Horsekeeping (26 page)

I wondered what else I might expect in the gross department. Do they get trailer-sick, like kids and pets in cars?

“Do they ever throw up?” I asked Bobbi.

“No. They can't, the way they're designed. That's part of the reason they colic; the bad stuff has only one way out.”

 

 

BY THE END OF THE SUMMER, I grew fairly confident about grooming and riding. The former became second nature and the latter less scary. Some skills noticeably improved—trotting, steering, and at the canter I occasionally managed the half-halt, that minimalist tightening of the outside rein and quick release to gather back a strung out gait without breaking into a trot. While turning, I could shift his head in the direction I determined, curving his body around my inside leg, and sometimes even push him into a corner he attempted to shave. I tried a little “jumping” too, just a few cross rails that Bandi mostly trotted over.
But once or twice he cantered, and I actually got some air. Honest and smart at the fences, Bandi paced himself and made it easy. I just fixed my position up out of the saddle, heels down, eyes up and hung on. And it's easy, if all goes well. If it doesn't, well, I hoped I would find that out later, after the sheath cleaning.

I achieved a milestone over that summer as well. I rode several times alone—that is without Bobbi minding me. I brought Bandi in from his paddock, tacked him up, rode both in the ring and in the field, trotting and even cantering. Then I washed him down and returned both him and me safely to our respective homes. My solo flights taught me that the anticipation of riding generated more anxiety than the actuality. I began to feel like a real horsewoman: not expert by any means, but with enough knowledge to get by. I was never more sweaty, grimy and parched in my life, but fitter too, my body realigning itself. It got increasingly easier to straighten up after zipping on those half-chaps and hoof-picking. I imagined that with caution this sport could be safe, enjoyable and good for me both physically and mentally. Then I overheard farrier Hilary and Bobbi discussing the recent death of a trainer they both knew just across the Hudson River in New York State.

“I can't believe she wasn't wearing a helmet,” Bobbi said.

“I was out there just last week and yelled at her for not wearing it, and she said with certain horses she didn't need to,” Hilary replied, shaken.

“Was the horse trouble?”

“No, but it seemed to have some kind of neurological problem they were trying to figure out. For some reason the horse went down, she hit her head, and that was it.”

I took the opportunity to harangue Bobbi to always,
always, always
wear her helmet and to never take any chances at our farm. Part of me lived in perpetual fear of a serious accident. Not two weeks later she reported another incident.

Bobbi's friend Jane agreed to help with a horse the owner had purchased by video. A large dark bay with impressive moves, Sebastian's
supposed one bad habit was bolting. Jane, a very experienced rider, took him on. Their first outing went well, but he dumped her on the second.

“Did he bolt?” I asked.

“No, she was prepared for that. He actually bucked her off,” Bobbi said.

I knew bucking is a big no-no in a horse. I certainly would not want that trait in mine. But to expect one bad habit and get another upset my tightly-held theory of preparedness.

“She expected to be sore, but went to the hospital later that night because she was having trouble breathing and thought she might have punctured a lung. But apparently she just bruised her heart wall.”

Just
? I thought and started, once again, to rethink riding. I was still glad we had bought the farm, but maybe Scott was right about its use—preserving the land by growing hay would have been a whole lot simpler.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When in Doubt, Show

R
IGA MEADOW SCHEDULED A SHOW at the end of September to fundraise for their pony club. A Herculean effort undertaken in the dog days of summer, jumps and fencing were dismantled and re-painted, fields were cordoned off to nurse the over-heated, done-with-growing grass, white picket fence-potted plants clumped together awaiting their places, and tractors roared around grooming riding rings. Making the place pretty seemed of paramount concern as if the equally fussed-over horses, always buffed to their toniest for shows, would notice. But for riders and spectators a classy setting inspires even more horse devotion. Everyone asked if I would enter. “No way,” I'd immediately answer, incredulous. I pegged showing for the experienced and talented. I remembered the humiliation I had witnessed at a clinic, let alone a show.

In June, Riga Meadow hosted a former Olympic rider and a well-known instructor, here designated as “Trainer,” to teach a one-day riding clinic. Barn locals and others further afield paid for an hour lesson, in groups of two or three, with the expert. I came to watch Bobbi with her younger horse Toby and also to meet Karen, an applicant for our farm's position of live-in stable hand. Bobbi warned me this trainer was a yeller. I have generally considered workshops supportive rather than abusive, so I was curious. Karen and I settled in some lawn chairs under our sun hats to observe; it was a perfect riding day, lukewarm and overcast.

“You really can learn a lot from auditing these clinics,” Karen said.

“I wonder if she still rides?” I queried. Trainer looked rather out of shape: she limped and carried extra pounds. She unfolded her director's chair in the corner of the outdoor ring and loudly proclaimed that her knees ached, so she would sit a lot.

“Okay, who's the first victim?” Trainer yelled, rubbing her hands together and chuckling, amusing herself.

Three women on horseback lined up.

“Tell me about your horses,” she commanded.

Riders specified ages, habits, strengths, weaknesses and what they were currently working on. With a queen's wave she dismissed them to walk and trot the ring. She zeroed in on faults, interspersing tidbits of horse-think in the process.

“Your horse should have a good reason for walking a diagonal line without bending his head or his body, and it is up to you to give him one.”

Everyone attempted a leg yield, edging their horses along a diagonal line without actually turning. Kathy's horse resisted and got feisty to boot.

“Don't pull on his mouth so hard—what's your name again? Yes, Kathy—I have trouble with names—your horse should respond immediately to your aid. Use your legs, and if you need the reins, tug once, firmly, but not hard, and release immediately. If he doesn't respond, ask again, but DO NOT engage in a tug of war with your horse, because he will just get hard to the bit.”

“But he always . . .”

“No excuses. Just do what I tell you.”

Trainer turned to the other riders who performed the leg yield marginally better. Kathy was jittery now, anticipating failure, and her horse sensed it. Trainer requested the canter and repeated transitions to the trot and walk. The riders cantered, well spaced-out, stopping and starting as directed. Then Kathy could not get her horse to stop and sped to the inside past a rider that Trainer was addressing, distracting them both.

“Kathy! Make that horse stop. Ask, and if he doesn't respond, ask again.”

Kathy hung heavy on the reins, afraid to loosen them. It takes experience, faith and confidence to pump rather than slam on the brakes. She was also off balance and generally frazzled. I know from my own inexperience that it is almost impossible in this situation to have the wherewithal and poise to give the horse some room again, temporarily out of control, before retrying the request from a more settled position.

Kathy managed to stop, ungracefully, and fell in line with the group.

“Canter to the right,” Trainer instructed.

Once again Kathy's large horse cantered too fast, filling the gap. She attempted a circle but wound up cutting back in the other direction, passing to the inside of one of the other riders. It wasn't dangerous, or that close, but it infuriated Trainer.

“Kathy! I am tired of teaching people who don't listen! You are a selfish rider, selfish! And you will have a selfish horse!”

“I'm sorry. But I feel unbalanced and am having a hard time controlling him, today. Usually—”

“Don't give me excuses—just do as I say. You're not trying Kathy, you have to try harder.”

“I'm sorry; I
am
trying, but . . .”

“I don't want to hear it. You are mean to your horse, and you refuse to try. I can't teach you.”

Trainer refocused without animosity on the other two riders for the ten minute remainder of the hour, with Kathy trying her best to control her horse and follow instructions. She endured another lecture when they lined up at the end and departed the ring in tears. I squirmed in sympathy for her: singled out, sniveling, mortified. All of us shrinking on the sidelines felt it easily could have been us in that ring with a bad case of nerves and an uncooperative horse. And, we all knew that hearing an instruction and actually performing it sometimes takes, as we say in yoga, many lifetimes. She looked to be trying and paid good money to
be instructed. I wondered if the expert Trainer perceived something in the rider that our less-experienced eyes didn't catch. Still, it didn't seem enough to warrant such a personal attack.

“I have a theory,” I muttered to Karen.

“What's that?” she whispered. By now everyone feared attracting attention.

“Maybe Trainer doesn't like her because she's so thin.”

Kathy is tall but so skinny you try not to suspect anorexia. It seemed unlikely that her bony arms and legs could maneuver her reluctant animal, and in contrast her thick, muscular horse only rendered her more stick-figured.

“Maybe,” Karen replied. “It certainly seemed uncalled for, criticizing the rider more than the riding.”

“Trainer can't be too pleased with her unhappy knees when she was once a fit, top level athlete. At any event, I'm not letting myself in for that kind of treatment anytime soon.”

That said, I did learn much about riding by watching the next few sessions. She is indeed an expert horsewoman, and many experts are impatient and demanding.

Fortunately, she recognized Bobbi's experience, and Bobbi described her Toby eloquently, while emphasizing his dopey youth. She took Trainer's instruction and never explained away any behavior, smart woman, though sorely tempted at times, I could tell. Her relief at avoiding abuse in front of me was palpable, and she was pleased with Toby's unreliable manners for that one hour. Bobbi later expressed dismay at Trainer's earlier behavior, but was not surprised. She had fully prepared to be, and indeed once had been, the victim herself.

“You have to let it roll off when it happens to you, but she was awfully hard on Kathy.”

I had glimpsed a tradition of humiliation in the horse world.

Relief flowed again through the crowd when Trainer did not yell at
the farm's owner who rode a client's horse known for his antics. Someone surreptitiously alerted Trainer about Linda.

“What? Do you think I'm not going to yell at her just because she's in charge?” Trainer retorted for all to hear.

 

 

SO THE UPCOMING RIGA MEADOW SHOW with all its possible embarrassment seemed out of the question. But then, over cross ties, Bobbi joined the chorus of people persuading me to enter.

“I was thinking of riding Bandi in the hunter event. He'd like to jump, and Stacey made me promise we'd give him some opportunities to do what he loves.” Fresh from a ride, she brushed Angel to a dark brown sheen.

“By all means; I'd love to see Bandi strut his stuff.” I gave him a peck on his muzzle, and he sneezed. I blew his wet shower out of my own nose and wiped my face with my shirt.