Horsekeeping (32 page)

My supply to gluttonous Bandi ran out first. Elliot and Jane continued feeding Hawk. Bandi bent his head over his new buddy to check out what stash remained when up reared little Hawk, all power and might. He bit hard into the side of Bandi's neck and hung there for what seemed an eternity. We instinctively backed away, pulling the kids from the fence. Bandi reared and squealed until Hawk released. Their alternating guttural neighs and high-pitched whinnies shattered the peaceful scene we enjoyed not one second before.

“Mama! What are they doing?” Jane cried.

“WHOA, WHOA,” I yelled, trying to distract them from snorting and frothing at each other.

Bandi and Hawk separated only to reposition themselves butt to butt and kick out hard, both landing solid blows into each other's shins. The ground shook under their slashing, stomping hooves. Nostrils flaring, their eyes, too, were wild, the whites glaring.

“WHOA, WHOA,” I repeated and rushed the fence to interrupt them.

“Careful, Mom,” Elliot warned.

The horses stopped, looked perturbed for a minute or so, and then walked around like nothing happened.

Petrified, Jane leaked tears yet again.

“What was that about?” Scott asked me, squatting to rub Jane's back.

“Wow. I don't know. I guess it was a food thing.” My heart pounded. “Jane, honey, it's all right. Horses are like that sometimes. They are big and strong and they wrestle just like you do with Elliot, and sometimes it gets a little rough. But they're okay, and no one was hurt.”

I wasn't so sure about that and expected Bandi's neck to be bleeding and one of them at least, leg lame. Cowed city rubes, we retreated to the barn to hug and squeeze the mellower bunnies.

After her training lesson with Chase, Bobbi expressed surprise at our carrot-inspired war.

“They've really been perfect together so far. They play with one another but never anything vicious.” She pulled the heavy saddle from Chase's sweaty back. “I'll go check the damage.”

Bobbi began apologizing for their bad behavior, so I explained the situation. I should have anticipated that food could provoke a hierarchical battle from the top horse, obviously Hawk in this case.

“I think Bandi was just curious about what Hawk was getting, but Hawk took offense.”

“Well, Hawk is a stallion who forgets his size.”

“Like the small bully in the playground who starts things and then gets the shit kicked out of himself on a regular basis?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Well, it was stupid of me to do the carrot thing.”

“Don't worry. They're still settling in, and as we discussed, if we need to, we'll geld Hawk.”

Later that weekend Hawk reassured me, at least as far as people were concerned. My kids crowded his stall, groomed, hugged and patted him with nary a hint of bad temper. Indeed, he was extremely affectionate, taking carrots gently without nips, and otherwise exulting in the attention. I'll give Jane credit—she's brave without rashness and recovers from her fears quickly and completely. Hawk and Jane bonded right away: he's sturdy against her unintended roughness and yet petite enough for her to relate to in the human-to-horse scale ratio. They matched. Jane trusted that despite his strength and stallion pride, he's a right pacifist around people. His job is driving, and Bobbi ordered his petite harness and wood and leather two-seat cart. We looked forward to seeing Hawk in action. Supposedly this little black-and-white ball of furry brawn can pull two adults, even uphill. After seeing him muscle Bandi around, we believed it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Be Careful What You Wish For

T
HE WEEKEND AFTER THE HORSES MOVED IN I planned a lesson with Bobbi. Finally my dream was before me—to ride my own horse at my own barn. I arrived at two thirty to ride at three, pleased by the one minute drive to Weatogue Stables versus the fifteen minutes to Riga Meadow. How thrilling to pull into the farm with horses grazing in the pastures.

I noticed the place was uncharacteristically deserted except for the horses. It was Sunday after all, though weekends don't count for much when it comes to animal care, barn chores and lessons. I knew Bobbi was gone with Toby at a show. Maybe our new first hire had the day off. Petite with long, streaked blonde hair and a little girl smile though close to thirty, Meghan showed genuine excitement about our farm the day she helped move the first horses in. Her current part-time job assisting in euthanasia of the sick and dying at the local vet was burning her out. She grew up around horses: her mother rode and her dad was a retired jockey. She exemplified “real trooper,” sleeping on a cot in the small, minimally heated, mouse-infested viewing room of the barn with only her rescued Boxer “Boomer” for protection until the cottage was complete. Not long after, Meghan left her vet job and became Weatogue's assistant trainer, concentrating on the many children who, one by one,
turned up for lessons. She had a knack for horses and kids despite a few tattoos and an alarming (to me at least) pierced tongue. Bobbi appreciated her willingness to wield a hammer and lug heavy feed bags, as well as her self-directed work ethic and upbeat personality. Her ability to exercise the horses would come in handy as we filled up.

For my first ride at Weatogue I looked forward to someone helping me ready Bandi until Bobbi returned just in time for our scheduled lesson. But no Meghan and no Bobbi. I was disoriented not having all my systems in order for the new space.
Don't worry,
I coached myself,
by now I've walked Bandi in from the paddocks many times at Riga Meadow, and tacked up on my own
. Even so, I was leery and preferred some company, but decided to brave it. I arranged my tack by the grooming stall and walked outside for Bandi. Luckily he came right over to the fence and accepted the halter while Hawk stayed out of the way, saving me a skirmish or an escape.

As I led Bandi up the path, he repeatedly halted to look around, alarmed: ears back and twitching, eyes a little wild, body tense and edgy. I got more anxious, too, and wondered what I'd do if he tried to bolt. “It's okay, Bandi—you're a good boy. This is your home now.” At the barn door he stopped dead, and it took some cajoling to get him in. I maneuvered him down the main aisle, and he bullied me as I clumsily circled him into the grooming stall. He whinnied and high-stepped, and so did I, admonishing him and minding my toes. After several attempts, and a little tap with the lead rope on his belly, he moved forward the two steps I needed to secure one cross tie. For the life of me the second one wouldn't hook. It's a tricky mechanism with the hinged bottom lip extending out rather than in, so that with a strong pull panicked horses can free the latch and take off. This bucks logic until you hear how much damage a freaked out horse can do to himself, others and the stall if he's stuck when all his instincts are shouting “Flee.” A runaway horse will generally settle in the grass somewhere to eat or head for the familiarity of his paddock or stall.

My unexpected spasticity with the cross tie flustered me, all of my unexpressed anxiety loudly and clearly absorbed by my sensitive horse. Bandi grew more tense, and together we looped a vicious circle when I counted on a virtuous one. He, at least, had always been as cool as aloe, except that one pre-show experience, so this was new. With no rescue in sight I tore two nails forcing the second cross tie. “Shit,” I muttered and sucked at my bloody finger. Though damaged, I forged ahead, grooming him in the same pattern we'd established all summer at Riga Meadow. I removed his very dirty blanket—he must have been rolling—unsuccessfully keeping my torn nail bed away from the manure encrusted tail strap. I fed him a steady stream of carrots through the curry combing, the brushing, and the hoof-picking. Our oversized grooming stalls allowed him ample space to push me around and twist himself sideways. He nipped at me as I passed from one side to the other, not altogether good-naturedly, even though the carrots flowed steadily. He pawed repeatedly at the concrete between the rubber mats of the stall and the aisle, echoing a grating scratching. A horse whinnied from the field, and Bandi stretched out his neck and head to issue a long, loud, plaintive moan.

What the hell does that mean? Will he bolt to his buddies the first chance he gets? With me on him?
I gave him pecks on the nose and collegial pats, but there was no disguising our unease when Bobbi pulled up and unloaded Toby from her chrome trimmed, white metal trailer.

“Hi. Sorry I'm late. I called you at home, but you'd already left. How are you getting on there?” She bounced into the barn.

“Okay,” I replied shakily.

Her eyes narrowed as she tuned in to the static between me and Bandi.

“I'm going to put the Tobster in his paddock and be right back in.”

I bent to hoof-picking, which went better than I expected.

I wondered if it was appropriate for Bobbi to be AWOL so many weekends to show, attend clinics and judge. The busiest part of the northeastern horse circuit runs June through November, half the year, and Scott
had already expressed his reservations about Bobbi's weekend absences, when our family and working boarders would ride. I defended her, arguing that her riding advancement would benefit her students and our barn's reputation, but at that moment, blundering in the grooming stall, I realized how much dedicated babysitting my family would need for the foreseeable future. Barn manager and trainers must be physically present to manage and train. And, she seemed to be habitually late. That I silently had to admit to my own perpetual “barn time” tardiness only peeved me further.

Bobbi returned, and we finished the grooming and tacking up together. She soothed and talked to Bandi. As she told me later, she could see the both of us were pretty much wrecks.

“Are you okay to ride?”

“I think so, but he seems riled up.”

“Why don't I get up on him for a bit first?”

Now you're talking,
I thought to myself.

As we walked to the indoor ring, I heard my daughter, her sitter Marie, and Jane's play date Lindy arrive.
Great
, I thought,
what a time for squealing, running girls
. The kids perched themselves on stools set catty-corner to the ledge of the ring wall, and we all watched Bobbi flawlessly walk, rise to a posting trot and then a smooth canter. Bandi was perfect, though keenly alert to every sunbeam, car rumble and wall kick sounded by Jane and Lindy's sneakers at the ends of their restless legs. But he seemed to trust that Bobbi would protect him from any monsters.

“Is it okay for the girls to be there?” I asked Bobbi, desperate to erase any possibility for spooking.

“Yes. He might as well get used to it.” In theory, the more horses are exposed to, the more they accept without surprise.

To my relief, the bored girls noisily scrambled off to visit the bunnies and Hawk. I reluctantly climbed up.

“Breathe,” Bobbi said, exhaling loudly as a guide.

I rode. My lesson progressed smoothly, and though I felt secure in the
saddle and even managed to get the canter more easily than usual, my heart raced, and my trapezoidal muscles clenched painfully in anticipation of calamity. The breathing was moot. Our indoor ring had a double door at the far end just like the one at Riga Meadow.
Would Bandi drop his shoulder and jump that one-eighty that landed me in the dirt?
And, so jinxing myself, or, more accurately, inadvertently cueing my horse to what I feared, as we cantered past one of many windows he leapt toward the middle of the ring and ran a few fast startled strides toward the stalls. Pulling up sharply I barely stayed on. Quaking, I forced him back to that spot and continued around. Bobbi and I both gamely tried to ignore this mishap away, drawing little attention to it as you should a child's tantrum.