilliant when excited.

He won first place in halter in his first show. It was the beginning of a highly successful show career, the highlights of which were:

• U. S. National Top Ten Half-Arabian Gelding in 1971
• U. S. National Champion Half-Arabian Gelding in 1973
• U. S. National Champion Half-Arabian English Pleasure in 1973
• U. S. National Champion Half-Arabian English Pleasure in 1976 (Serada was the first to win that award twice.)

U. S. National Top Ten 1971

At His New Home in Florida 1972

Realizing that I lacked the experience to help Serada reach his full potential, I sold him as a four-year-old to Bob Barbieri in Daytona Beach, Florida. It was under Bob's ownership that Serada won his three National Championships.

National Champion Half-Arabian Gelding 1973

National Champion Half-Arabian English Pleasure 1973

National Champion Half-Arabian English Pleasure 1976

Competing in Driving Class at Nationals 1976

Bob and Serada traveled to the Nationals again in 1978, looking forward to the possibility of earning a National Championship in Driving and a third National Championship in English Pleasure.

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. Serada colicked and died the night before he was to compete.

Gayranna and Seranej continued to produce beautiful offspring for several years, although, to my knowledge, none ever matched Serada's show career.

Today, on the 50th anniversary of his birth, it just seemed appropriate to remember Serada. I know how dearly he was loved by Bob and how Bob's heart was broken that awful night in Louisville when Serada died. Horses like him don't come along every day.

The following photos were part of a photo shoot by the Arabian Horse Journal, which featured Serada on the cover of the July, 1977, issue of that magazine. The rider in these photos is horse trainer, Buck Grass.

A Horse Show From 1972

I was recently going through an old box of photos, preparing to scan them into the computer, when I found an envelope containing negatives from 1972. It's difficult to see what's on a negative, simply by holding it up to the light; and my curiosity prompted me to scan these into the computer. (I love my scanner. It's amazing to me that it allows me to scan negatives, as well as slides, prints, and documents.) 

Among the negatives were pictures of me riding in a horse show in 1972. I'm pretty sure it's the only time I ever rode in a show. I'm not sure now, after all these years, what ever prompted me to do it this time. The show, held in a nearby community as part of their summer festival, was very small, with mainly local contestants. 

The horse is my very first horse, a mare named Gayranna (pronounced Gare-Anna). I had purchased her sight unseen from the girl in California who had raised her from a weanling. She was 10 when she came to Indiana and 15 in these photos.  

I don't remember if we placed in the Western Pleasure class. There was a sizable group of contestants in that one. The class size was much smaller in the English Pleasure class, so I probably received some sort of ribbon in that one.

None of these are great photos, but they're special to me for the memories they hold.

A Few More Horses

It seems like another lifetime ago that I was so heavily involved with horses. Back then, they were my life. Everything I did revolved around the horses. Even now, they still hold a special place in my heart.

So I have one last set of pictures to share here. The first two posts featured my first horse, a Half-Arabian mare named Gayranna, and her offspring. Those posts can be viewed here and here.

Well, a couple of purebred Arabians were purchased during those years, as well. One was a gray filly named AJ Gwalima, which I purchased from my cousin-in-law, Anita. The letters, "AJ," are the initials of Anita's first and middle names. Her Arabian horse farm was called AJ Arabians, and those initials were included in the registered names of the foals produced by her mares.

AJ Gwalima

I purchased one other purebred Arabian mare, this one from the man in Florida who had purchased Serada and several other of Gayranna's offspring from me. She was a bay mare named Jessica Sunrise.

Jessica Sunrise

Jessica Sunrise

"Jessie" produced a lovely filly for me, sired by one of Anita's stallions, AJ Ramada.

Sunada (AJ Ramada x Jessica Sunrise)

And, finally, a few photos of a some of Gayranna's foals and glimpses of my sweet collie, Heather.

Sera Lee (Seranej x Gayranna)

Seradan (Seranej x Gayranna)

Seradan (Seranej x Gayranna)

I've been out of the horse "business" since the early eighties. You'd think I'd be over it by now, wouldn't you? But, to me, there's no creature more beautiful than a horse. Since I've been away from showing and breeding Arabians, I've developed an appreciation for virtually every breed of horse. They all have their good qualities.

I love the fact that the Amish who live around us have such a variety horses. Many of them are so beautiful that they could compete well in the show ring. We've lived here for 23 years, and I still run to the window when I hear a buggy or farm wagon passing by, feasting my eyes on the beautiful animals that are pulling the vehicle. 

If I haven't gotten over it by now, I don't think I ever will.

More Horses, Horses, Horses

Almost two years ago, shortly after I began this blog, I did a post about my first horse, Gayranna, and the offspring she produced from being bred to the Arabian stallion, Seranej. You can find that post here. At the time, I hadn't been able to find a picture of Seramac, one of Gayranna's foals by Seranej. In going through some old photos recently, I found some pictures of Seramac, as well as some other photos worthy of sharing. So here is another horse post. (One every two years isn't so bad, now, is it?)

Gayranna (pronounced Gare-Anna) was Half-Arabian and Half-Thoroughbred, so her foals were three quarters Arabian.

Seramac, as a Yearling in 1972

Gayranna and Heather

In spite of the obvious fading of the photograph, I liked the above unposed picture of Gayranna, with my collie, Heather, in the foreground.

Gayranna was 10 years old and in foal to an Arabian stallion named Raffdaan when I bought her and moved her from California to Indiana in 1967. The resulting foal was a lovely filly which I named Raffdanna.

Raffdanna, as a Yearling in 1968

From then on, Gayranna was bred exclusively to Seranej. Serada was the first from that match and won multiple national championships. He was featured in the earlier post, but I couldn't resist including him in this one, too.

Serada with Trainer, Buck Grass

The above photo was taken by a professional photographer during a photo shoot for The Arabian Horse Journal, a magazine which featured Serada on the cover of its July, 1977, issue.

Serada was shown in Halter, English Pleasure, Western Pleasure, and Driving classes and did well in all of them.

Serada in Driving Class at 1976 Nationals in Louisville, Kentucky

My previous horse post included a picture of LaStrada as a foal. Here is one of him as a yearling, after he was purchased by the same man who had purchased Serada and most of the others over the years. LaStrada was to be the last in that line of foals, as Gayranna was 22 years old by the time he was born in 1979. 

LaStrada, as a Yearling in 1980

LaStrada, as a Two-Year-Old in 1981

In the above picture from 1981, LaStrada, as a two-year-old, was being shown in halter at a show in Ocala, Florida, where he was named Grand Champion Half-Arabian Gelding. I lost track of LaStrada and his owner shortly after that and don't know how the rest of his show career went. But I can't help believing that he did well. He had certainly grown into a beautiful animal by the age of two.

Brandi

After the death of my first doberman pinscher, Samantha, I wasn't so sure that I wanted another dog. But, as some of you will understand, it wasn't long before I found myself looking for another doberman.

It was a time when dobermans were not enjoying great popularity, often being bred as vicious attack dogs. So, to be on the safe side, I contacted a veterinarian friend and asked if he could recommend a breeder who bred dobermans for the desirable traits of a family pet. Through the contacts he gave me, I located a family who had a six-month-old black-and-tan female for sale.

 

I went to see her and was immediately smitten. She was already house broken and crate trained, and she quickly bonded with me to the extent that she was almost a pest.

One day, shortly after Brandi came to live with me in my house trailer on my dad's farm, I was taking a shower, when I heard Brandi barking ferociously. Heart beating anxiously, I quickly threw on a robe and went to see what impending disaster was causing the ruckus. Instead of finding Brandi at the door, fighting off an intruder, as I half expected, I found her on my bed, hackles raised, barking at her reflection in a mirror.

 

Brandi would often come and put her front legs on my lap when I was sitting at the kitchen table. From that position, she could see her reflection in the mirror over the couch in the living room. The wall on which the mirror hung separated the living room from the spare bedroom. Brandi apparently thought she was looking through a window into the bedroom because, seeing her reflection, she would begin barking and run to that bedroom in attack mode. Then, satisfied that she had driven the intruder away, she would return to me, jump up to put her front feet in my lap; and the whole process would begin all over again.

 

When I would put on my makeup in the bathroom, no matter where Brandi was in the house, she would come dashing to the bathroom, barking. I soon realized that it was always when I was applying eyebrow pencil that this happened. Apparently, there was some slight noise associated with the application of the eyebrow pencil that irritated Brandi's sensitive ears and set her to barking. So I decided to use that to teach her to "speak."

I would give her the command to speak and then begin to apply the eyebrow pencil. When she barked, I praised her. That was the easiest thing I ever taught her.

One time, when she wanted to go out in the middle of the night, Brandi came and stood next to my bed, right by my face, and gave a single loud bark. Well, let me tell you...after that, we BOTH had to go potty. I woke with such a start that I scolded her for barking at me. From then on, if she needed to go out during the night, she would come and rest her chin on the bed, inches from my face, and just stare at me. It always worked...maybe not as quickly as the bark, but certainly with less trauma for both of us.

My dad lived next door to me, and I would usually stop in to see him for a few minutes before going out to the barn to check on things there. Brandi usually stayed outside while I was at Dad's, but she would position herself where she could see us through the kitchen window. When she saw me moving, her body would tense with anticipation. By the time I opened the door to go out, she was on her feet and ready to run. She knew that my habit was to go to the barn after visiting Dad, so she would be off to the barn like a bullet as soon as I came out of the house. If, instead, I headed back to my house trailer, that bullet would change directions in a flash and quickly overtake me.

Baths. Oh, she hated baths. I always took showers; so, when Brandi heard sounds of the tub filling, she knew it was for her. While I was preparing the tub, she would go to her crate, where, when all was ready, I would find her curled up into a tight ball, pretending to be sound asleep.

When Brandi and I moved from the house trailer on Dad's farm into a house in town, the floors in the house weren't carpeted. There was some ceramic tile and some terrazzo flooring, both of which were a little chilly on a doberman's bottom. One time, when I had been talking on the kitchen telephone for a long time (that was when telephones were anchored to walls), Brandi went to the bedroom to get her blanket and brought it out to the kitchen, where she placed it on the floor next to me, so that she could be near me but still be comfortable.

 

Brandi and I had fun playing hide and seek, too. Well, I did anyway. It was a bit of a one-sided game. I would throw a toy into another room, then run and hide while she went to retrieve it. She would be so distressed when she returned with the toy and couldn't find me. If her search went unrewarded for too long, she would just sit down and whine until I gave up and revealed my hiding place.

Brandi was the last dog I've had. Sometimes I find myself looking through the online pictures of dogs at the local rescue shelters, remembering the joy that a dog or a cat can add to a home. But, so far, I've not taken the plunge again. A pet is a lot of expense and responsibility and, as I mentioned in the post about Samantha, a lot of heartache when the day of parting comes.

But someday, maybe...

Samantha

I have always loved dogs, from the time I was very small. I was bitten more than once by stray dogs that I would try to befriend. Mom kept a bottle of peroxide on hand to disinfect my injuries, not all of which were dog related, as I was very tomboyish and managed to find multiple ways of hurting myself.

We didn't get a dog of our own until we moved to the only barn in the county with a bathroom in the hayloft, when I was about five. She was a mixed-breed from the local animal shelter, loved by (almost) all who knew her. She met an untimely demise when a couple of older neighbor boys took her hunting in our woods and accidentally shot her. The wound itself wasn't serious, but the boys took her to the veterinarian who lived next door; and we believe the vet, who was possibly the one person who didn't like our dog, deliberately administered a lethal dose of anesthetic.

My dad enjoyed hunting, so subsequent dogs were always beagles, until years later when, as an adult, I bought Heather.

I worked with a guy who one day mentioned that he had a young adult female doberman pinscher that needed a good home. I had Heather and didn't need another dog, but we had friends who had recently moved out in the country and were interested in getting a large dog for protection. I got the friends together with the guy at work, and our friends became the happy owners of a red doberman named Samantha.

They adored their new family member, and Samantha adored them. One day, the wife had slipped and fallen and broken her leg when she went out to the mailbox. When help arrived, Samantha was guarding her mistress and had to be restrained before the rescuers could do their job.

Well, a few years later, due to a change in employment, Samantha's family had to move from their house in the country to another city and a home that wouldn't be suitable for Samantha. They asked me if I would take her and give her a home on my parents' 20-acre farm, where I lived in my house trailer on a rented lot.

Heather had long since become my father's dog; and I had long been interested in having a doberman, so I agreed, although I did it with some trepidation. This was during a time when dobermans were not enjoying a particularly good reputation. They were reputed to be one-person dogs and dogs who might unpredictably go into attack mode, and I was about to become the third owner of a mature animal.

The first night that Samantha spent with me, I placed a beanbag chair in my bedroom for her to use as a bed. Then, still a little nervous about having a doberman sharing my house, I settled down to go to sleep.

In the middle of the night, I awoke with a start, hearing my new roommate snarling viciously. Certain that I was about to be attacked, I slowly reached my hand up to the light switch next to my bed and turned on the light. There was my vicious doberman, sound asleep in her beanbag bed, lips curled back in a snarl, and legs twitching, as she chased some evil phantom in her dreams.

Samantha turned out to be a wonderful companion. She had apparently never played with toys as a pup and never showed any real interest in them. Her main "toy" was the occasional rawhide bone that I would give her. She would carry that around like a toddler carries a security blanket. If someone knocked on the door, Samantha would run to grab her bone before going to the door with me. Obviously, she wasn't a barker because it was hard to bark with that bone in her mouth.

 

One time, I was scolding her for something; and she sat down in front of me, looking sheepish, and curled her lips back from her teeth. Her body language showed that the lip curl was not a snarl. I believe she was giving me a sheepish smile.

Another time, we were roughhousing in the close confines of the house trailer living room, and we bumped heads. It didn't seem to hurt Sam, but I had to go to the emergency room for stitches. Every time a different medical professional would enter the treatment room, I would have to explain again that I had bumped heads with my dog; and, no, she had not bitten me.

 

Of course, the inevitable day came when my faithful friend died. I had been away on vacation, and Dad had been taking care of Sam. As soon as I saw her, after returning from my vacation, I saw that her condition had deteriorated. Over the next two or three weeks, she continued her decline. She became destructive in the house, including shredding her beanbag bed. Then she began to have difficulty managing the steps to go outside. One Sunday, I came home from church to find Sam unable to stand. I called the vet, who agreed to meet me at the clinic. Then I had to call my dad to come and help me lift Sam into the car.

The vet had to euthanize Sam that day. He later performed a necropsy, for which he didn't charge me. He did it because he had a personal interest in what had caused Sam's death. The results showed that Sam's liver was non-functioning and was scarred as if with cirrhosis. The vet wasn't able to tell me why, but he did reassure me that there was nothing I could have done.

Pets enrich our lives in so many ways. They give so much love and work their way into our hearts deeper than we ever would have thought possible. But they rarely outlive us. And so the price we pay for the joy of knowing them is the heartbreak of losing them. It's a high price. But it's worth it.

Heather

When I was growing up, our dogs were always beagles, because my dad loved to hunt. I should correct that to say that the very first dog we had, after moving into the only barn in the county with a bathroom in the hayloft, was a mutt from the dog pound that we affectionately named Nosy. She was a wonderful mutt, though, loved by all who knew her. And she liked to hunt, too.

But, after Nosy, it was beagles all the way. I'm probably forgetting some, but I remember Sparky, Rusty, Fritz, and Beany.

Fritz was with us the longest, about 13 years. He moved with us twice. After the second move, though, he disappeared. We had heard about dogs trying to find their way home, so we looked everywhere we could think to look between the old house and the new house; but we never found any trace of him. The same week that we moved into the new house, my dad had to have emergency gall bladder surgery. That may have added to Fritz' stress level and contributed to his disappearance. Or, someone may have stolen him. He didn't look his age, and someone might have thought he'd make a good hunting dog. Whatever happened, we never learned; and his disappearance added to our own stress level.

After things settled down at the new house, though, we got another beagle. This one came from the research farm owned by the company for which I worked at the time. They made animal feed and kept animals at the research farm to test the food. The main business of this company was soy bean products. Thus, the new beagle was named Beany.

By then, we were living on the farm where I was raising horses. Beany didn't do well with the horses. He wanted to chase them, and they didn't like that idea. Beany suffered a nasty kick to the head one day that I thought would kill him. It didn't. He recovered, but I convinced my folks that Beany would be happier in a different home.

I may have had an ulterior motive for placing Beany in another home. I had always wanted a collie. After all, I had grown up watching Lassie on television. And so Heather joined our family.

Heather was a tri-colored collie with such a sweet disposition that she would rather have died than displease us. She came to us as a puppy, an adorable little ball of fluff.

My dad loved to garden, and he had several gardens planted around the three acres or so of the farm that weren't used for growing crops or for pasturing horses. (When asked why he had multiple gardens, instead of one big one, he replied that he didn't like long rows.)

One day, when Mom, Dad, and I were all in one of the gardens, puppy Heather joined us. Not wanting her to get in the habit of going into the gardens, we spoke a firm NO, then took her out and placed her on the grass at the edge of the garden. She came into the garden again, and we did the same thing. And we never had to do it again. She got it. In fact, she got it so well that, years later, when Dad had quit gardening and had reseeded the gardens into lawn, Heather would always go around the places where the gardens had been.

Then came the day when a friend gave me two kittens, Starsky and Hutch. I always fed Heather in the barn, as I was taking care of the horses. The first time that the kittens approached her food bowl, Heather growled and snapped at them. I severely reprimanded her for that, and she never did it again. She would lie with her food bowl protectively placed between her front legs, obviously trying to keep the kittens away. But Starsky and Hutch had no fear and would approach the bowl anyway. Heather would look at me pleadingly, but she never again growled or showed any aggression toward the kittens. In fact, they became great friends.

 

 

We had a neighboring farmer whose border collie always rode on the back of the tractor with him, the sight of which always excited Heather. She recognized the sound of that approaching tractor before anyone else was even aware that it was coming, and we could tell by watching her that Ralph would soon be coming by.

Once Heather understood her boundaries, she never went off our property. The only times that she might fail in that obedience were when she was chasing birds in flight or hot air balloons. Then, with her nose in the air watching the object of her chase, she wasn't looking at boundaries. But a sensor seemed to go off with the first step into forbidden territory, and she would give up the chase and return to the yard.

She would tree a squirrel, then lie patiently at the base of the tree, confident that the squirrel would have to come down sometime. Meanwhile, the squirrel had long since jumped to another tree and was long gone. Okay, so she was sweet but possibly not really bright.

She drank water by putting her head into a bucket, water up to her eyes, then chomping her jaws together. I think she splashed more water out of the bucket than she actually drank.

Heather and my dad became best buds. She was a lot of comfort to him after my mom died. When Dad decided to sell the farm and move into an apartment, Heather went to live with me in my new house in town, where she and Dad could continue to see each other.

Dogs add so much to our lives, and we were blessed to share a part of our lives with Heather.

Horses, Horses, Horses

I really don't know when my love of horses first surfaced. I can't remember ever being without it. As a kid, I read every horse book I could get my hands on, including all the Black Stallion and Island Stallion books by Walter Farley. I used to cut out pictures of horses from magazines and paste them into a scrapbook. In elementary school art class, horses were always my subject of choice, although the subject matter wasn't always obvious to anyone looking at the finished product. I also collected figurines of horses. Get the picture?

My parents always thought it was a passing fancy. After all, nearly every little girl goes through a "horse crazy" stage. They used to tell me that I could have a horse when I could afford to buy one.

A few years after I graduated from high school, I was still living at home when my parents bought a 20-acre farm. They agreed to let me put a horse barn on the property and fence off an area for a horse. I began the search for the perfect horse for me. Ultimately, I decided on a 10-year-old Half-Arabian mare located in Vacaville, California. She belonged to Lauren, a young woman who had raised her from the time the filly was weaned. Lauren was going off to college and needed to sell Gayranna (pronounced "gare anna"). We corresponded; Lauren sent video of the mare; and the deal was made.

Gayranna in 1976, at age 19

Lauren and Gayranna had grown up together, learning from each other. Lauren rode her in a number of horse shows and said they never came home without a ribbon in every class they entered. Then Lauren and Gayranna joined a drill team that square danced on horseback. They traveled all over northern California, doing square dance demonstrations at various events; and Gayranna was so good that new kids learned the routines while riding her.

Lauren also did some dressage with Gayranna, which is a more disciplined and precise method of performance, often referred to as "equine ballet." And, typical of a young girl with her first horse, Lauren taught Gayranna tricks like bowing, counting, and indicating "yes" and "no."

In fact, when Lauren made a trip to Indiana to visit Gayranna, 11 years after I had bought the horse, Gayranna picked right up on the tricks that Lauren had taught her all those years before.

Gayranna  was perfect for me. She was well trained, so she helped me gain experience in riding and handling horses. And she produced lovely foals. I had some very good friends who owned a champion Arabian stallion named Seranej. We bred Gayranna to him, and the resulting colt, Serada, grew up to be a U. S. National Champion in both halter and performance. And, to my surprise and delight, one of the visitors to Serada's stall at the Nationals, following his National Championship win, was Walter Farley himself.

Serada (Foaled in 1968)

There were six more foals from the breeding of Gayranna and Seranej over a period of years, all of which did well for their owners, whether in the show ring or on competitive endurance rides or by producing quality foals of their own or just by being good companions for their owners.

Sera-Diamond (Foaled in 1972) and Serada, brothers

Seradan (Foaled in 1974)

Sera Lee (Foaled in 1975)

Country Seranade (Foaled in 1977)

Gayranna's last foal (Foaled in 1979). I dubbed him "Moose" His new owner gave him the name "LaStrada."

If you were counting the pictures of Gayranna's offspring, you may have noticed that there were only five, besides Serada. That's because I couldn't locate a photo of Seramac (foaled in 1971) to include with the others.

Gayranna lived to age 24, and her death broke my heart. Other horses came and went during the years that Gayranna and I were together, most of them her offspring. But she was my first, and she was my last. I had sold all the others, but I could never sell her. She was my friend.

I still have a love for horses, but I haven't ridden since Doug and I went to a Colorado dude ranch about 13 years ago. I wonder if I could still do it. I like to think I can. Maybe it's best if I don't find out.