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Breaking the Silence
by Carole Waterhouse
Equinese, our private
language of “horse talk” began just weeks after the purchase of my first
horse, while my husband and I were still dating. My gelding immediately
gained a voice and my family was suddenly christened new horse names. My
mother became Nashatel, my father El Effendi, though these gradually
evolved into the less formal “Nash” and “Papa Oats.”
....
After we married, more horses came into our lives and our private
language evolved, reflecting the personalities of the individual
animals, creating words like “endi” and “bopple” that only we
understood. Normal words spoken with a certain inflection could take on
special horse meanings. During my first experience with a serious
colic, I called my veterinarian in an early morning panic. Too
distraught to speak, all I could say between sobs was, “He’s all flat.”
The horse recovered and the veterinarian forgave me for the wake-up
call. For years afterwards, all catastrophes were referred to as
something “going flat,” the words drawn out in the plaintive sound of my
voice that day.
Our horse language became so
natural for us, we had to be careful about not using their voices in
public. I would sometimes notice people in restaurants staring at us as
the horses discussed menu selections. Abbey, one particularly
strong-willed mare, began teaching my creative writing class one day. A
student asked about extending the deadline for stories and Abbey neighed
out a resounding “no.”
At the loss of any member of
our horse family, the language always stopped. Days would pass while my
husband would patiently wait, then finally, very tentatively, one of the
horses would speak about its loneliness for its companion or simply
relate a loving detail about its friend. Through the horse language, we
could speak of pain that we just couldn’t address in any other way.
With the addition of a
two-year-old bay filly named Rainy Day to our family, our horse language
thrived. Rainy entertained us with her version of her first riding
experiences. She spoke of the indignity of having someone actually
crawl up onto her back, or the fear of her first trailer ride, her
conversations often including pantomime and emerging into what we called
horse operas.
Tagel, a horse we foaled
ourselves, talked more about the innocence of growing up, his fears of
going to “school” when he was sent off for training, his frustrations
and friendships as a member of a new herd. Our older horse, Lovett,
offered sagely advice, both to them and to us. In touchy moments after
an argument when silence needed to be broken or when we were ready for
apologies but just couldn’t seem to make them on our own, Lovett would
tactfully address the problem. For some reason it was easier to admit
our wrongs to him than it was to each other.
And in the moments of crisis
that living with horses always seems to bring, there were hints that
something deeper still existed, that twenty-four years of marriage
didn’t simply end overnight. A cut leg, a hint of colic, any suggestion
that something could be wrong with one of the horses sent us together to
the barn in a united front. When Rainy sustained a painful injury and
had to be kept in her stall for two weeks, then shattered my right arm
with a kick in her excitement of being led to the pasture for her first
day out, the closeness in our marriage returned as my husband cared for
both me and the horses. Still, equinese wasn’t enough to keep us
together and we separated, something I kept secret for awhile. My days
quickly took on a routine of their own, mostly structured around the
horses. Each time I trailered on my own or sorted out some problem
around the house or barn, I felt more confident. Then, suddenly, at the
height of my independence, the accident I feared did happen. At a barn
where I had trailered in for lessons, Tagel panicked while being loaded
into the trailer. He escaped unharmed, but I was knocked to the ground
and run over in his rush to get out. After rambling incoherently for
quite some time, I told a group of bewildered people trying to care for
me, “I think I may be divorced or separated. I can’t remember for
sure.”
The accident, which resulted
in another broken arm and a concussion, should have been the final break
in my confidence. But horse people have a way of looking out for each
other. I was heartened by offers to pitch in with barn chores and drives
to doctors’ appointments. My concussion-induced confession, while
embarrassing at the time, turned out to be a handy ice-breaker.
While I was convalescing, I tallied
up the injuries I’d sustained in over twenty-five years of keeping
horses. One young horse had broken my right arm and given me a
concussion on the left side of my head while another had broken my left
arm and given me a concussion on the right side of my head. I kept
telling everyone it was an example of the unique way horses bring
balance and symmetry into my life.
I meant the comment as a joke, of
course, but maybe there was a side of me that believed it. Six weeks
after the accident, my arm protected by a football pad, I was back
riding again, finding solace in simply being able to return to a
familiar routine. I realized how fortunate I am to have found something
so basic that makes me truly happy.
And lately my relationship with my
husband has improved. While it’s clear that our differences are far too
substantial for us to ever reunite, we’ve found a way of keeping our
separation amicable. Last week the horses opened up their own e-mail
accounts.
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