Horse Spotlight: Gideon
Gideon is a true story of don’t count out the little plain man.
We knew Gideon for quite a while before he came to us. He was purchased as a second horse for a brother to ride with his sister. His background was ranch horse, broke, safe, solid. His body showed the hot brand from his former ranch, along with scars on his neck and hock that showed he had worked hard and lived to tell about it.
He was young and full of life.
His attitude, however, was stubborn.
Gideon preferred whoa over pretty much any other movement. He would begrudgingly let his owners lead him around if they really insisted. Over the years, we heard many stories:
“He is so bad. He won’t go anywhere.”
“You can’t steer him. He’s so strong.”
“And, well…he’s just Gideon.”
As the years went on, the children grew, as children tend to do. They headed off to college, and their daughter’s favorite mount, Tucker, went to his cousin’s house to be pampered and receive medical care for his eye.
That left Gideon alone.
Not that he cared.
No one riding him just meant he got 100% of the food.
At the time, our barn was down a few good lesson horses. We had several who had retired, one who had gotten EPM (cough, Mardi 👀), and others who had crossed the rainbow bridge. We desperately needed someone to lighten the load on our current string of lesson superstars.
So, of course, we said yes.
Day one at the barn, Gideon loaded, tied, tacked, and walked off like a champ. Feeling very confident in this little horse’s abilities, I was already excited about his lesson career.
“He isn’t as stubborn as the girls thought.”
That was the last thought I had before I asked him to back up.
No thank you.
This was the hill Gideon was prepared to die on.
His little short neck came straight up, his upside-down muscles engaged, and he fought against every cue I gave him.
Not an inch.
Kick. Pull. Ask. Crop. Pulse. Shake feet. Tap. Squeeze. Negotiate. Pray to God.
Nothing.
Not. Even. An. Inch.
He planted those feet like a statue.
He would move forward. He would turn. He would trot with A LOT of leg.
But backing up?
Absolutely not.
Jon came out and asked from the ground while I asked from his back.
Yeah. No.
Forty-five minutes later, no one was happy except Gideon, who was standing there looking like a perfectly content little statue.
“He has got to go. If he can’t back, that’s it. He has to follow the rules to keep the kids safe. What if he decides next that he won’t stay standing and rolls over?”
I hopped off and looked him dead in the eyes.
“This is it, buddy. Prove you want to be here.”
And he did.
One begrudgingly slow back step.
ONE.
With huge praise, he got cookies and was turned back out into the pasture.
And from that day forward, he might offer an argument or two, but he never refused again.
He tries.
And over the years, he has fallen completely in love with his children. He now sees it as his sacred duty to protect the tiny treat bearers at all costs.
Even if sometimes that means we walk because, really, who is ready to trot anyway?
We should all walk all the time.
And maybe stand in the middle and talk about how handsome we are.
Gideon began working hard with his riders and entered his first ever show year, finishing in the high points with his rider. He tried so hard.
And it was hard.
He is, after all, fat.
Then, in October of 2023, our dependable Gideon came up lame.
The vets always praised him. The farriers adored him. He never put a hoof out of line. So we assumed it was an abscess.
Weeks went by.
He only got worse.
After a set of X-rays, we discovered navicular.
His entire navicular story can be found in our previous blogs, but with hard work, lots of love, and his own determination to get back to his kids, Gideon went from lame to sound by spring.
More years went by.
More riders learned to love riding. More riders found their confidence. More leg muscles were built on the little bay horse.
He even won a halter class at FENCE, proving once again that you should never count out the “plain” looking horse.
Then, in the summer of 2025, Gideon gave us his biggest scare yet.
One of his very adoring fans came for lessons and found him laying down. Unusual, but it had been incredibly hot, so we didn’t immediately panic.
During the lesson, though, he was acting very strange.
We stopped.
We did a gut check.
Not good.
Colic.
We called the vet. He received Banamine, and for a little while we saw him eat, drink, and seem more comfortable.
The next morning, he was worse.
We called the vet again and got her out to the barn. Mineral oil went in, more Banamine was given, and we were told to wait for the poop.
Another night awake with the horse.
Day two of round the clock care.
The next day was much the same. No poop. More discomfort.
Another call to the vet resulted in a midnight barn party, two bags of IV fluids, more mineral oil, and a very serious conversation about what came next.
Dr. Rachel was shocked when she examined him.
“He is so stoic. You would have no clue how extreme his pain has to be.”
His abdomen was so swollen that we couldn’t tell whether we were dealing with an impaction or a twisted gut.
If we didn’t get poop soon, the next steps would be surgery or euthanasia.
Our bestest boy.
The horse who never gets sick.
The horse who never complains.
Only 11 years old.
He could be gone.
In the wee hours of the morning, before our fantastic vet finally left to get some sleep, we got our first bowel movement.
It was a good sign.
But we needed to know it wasn’t just the mineral oil.
So we rested.
Walked.
Made him more tea.
No grain. No hay.
Watched.
Waited.
Rested.
Lunged and walked.
Got a little poop.
Repeated.
We barely noticed when the sun came up. Somewhere along the way, Gideon went from pitifully laying down to actually wanting to eat.
And then we noticed.
The first real poops.
Not the liquid, rapid-fire mess we had seen in the dark.
Real. Actual. Poop.
Praise God.
Our prayers had been answered.
Gideon wanted to fight.
He wanted to live for his treat bearers.
Our veterinarian was absolutely incredible, doing everything possible to make sure he would be okay. But the prayers and good thoughts from his many adoring people gave him another reason to fight, too.
Three and a half days awake, or dozing in a camp chair, and I didn’t even care.
He was pooping.
He was eating.
He was being his normal Gideon self.
And that was all that mattered.
Thanks to the amazing community of families who donated immediately, and a grant from the incredible people at Fleet of Angels, we were able to pay the astronomical bill we incurred getting Gideon the help he needed.
Without the IV fluids, he would not have survived.
We are beyond blessed and grateful for the incredible community we call our horse family.
Other barns.
Families in other states.
Friends who no longer ride with our barn.
People came together and supported one horse.
Gideon gave us the gift of reminding us that we are all family, no matter what logo we wear, what saddle we ride, or where we live.
You don’t have to be the flashiest.
You don’t have to be the biggest.
You don’t have to be the fastest.
Sometimes the little bay horse who looks plain on the outside can give you one of the most beautiful lessons of all:
We all matter.
And when you feel like you’ve reached the bottom of your barrel, the community you built will be there to pick you back up.
So surround yourself with the horse-loving community we have created.
Find your people.
Find your place.
And find your Gideon.
Because Gideon has earned his schoolmaster title many times over.
We rely heavily on his sweet, calm nature to help us accomplish so many goals. He has taught countless riders to be patient, persistent, confident, and precise.
Thank you, Lord, for the little bay horse and his quiet, stubborn love.
Never count out the plain ones.