Return to Haflinger Stories

And The "Eyes" Have it
by Jennifer Rousseau, Illinois

The smooth snow covered road curled around an icy Lac Mercier, winding wildly up, down and around the undulating landscape of the ancient Laurentian hills. The frozen northern air glistened in the sunlight as is common on the coldest winter days. Descending into the agricultural valley of the Rouge River, the road suddenly turned black again as the sun, unencumbered by the thick forests, which cover the hillsides, had managed to melt away the snow despite the frigid temperatures. It was not the stark contrast in terrain, however, that peaked my tourist interest.

I’m sure when fishermen drive through strange country; they probably spot boat ramps and docks that the average passer-by might never have noticed. And so it is with horse people; they can identify indoor riding arenas or schooling cross-country fences that might otherwise have been passed off as warehouses and fallen trees. As we drove by a little cluster of farm buildings mostly obscured from view by a tall wooden fence, I said to my Dad, "You know, there are horses in there." "Think so?" he replied.
"Yup", and the conversation carried on in my head: "I wonder what’s going on there. There’s an arena, so there must be riding. I wonder what kind of horses there are? Who the heck keeps horses way up here? Don’t the blackflies drive them crazy in the summer?"

On the way back several hours later, my intuitive Dad seeing my obvious need to know, slowed right down, and I craned my neck to see if there was any sign of life at the farm, but alas, could see nothing. It was only several weeks later that, by complete happenstance, my many questions were answered.

One of the first English-speaking girls I met during my stay in this ski town was working at my friend’s restaurant. As we stood getting to know each other in the shadow of the old Bishop’s-abbey-turned-eatery, I suddenly became aware of the fact that she was wearing Jodhpur boots. Not the shiny stylish Jodhpur boots that are sold in fashion shoe stores for the wannabe rich and famous, but the scuffed, weathered Jodhpur boots of an actual horse person. "Do you ride?" I asked incredulously "Oh yes," she answered matter of factly, "I’m training horses just a few miles from here in the next town over." "What kind of horses?" I inquired. "Haflingers." "Haflingers?" With twenty years of horse experience under my belt, I was sure she had gotten the word wrong. "Don’t you mean Hannoverians?"No," she said politely, sensing I was unconvinced, "Haflingers, from Austria." The conversation ended as we both had things to do, and I walked away shaking my head in disbelief. "Haflingers?" I thought, "She must mean Hannoverians."

After a short period of brief conversations stolen from our busy schedules, she asked me one day if I would like to go with her out to the farm. I didn’t need persuading. As we turned onto the Lac Mercier road I thought of that farm my Dad and I had passed a month or so earlier down and turned in, hopping out to open the huge fortress-like gate, revealing a beautiful stables and courtyard.

I was still expecting to see big brown Hannoverians as we walked through the barn door. Instead, I was quite taken aback by the row of fuzzy little yellow heads with their disheveled white locks hanging in their eyes and mostly blinding them, I thought. Coming from the slick and shiny world of show horses, the first thing I asked was "Don’t you pull their manes?" "The owner won’t hear of it" my hostess answered. I thought the whole scene was a little peculiar, after all, who would want these furry
little horses with their messy manes? As I walked down the alley, however, there was something about those huge brown eyes that seemed to reach out, squeeze your arm and pull you nearer. I wasn’t very far down the row before I was reaching in to scratch the neck of a very appreciative mare.

In the weeks to come, I helped out at the farm when I could, taught some lessons, assisted in preparing horses for a sale, and ultimately was offered a "position". Though I know many who fell in love with those enormous liquid eyes at first sight, a hardened old horsewoman like me was much harder to put under the spell. But then, one day, it happened.

Winter had returned with vengeance to the delight of the skiers and local business. A meter or more of snow had already fallen by late December, so that when you stood in the driveway you could not see over the plow’s snowbanks on either side. The horses were out in the third field, and I was in the barn grooming a stallion to ride when I distinctly heard the sound of hooves on the snow. Now I’m sure you’re saying "Hooves on the snow? What sound does that make?" Well, when it’s very cold, they squeak on hard packed snow, very loudly and very distinctly as a mater of fact. I walked out the door to find my favorite "Nancy" hanging her head over the fence, two fields and two fence lines from where we had put her a couple of hours before. I caught her, her how she got there, checked all the gates, and with tremendous bewilderment, walked her back down the driveway to put her back with the herd. As I returned to my grooming, several minutes passed, when once again came the squeak, squeak, squeak of those hooves out back. Once again, there was Nancy, and this time she was smiling at me (as only a Haflinger can). Once again, I checked the gates, walked the fence lines
and returned her to the herd. This time I stopped and watched for a few moments. Nancy was obviously in a playful mood, as she tried to get some of the younger ones to engage in a little cat and mouse, but to no avail; everyone’s motto that day was "conserve heat". Soon she gave up, and I too, returning to the barn and the chores of the day.

Less than two minutes after I walked into the barn, there it was again, that squeaky hoof sound on the cold hard snow. Sure enough, there was Nancy, only now she was laughing at me; the poor, confused human, standing there shivering, having spent more time out than in so far that morning. I shook my finger at her, and told her "No sir, you’re not making me walk three quarters of a mile down the road and back any more today. If you want to be up here, all by yourself, it’s your own fault." With that, she shook her head, and with a swish of her tail turned and flew back across the field, JUMPING the two fence lines on the way back to the herd. To her obvious disappointment, no one at the other end even lifted their head. More galloping, frolicking, charging and herding from Nancy inspired none to join the game, so she gave a big squeal and came back, galloping the two fence lines in stride. She arrived back at the barn, to a much more appreciative audience: The frozen human, who was now bent over in fits of laughter. If she could have curtsied she would have, her performance was over, and the desired effect achieved, the human sufficiently out of control.

Since that day, I have never looked in a Haflinger’s eyes without seeing the smile that every single one I have ever met has within.