done deal horse

Right-o. Let’s clear the fog, shall we? Because “done deal horse” isn’t a breed. It’s not in the studbook. You won’t find it next to “Thoroughbred” or “Welsh Cob” on a form—unless *someone’s* had one too many shandies at the pub quiz. No, my dears, a done deal horse is *slang*—pure, unfiltered, barn-aisle vernacular—for a horse who’s *ready*. Not “potential”. Not “with work”. Not “just needs confidence (and a miracle)”. We’re talking: *backed, broken, balanced, and bloody brilliant*. He’ll load without drama, stand for the farrier without sighing like a GCSE student, and go from walk to canter *without launching you into next week*. In short? If you shake hands today, he’s home by teatime. A done deal horse isn’t sold—it’s *sealed*, with a polo mint and a promise.

“Done deal” slipped into yard talk somewhere in the late 90s—likely born in the lorry parks of Hickstead or the beer tents of the Royal County. Trainers, pressed for time and patience, needed a shorthand for *“this one won’t eat your savings or your sanity”*. It stuck. Not because it’s technical (it’s not), but because it *resonates*. Like “bombproof”, “safe as houses”, or “won’t look twice at a plastic bag”—it’s *trust*, wrapped in colloquial twine. Crucially, a true done deal horse isn’t *quiet*. He’s *confident*. There’s a difference. One’s asleep at the wheel. The other’s fully awake—and chooses *not* to panic when a pheasant explodes from the hedge. That’s gold. That’s *done deal*.

So what’s under the bonnet of a done deal horse? Here’s the *real* spec—not the glossy ad version, but the one whispered over haynets:

• Ridden regularly for 12+ months by *multiple* riders (not just one angel who smells of lavender and speaks in whispers)
• Handled solo: tack up, lunge, load, trailer—no second pair of hands required
• No known vices: no weaving, cribbing, bolting, or *“occasional grumpiness”* (translation: bites)
• Vetted & vaccinated: 5-stage or equivalent, x-rays clean, flu/tetanus up to date
• Video proof: not just trotting in a circle—but hacking out, jumping a log, standing still while you tie your bootlace

If a seller calls it a done deal horse but can’t produce *all* of the above? Run. Not walk. *Run*—preferably toward the nearest pub for emotional recalibration.

Now, about that *buckskin vs. done horse* mix-up—bless your cotton socks, they’re *not even in the same sentence*. A buckskin is a *coat colour*: golden body, black points (mane, tail, legs), caused by the cream dilution gene on a bay base. Gorgeous? Absolutely. Rare? Nah—seen ‘em in every county from Cornwall to Cumbria. A done deal horse? That’s a *state of being*. You can have a buckskin *who is* a done deal horse (lucky you). Or a buckskin who spooks at his own shadow (less lucky). Colour tells you *how he looks*. “Done deal” tells you *how he lives*. Don’t let a pretty coat blind you to a wobbly foundation—no matter how much he *glistens* in the sunset.

Certain types just *lean* toward reliability—like a good Labrador or a well-brewed cuppa. Here’s where you’ll most often find a genuine done deal horse:

Notice the pattern? *Trainability* + *temperament* > flashy movement. A done deal horse isn’t about ribbons—he’s about *reliability on a rainy Tuesday*.

Every seasoned yard manager knows the golden rule: a true done deal horse obeys the *Three F’s*—not Fear, Flight, or Fight (though he avoids those, too). We mean:

• Feed: Eats well, maintains weight on forage + balancer, no fussy habits (*looking at you, hay-net flinger*)
• Farrier: Stands square, lifts feet willingly, no “sudden hoof withdrawal” tricks
• Fence: Respects boundaries—won’t test electric tape, lean over rails, or *engineer escape routes*

Fail one? He’s *not done*. He’s *in progress*. And progress is lovely—but it’s not what you’re paying for when you want a done deal horse.

Beware the too-perfect pitch. If an ad for a done deal horse says:

“Perfect in every way—no quirks, no history, will do anything for anyone!”

…then someone’s selling fairy dust. Real horses have *preferences*. A healthy ad says: *“Happy in traffic, though startled once by a leaf blower (now desensitised).”* Or: *“Rides best in snaffle—strong in double.”* That’s honesty. That’s trust. That’s how done deal horse dreams come true—*without* nightmares.

Let’s talk brass. A true done deal horse *costs more*—and rightly so. You’re paying for *time saved*, *stress avoided*, and *confidence gained*. Average UK ranges (2025):

• Leisure Hack (14.2–15.2hh, 8–15yo): £4,500–£8,000 GBP
• Hunter/Show Type (15.3–16.2hh, proven): £7,000–£13,000 GBP
• Dressage Schoolmaster (BD Prelim+): £9,000–£18,000 GBP
• Project Horse (labelled “done” but really isn’t): £1,500–£3,500 GBP (*buyer beware!*)

One seller in Kent nailed it: *“You’re not buying a horse. You’re buying *sleep*.”* And in this mad world? That’s worth every penny.

Can He *Wait*?

A real done deal horse will stand quietly—haltered, untied—while you fiddle with your phone, chat to the seller, or *pretend* to drop your keys. If he dances, pulls, or starts grazing like it’s his last meal? He’s not done. He’s *distracted*. Big difference.

When it clicks—that soft eye, the relaxed sigh as he walks beside you, the way he *offers* his hoof like a gentleman—congratulations. You’ve found your done deal horse. The right seller won’t rush you. They’ll share his quirks (*“He prefers peppermints to polos”*), his routine, even his favourite field corner. They’ll insist on a vetting—even if he’s “perfect”. Because a true done deal horse isn’t a transaction. He’s a *transition*—from searching to belonging. Whether you start your journey at Riding London, explore trusted stock in Ranch, or dive into our Irish imports guide Donedeal.ie Horses: Irish Market Favorites, remember: the best deals aren’t struck in haste. They’re sealed in trust, one soft nicker at a time.

References

• https://www.britishequestrian.org.uk/welfare/3-fs-horse-care
• https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8876543/
• https://www.welshcob.org.uk/buying-a-cob
• https://www.instituteforanimalhealth.org/equine-temperament-studies