Last summer I did my first Prix St. Georges test on Stanley. I earned a daring 57%. In dressage terms, that’s not a score, its more a cry for help.

The trot work was passable. The walk and canter were an organized collapse. The pirouettes stalled out like a lawn mower you swear ran fine yesterday. I missed almost every flying change, despite the fact that this was the one thing I walked in feeling unjustifiably confident about. Naturally. Dressage punishes joy.

My dad knows nothing about dressage. This turned out to be an advantage.

The other night, I sat him down to show him the video of me and Stanley riding our test. The bell rings.

He squints. “Why does it start with a bell? Is that a warning?”

I enter at A, sitting tall, serious, already radiating quiet stress.

“You look like you’re about to be pulled over by the cops,” he says. “Why are you so tense? It’s a horse, you've been around them your whole life.”

I halt and salute.

“That stop looked hard on your back. Why are you bowing,” he asks. “Oh, did you drop something?”

The collected trot begins. For a brief, fragile moment, things look polished.

“Oh,” he says. “This part looks fancy. This must be why it costs money. Strong start. Stan looks confused but cooperative. Like me at IKEA.”

The extended trot happens and Stanley actually looks impressive.

“Okay,” my dad nods. “Stanley understands the assignment. He’s carrying the group project. Do you get extra points for bouncing like that?”

The half pass appears.

“Are you supposed to be going sideways?” he asks. “Is this arena crooked or are you just freelancing?”

We transition to walk.

Immediately: “Nope. Why did you slow down? Never slow down. That’s how they get you.”

The collected walk begins, suspicious and tense.

“Why is he sneaking?” my dad asks. “This looks like a crime.”

The extended walk follows.

“That’s it?” he says. “That’s the big walk? I walk faster than that to the fridge.”

We pick up the canter after a visible conversation between me and Stanley.

“That wasn’t smooth, have you done those before?”

The canter half pass begins.

“This is ballet for people who hate happiness,” he says. “Why is nothing allowed to just go straight?”

Then comes the first pirouette.

“Oh,” he says, leaning forward.

Stanley stalls.

“Oh no,” he continues. “You stopped. Why did you stop. The instructions were spin, did you need a breather?”

I attempt to salvage it.

The second pirouette arrives, somehow worse.

“Oh, the second one is optional?” he asks

We line up for the tempis.

“You look scared,” he says. “So this must be the hard part.”

Irony enters the arena.

The changes do not.

“Stanley just said ‘absolutely not,’” my dad reports. “And honestly? I respect him.”

I try again.

“Why do I hear you counting?” he asks. “Nothing is happening. Are you supposed to be swinging violently back and forth like that?”

I abandon the idea entirely.

“Oh good,” he says. “That looked painful on your hips”

The canter work continues in a fragile, apologetic manner.

“This sport is just quiet suffering,” he decides. “You’re all miserable and no one’s allowed to show it.”

I turn up the final centerline, smiling with the confidence of someone who knows the damage is irreversible.

“Smile,” my dad says. “That’s smart. If you smile, they can’t tell how bad it was.”

I halt. I salute. The test ends.

He exhales.

“You take lessons for this, right?” he asks. “Shouldn't you know how to ride that test by now? You've been doing this a while.”

Pause.

“And you got a 57. the lower the score the better, right?”

And that is how you earn a 57%, get roasted by your father, briefly reconsider dressage as a concept, and decide you are never, under any circumstances, showing a test video to your dad again

57% later, one brutally honest dad, and Stanley is still unbothered.

Honestly, that’s the real victory.