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Okay, this is it. This is the day.
For weeks—no, months—you’ve been the turtles’ personal equine encyclopedia. A walking, talking advertisement for the joy of horseback riding. You’ve waxed poetic about the wind whipping through your hair as you ride, the steady gait of the horse, the profound connection that blossoms between rider and steed when you learn to trust each other implicitly.
As usual, Leo would sling an arm over the back of the couch, eyes rolling so far back into his head, you’d think he was trying to see his own brain. “Oh, here we go,” he’d sigh. Raph pretended to be engrossed in his comic book. Donnie would pull up statistics on horse-related injuries. Mikey, bless his heart, is the only one who ever showed even a flicker of genuine interest.
But today, after a passionate plea involving a vivid description of a sunset trail ride, Leo threw his hands up. “Fine! Yes! We’ll do it! Just make the ‘neigh’-saying stop!” He winked, clearly proud of his pun. Raph groaned, Donnie sighed with the air of a martyr facing a morally questionable science experiment, and Mikey’s eyes lit up with excitement.
So now, here you are. Leading four oversized, bipedal turtles towards the stables where you keep Chester. Mrs. Dunne, the owner, is surprisingly cool about your friends—though you suspect she thinks they’re just very dedicated cosplayers. Or part of some avant-garde performance art troupe.
You haven’t bothered to correct her.
“Okay, team,” you whisper, trying to channel your inner instructor. “Rule number one: horses are prey animals. Sudden movements and loud noises can spook them. And spooked means unpredictable.”
“Spook?” Leo raises an eyebrow. “Buddy, we are the sudden movement and loud noise. We’re basically walking, talking spook-triggers.”
You shoot him a look. “Just … try to be chill, okay?”
Chester, a sturdy, good-natured bay gelding, is dozing in his stall. He lifts his head as you unlatch the door, his large, dark eyes blinking slowly. A soft, rumbling nicker escapes him when he sees you, and he nudges your palm in greeting. Then he spots your entourage. His eyes widen, just a fraction, and a curious, slightly bewildered snort ruffles his nostrils.
“This is Chester,” you announce proudly, stroking his sleek, warm neck. “And Chester—these are my very green friends.”
Leo gives a sweeping bow. “Greetings, Sir Chester. I humbly request passage upon your noble back.”
Chester responds by snorting directly in Leo’s face.
Leo recoils, sputtering. “Wow, okay. Boundaries. Got it.”
Mikey is already halfway into the stall before you can stop him, arms out like he’s greeting a long-lost bestie. “Bro! He’s majestic. Can I pet him? Is it cool? I mean, look at that nose. Look at that adorable nose!”
“Slow,” you caution, gently guiding Mikey’s hand. “Let him sniff you first. Horses take in a lot through scent. It’s how they get to know you.”
Raph hangs back, arms folded. “So, what—you want us to just … climb on and hope for the best?”
“Absolutely not,” you say, scandalized. “There’s so much to cover first. Like balance, communication, posture—”
Donnie cuts in, typing on his tablet. “I’ve been running simulations based on average equine carrying capacity and our respective weights. And while Chester here seems sturdy, I’d estimate only Mikey, or maybe you could actually ride without risking spinal compression injuries.”
You blink.
“HAH!” Raph barks, triumphant. “Guess I’m off the hook.”
You shoot him a grin. “Not even close. There’s groundwork. Grooming. Mucking stalls. Ever wanted to shovel poop with a pitchfork?”
His smug smile vanishes.
“Alright,” you say, clapping your hands. “Let’s start with haltering and leading. Leo, you’re up.”
Leo raises a finger. “Now, wait—why me?”
“Because you talk the most and need to learn humility,” you deadpan, tossing him a halter.
Chester watches Leo with wary tolerance as he fumbles with the halter like it’s a puzzle box. “Okay, over the nose … under the thing … where does this strap go?”
“Under the chin,” you say gently. “No, other chin strap. There you go.”
“Why are there so many straps?” Leo groans.
Chester shifts in place, flicking his tail. You see the moment he decides he’s had enough of Leo’s floundering. He jerks his head just slightly, knocking Leo off balance, who stumbles back, arms flailing—which makes Raph cackle.
Leo straightens, brushing the straw off his shell. “Okay, that was rude.”
“Welcome to horse logic.” You grin. “They know exactly who’s faking it.”
“Then I’m doomed,” Donnie mutters from behind his tablet, which now shows a list of equine warning signals. “Did you know tail swishing can signal irritation, pain, or flies?”
“It’s oftentimes flies,” you say.
“It’s also Raph breathing too loud,” Mikey chimes in, brushing Chester’s flank with a curry comb like a pro. “We vibin’, me and Chester. I can feel it.”
Chester leans into the brush, eyes half-lidded. You smile. Maybe Mikey is a natural.
“Alright, Mikey gets an A+ in brushing. Gold star.” You flash him a thumbs-up, then turn back to the others. “Now, who wants to pick hooves?”
The silence is immediate.
“… Pick what now?” Raph asks, narrowing his eyes like you’ve just suggested arm-wrestling a grizzly bear.
“Hooves,” you repeat brightly. “It’s important. Debris can get caught, and that’s how you end up with pain and other problems. Trust me, picking is not as bad as it sounds.”
Donnie glances up from his tablet. “Actually, it is exactly as bad as it sounds. This diagram—”
“Donnie, breathe,” you say, patting his shoulder. “You’re just cleaning them. Not performing surgery.”
“I’ll do it!” Mikey volunteers, bouncing slightly. “I wanna do the whole cowboy experience. I feel like I need a hat. Do I need a hat?”
You chuckle and begin demonstrating, showing them how to press gently on Chester’s fetlock, prompting him to lift his hoof. “Be calm, be confident. Always stay to the side, never right behind him. And keep your fingers out from under the hoof.”
Mikey gives it a go. And to your amazement, Chester lifts his hoof for him like they’ve been doing this forever. Mikey beams.
“See? This guy and me? Soul bros.”
Leo squints. “So the horse likes Mikey. We can all admit that’s both adorable and slightly unfair, right?”
“Alright, fine,” Raph grumbles. “Lemme try.”
You hand him the pick. He sizes up Chester like he’s about to challenge him to a wrestling match. Chester stares back, unimpressed.
“Easy,” you coach. “Don’t square up like you’re about to fight him. You’re asking, not demanding.”
Raph rolls his eyes but adjusts his stance, then presses on Chester’s leg. The gelding shifts, lifts his hoof—
—and then slams it back down with a thunderous clunk that makes Raph jump back like the floor just exploded.
“NOPE,” he declares, hands in the air. “You win. I am not arguing with a half-ton lawnmower.”
You’re laughing before you can stop yourself.
Donnie eyes the whole thing warily. “Statistically speaking, equestrian work is one of the most injury-prone hobbies. Possibly because people like Raph approach horses like demolition sites.”
“That’s not nice,” Raph grumbles.
“Okay, okay,” you say, still chuckling. “Let’s shift gears. Tacking up. Mikey, wanna help me saddle Chester?”
“Yes!” he says, taking the saddle. “Let me equip my noble steed for battle.”
He’s exaggerating, of course, and you let him have his moment.
Leo is back by the gate, observing with the air of someone hoping if he waits long enough, no one will notice he’s not participating.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” you call.
“I’m here for moral support!”
“Moral support won’t help me teach you proper riding,” you shoot back. “Saddle up, blue boy.”
Leo sighs dramatically as he comes closer again. “If I die, I want my funeral to have—”
“No one’s dying,” you interrupt, nudging the stirrup towards him.
After some mild struggling and a not-so-graceful mounting attempt that ends with Leo face-down in the hay, he finally gets settled in the saddle.
“Oh. This is … high. Why is it so high?”
You snort, adjusting the stirrups for him. “Because horses are tall, Leo. You’ll live.”
Leo mutters something under his breath as you give Chester a soft pat on the neck and lead him out. Mikey walks beside you like he’s in a western movie, chest puffed out, strut exaggerated, clearly envisioning himself in spurs and a ten-gallon hat. Donnie lingers near the fence, observing from what he probably thinks is a safe distance, and Raph follows behind with the same energy as someone heading to a dentist appointment.
“Alright,” you call out, “let’s talk movement. Chester responds to leg pressure, seat shifts, and light cues from the reins. Leo, how’s your balance?”
“About as stable as a Jenga tower in an earthquake,” he replies, white-knuckling the reins.
“Great. We’ll work with that.”
You step alongside Chester, keeping a hand lightly on the saddle while you guide him into a slow walk. Leo wobbles, eyes wide, knees clutching tighter than necessary.
“Relax,” you say. “You’re not on a rollercoaster. Just let your hips follow his movement.”
“I am letting my hips follow,” he says, “and at this rate, I’m gonna dislocate something.”
“Just breathe.”
“You got this, bro!” Mikey shouts. “Lookin’ like a real cowboy already!”
“More like a scarecrow,” Raph mutters, but there’s a grin pulling at his mouth.
“Alright, Leo, we’re going to stop Chester now. Sit deep and gently pull back on the reins while saying ‘whoa.’ Clear?”
Leo nods, and for a moment, it almost works—until he over-pulls and Chester backs up a step in protest, snorting.
“Too much,” you warn, catching the reins. “Be gentle. It’s communication, not a tug-of-war.”
Donnie’s tapping away on his tablet again. “I’ve compiled a list of common riding mistakes. Leo has already demonstrated six of them in under three minutes. Impressive.”
“Put it on my tombstone,” Leo mumbles.
You laugh and help him dismount this time with a little more grace. Then you turn to Raph. “Alright. Your turn.”
Raph’s jaw tightens. “Nope.”
You arch a brow. “You scared?”
“Nope.”
“So prove it.”
He frowns at you, then sighs. “Fine. But if the horse bites me, I’m biting back.”
You help him up, coaching him through every step. Raph’s size makes Chester flick an ear in confusion. But to the horse’s credit, he stands solid. Once Raph’s in the saddle, he grips the reins like he’s riding into battle.
“Just relax,” you say, adjusting the stirrups.
Raph lets out a grunt, but he listens. You guide Chester in a slow loop. Raph’s more stable than Leo was, and you can see the gears turning in his head—that maybe this isn’t so bad after all.
“You’re actually doing great,” you admit.
“I’m not telling anyone about this,” he mutters.
“Your secret’s safe,” you say with a wink. “Unless Mikey posts it on his story.”
“TOO LATE!” Mikey yells from the fence, holding up his phone.
“Mikey—” Raph’s glare could melt steel, but Mikey just laughs.
Donnie, meanwhile, inches closer with a mix of curiosity and dread. “If we agree to only do groundwork, I’d be willing to test tactile desensitization. But riding? That’s outside my operational comfort zone.”
“You can help me lunge Chester later,” you say. “Good way to build trust and observe movement. Low risk.”
Donnie nods at that, appeased.
When you finally get Mikey in the saddle, he’s got no fear. Chester responds like he’s riding with a seasoned trail buddy, and you barely have to guide him.
“I was born for this!” he shouts, bragging.
“You’re doing amazing,” you say, impressed.
“Can we do barrel racing next?” Mikey asks.
You chuckle. “Absolutely not.”
By the end of the day, everyone’s dusty, a little sore, and nursing egos in varying degrees of bruised. But there’s a quiet satisfaction, too. You see it in the way Leo absentmindedly strokes Chester’s mane as he says goodbye. In how Raph offers to help carry tack without being asked. And how Donnie has taken meticulous notes on his tablet.
Mikey, of course, is already planning his next ride.
“You’re welcome,” you say to everyone, smug as anything, as you all head back to the city.
“If I start saying ‘yee-haw’ unironically,” Leo says, “I blame you.”
“Oh, you’ll be saying it. Just wait ‘til we try trotting.”
Raph groans. Donnie sighs. Mikey gasps in glee.
And you? You grin like a champion.
Best. Chaos. Ever.