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A Wild and Wonderful Ride
By Judith Lee
I used to joke that we were like an
old married couple, finishing each other’s sentences, knowing how to
push each other’s buttons. But it was true.
Together for 14 years, our
partnership lasted longer than most marriages. You were just my type: A
flashy, 16-hand redhead with four white socks and a look-at-me attitude.
I was, well, what you were stuck with. At least that’s what you
admitted. But over the years, I knew you cared, no matter how you tried
to hide it.
.....
I was smitten from the get-go. Well-muscled,
outstanding conformation, with lots of chrome, you were much more than
I’d hoped for on my limited budget. I got lucky with a phone call to a
small-time breeder, inquiring about nice young horses for sale. She
chatted with me, maybe liked what she heard, said hesitantly, “We do
have a 3-year-old we might let go…” Within a week, I owned you for
scarcely more than the stud fee she’d paid to your fancy sire.
I knew it would be a
challenge, as you were barely green-broke. My high hopes quashed the
inner doubts, and I confidently changed your call name from “Shadow” to
“Bravo.” What I didn’t know was that it was going to be less like a
cheering crowd yelling, “Bravo! Bravo!” and more like “Mr. Toad’s Wild
Ride.”
Within a few
months I had learned:
-
Never longe
a young horse in an open field, that leads to another open field,
that leads to a major highway (we survived)
-
A horse
that readily picks up his feet for you is not necessarily going to
stand quietly for the farrier (ever)
-
It’s
possible for a startled horse to bust out of the back of a trailer,
do a summersault, come to his feet, and trot back down the lane
without a scratch on him (we fixed the trailer)
Like all long-term
relationships, we sure had our ups and downs. The ups were mainly over
fences, across meadows and charging up any dang hill I could throw at
you. Ever hear the song by Mary Chapin Carpenter, “Why Walk When You Can
Fly?” She might as well have been singing about you.
You hit your stride when, as
a strapping 6-year-old, I took you out of the schooling ring and onto
the hunt field. On those cold mornings while we waited for the hounds to
strike, you stood at rapt attention. You always heard them first, and
the thump-thump of your great heart against my leg told me a split
second before the hounds’ cry reached my ears. Then we were gone away,
on the (tolerant) field master’s tail, doing what you were born to do.
In good weather and bad, you
were the horse to be on. On the fine days, you never tired, no matter
how long or hard we galloped. On the hack back to the trailer, you were
just as fresh as at the morning meet. I can’t count the times you saved
us from crashing to the frozen ground, bore driving winds head-on, or
navigated trappy, rocky trails with aplomb. If there were hounds to
follow, you were there, period.
The downs of our relationship
could be dubbed “everything I never wanted to know about equine
healthcare.” Bitten by a tiny tick, you contracted Lyme disease back in
the bad old days when treatment options were limited. Of course you
couldn’t tolerate the cheap drug and we had to go to the expensive one
that required IM injections twice a day. You achieved remission,
punctuated by flare-ups. Your immune system was impaired, you picked up
everything that came down the pike. The vet called you “our canary in
the coal mine.”
We finally licked it with
medication I could afford, and I must say, you never complained – or
missed a day of foxhunting. When the days got short and there was a nip
in the air, you were ready to go (and go and go) for 11 fabulous
seasons.
Then, last winter, something
changed. Still handsome and strong at 16, you gave no outward sign of
slowing down. But you had a few minor injuries, and they each took a
long time to heal. Then the day after a hunting day, I noticed you
standing stock-still in the pasture, like you couldn’t move. I realized
it just might be getting to be too much for you. Not that you would
admit it.
What’s a horse mommy to do?
You weren’t ready to retire, but just needed a less-strenuous job. Lots
of riders don’t chase hounds and foxes across the slippery, frozen
ground; they take easy trail rides on balmy spring days. Yet you were
too much horse for a child or a grandma, and could no longer serve an
experienced rider who wanted to run and jump. You hated going around and
around the arena, as lesson horses must do.
However, a
friend who had faced the same dilemma (and succeeded) encouraged me to
try to find a match. I took your photo, placed the ad, and waited.
The phone rang
and rang for that old horse with one foot in the grave that was going to
teach little Suzy to ride. I told them, this is not that horse. The
phone rang for that inexpensive show horse. I told them, there is no
such thing. After two months, the phone rang and it was right. She was a
trainer looking for a horse that would safely carry her “advanced
beginner” fiancé on trails and around the farm. He was a grown man,
strong enough to handle you, and mature enough to consider your aches
and pains. They traveled 200 miles just to try you. She asked all the
right questions. He trusted you and you trusted him. Bingo!
I offered to
meet them half-way with my trailer later that week. The day came. It was
time to say good-bye, but only in my heart. I knew that if you knew, you
wouldn’t get on the trailer. I acted like it was just another trail
ride, c’mon we’ll have fun! I brushed you for the last time with tears
in my eyes. You were a good boy, hopped on, we headed out. I cried as I
drove.
“Maybe they
won’t show up,” I thought. “Maybe we can just turn around and come
home.”
They showed up. They were
still really nice. They brought you a new halter and wrapped your legs
carefully. You stood like a gentleman. I handed them your registration
papers and health records, then proudly showed them how you would load
yourself in their trailer.
I realized you
were no longer mine.
It was a long drive home with
that empty trailer. Of course, I knew they would love you, and they do.
I knew I would miss you, and I do. But when it’s right, it’s right, no
matter how much it hurts. Happy trails, big guy. You deserve it.
Judith Lee
is a freelance writer (www.judithlee.net)
and an avid foxhunter.
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