Horsekeeping (33 page)

I cantered a few more circles, slowing him as he strengthened toward the barn end of the ring and prompting energy as we headed away. We motored nicely until again, at the same window, he sprang up, reversed direction and bolted forward, strongly toward the ring entrance. I felt my body air-born and off-center above him. Instinct urged me to leap off before falling, but I pulled hard on the reins and miraculously relocated the saddle. I barely resisted this panicky flee response, a weaselly tactic to control my physicality, when I couldn't control Bandi's.

“Bandi, you silly boy! It's only a window,” Bobbi exclaimed, walking towards me. “Are you okay?”

“Um, yes?” I croaked. “I was tempted to bail. Isn't that safer than getting tossed?”

“No. It's always better to stay on if you can.”

“Maybe we'll try the stronger bit,” Bobbi continued, “the Mikmar that Stacey mentioned Bandi likes. It might help him focus and give you more brakes. Can you canter once more to end on a better note?”

“
No,
” I shouted internally.
How much do you want from me?
But I knew that Bobbi was fighting for my confidence. I also knew I'd be dwelling on this incident to no end even if I now managed the best canter of my
short, sorry equine career. Against all inclination, I cantered again, half a length with heart pounding, and walked to cool him down. He picked up his ears at the kids roughhousing noisily on the hill outside the windows. Bobbi and I held our breath against a spook. Despite the cold day, Bandi and I were both sweating: our combined nerves generated a lot of heat. I should have walked him more, but I couldn't postpone my two feet on mother earth a second longer.

As I untacked, Bobbi and I ignored the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room that was my bad first ride in our new place. Instead, we discussed that the horses were still settling in. Bobbi apologized for not schooling Bandi the last two weeks given her lesson schedule and all the work necessary to get the farm in order.
And your show schedule,
I thought to myself. There were still so many loose ends, odd jobs. Dusk approached, and the warning chill of a long, cold New England winter penetrated the barn. I drove home, scared and upset with Bobbi and myself. Did we jump the gun on this horse? I admitted to myself that I hadn't truly looked forward to riding since my fall at Riga Meadow. And this exciting day that we anticipated for months was a bust. I didn't yet have a full file of good rides in which to bury the bad ones.

Scott arrived home contentedly weary from a harmless hike up Bear Mountain.
I could have been with him instead of risking my neck,
I thought as we relaxed in the hot tub before dinner and the ride to New York. Knowing he could make this very point was salt to my wound; still, it didn't take me long to unburden myself.

“How was your ride?” he asked.

“Not so good.”

I paused.

No response.

“Aren't you at all interested?”

“That's not fair. Sure I am.”

“I'm having a bit of a crisis about riding at all.”

“Why? What happened?”

I poured out the events of the day.

“I wonder if Bandi's the right horse for me. I'm not even sure he likes me much. I mean, I know he's not the most affectionate horse, and this I accept. But I sometimes think that he's too much horse for wimpy me, and even though I may look like an experienced rider because I'm athletic and a fast learner, my ‘head',” I knocked my noggin with my fist as we settled into the 101-degree bubbles, “has only so many hours in the saddle.”

“Bandi has a habit of spooking, doesn't he?”

“Yes. Even once with Bobbi, though it seems to happen mostly with me. I think he's a little high strung and so am I—we might feed each other's anxiety. I spend the whole ride waiting for the dump and run and probably bring it on myself. I really wish I could be braver.” In my frustration I felt like crying. “I know Bobbi wants me to learn to jump and go on hunter paces with her, and I love the idea, but I feel farther and farther from it the more I ride him.”

“Maybe you need a quieter horse.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “But we've discussed how this can't be a full-time thing for you. We have a life in New York, and you have two kids and a husband. As it is, we don't do half the things together that we used to.”

I sparked, but couldn't flame that chestnut again. Beyond mad, I was just downright tired, deeply weary of the whole enterprise, with no fight left in me for Bandi or Scott. I knew Scott meant well, that he missed me, and he chastised kindly, but still I felt scolded for neglecting him. He was also right. To conquer my fear and master Bandi would take a lot of time and energy, both of which I lacked as a commuting parent of two kids running two households, not to mention the job of decent spouse. And I already felt sneaky, squeezing riding in around the edges when I'm least likely to be missed. Scott must have felt like the wife who lost her husband to golf, another passion that regularly takes three hours each outing. It didn't help that Scott selflessly had resisted pressure to swing the clubs in order to maximize his family time. Plus, I'd been spurring myself to ride, reluctant rather than champing at the bit.

“There have to be horses that don't spook. Why don't you give him some time to adjust, and if he doesn't, we get you a different horse. Don't feel guilty; it's not such a big deal. There has to be a horse that's right for you.”

“I couldn't bear the thought of selling Bandi to another unfamiliar place,” I said. For better or worse I loved that damned horse, and didn't want to be one of those people who change horses on a whim. I also suspected his jitteriness was more my fault than his.

“But I've already decided that I don't want Elliot or Jane on him even though we planned for Elliot to ride him sometimes,” I continued.

“I agree. The kids should absolutely not ride him until we know he's safe. But maybe you could ride but only walk around, until you feel comfortable.” Scott was trying his hardest to be supportive, but I could tell his heart wasn't in it. I was in this one alone.

“But I don't want to give up on myself or on my horse: it feels like failure. I should be able to ride him and not be so scared. It's not like he's trying to dump me. At least I don't think he's trying that.... But all I really want is a reliable horse that I can ride around the farm without fear—walk, trot, canter. I don't even really care about jumping fences, and I can't see doing shows or hunter paces at all.” We both sighed, no answers in sight.

I pondered it the whole ride to New York, even through my attempts at conversation about what was going on at Scott's office. My dream was unraveling, and I keenly felt my lack of faith in my first horse. I saw the path where heartbreak lay. I imagined a new owner loading Bandi up, his eyes accusing me from the trailer window as I waved good-bye. I resolved to take a break from riding and speak frankly with Bobbi. If she and I bet on the wrong horse, it seemed important we be upfront with each other.

I CALLED HER THE NEXT DAY TO CONFIRM DETAILS for our official opening, a December caroling party inspired by our family visit to the Billingslys' farm last Christmas Eve. We chatted about the goings-on at the farm until I sputtered:

“Bobbi, I'm not so sure about Bandi.”

“Oh?”

“I don't know that we're a good match. We make each other nervous. I'm not convinced he likes me—he takes nips at me and pins his ears back.”

“Well, he always makes faces when he gets groomed.”

“I know, but I'm afraid he might be too much horse for me.” In defense attorney mode I explained my decreasing confidence and my expectation and fear of his spooks. “I don't want you to feel bad about our buying him, or about my first horse experience. I know every horse has his issues; I'm just not sure that I can deal with this one. I suspect he's going to take a lot more time and energy than I have right now. I want to enjoy riding and not work so hard.”

I hung on the line, wondering if she'd peg me a dilettante.

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said matter-of-factly. “It's no fun when you are waiting for something awful to happen and not fun to feel like you're going to get hurt. My friend Cynthia has a really naughty horse that she won't give up on, but I'm not comfortable riding him any more. He bucks and tries to toss you. Another student of mine also has a misbehaving horse. She says, ‘He only dumps you if he knows he can get away with it.' That's not the kind of horse to have. Bandi is just being silly and has to be taught that when his mother is on him he must behave and focus no matter what.” She paused. “I don't think Bandi is too much horse for you, but maybe not enough. The worst thing you can do is have a green horse—that's the most dangerous. Maybe you need an even more seasoned horse.” She paused again, thoughtful. “But let's not give up yet. I want Bandi to settle in, and I want to school him more, possibly with a stronger bit for more control. You're a good rider. We'll figure this out.”

I exhaled the breath I'd been holding.

“Well, my goals are shifting too. I need to go slower. Maybe someday I'll jump and hunter pace, but not right now. I need to feel comfortable even if I don't have time to ride for weeks at a time because of family stuff. Really, there's no rush. I can do this ‘til I drop, like old Mrs. Hackshorn at Riga Meadow.” I pictured myself old, and sighed. “Right now I think I'm going take a break for a few weeks to ratchet down and let Bandi settle in.”

“Are you sure you want to stop altogether?”

My heart sank.
Won't someone just acknowledge it's okay to take a break?

“I know; Scott thought that might not be a good idea, either.”

“You could ride Cleo for a nice safe ride or just walk around on Bandi, find your comfort zone and go from there.”

“I'm not too heavy for Cleo?”

“What do you weigh?”

“120.”

“Not at all: we purposefully didn't get a small pony. She can easily take 130 or so.”

I was still under the limit even with the three to five pounds I habitually shave from my reported weight. “Okay. Let's go with that this weekend.”

“Right. If you want to ride, ride. If not, don't. We'll play it by ear.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Settling In

“N
OW I KNOW WHERE MY WIFE IS.”

With Chip's announcement, we knew that the move into Weatogue Stables had cemented. After frenzied months of chasing contractors and hunting down supplies, Bobbi now practically lived at the new farm, often twelve hours a day, six to seven days a week. Horses ask for a lot, and with Bobbi around, they get it.

Everything was novel. The barn evoked a life-sized version of Calder's Circus—a magical set filled with all new toys wrought from practical materials that, nevertheless, performed wonders. “What's this for?” “What the heck is that?” were my constant questions. The answers amazed and pointed to new acts I had to learn. I was a wide-eyed child again.

Cart-driving Hawk, our miniature stallion, delighted us in that three-ring way. The little guy began prancing around as soon as we wheeled out his burden.

“He certainly seems ready to go, doesn't he?”

“It's his job, and he's excited to do it. It's been a while since he's worked.” Bobbi puzzled over all the straps that both harnessed Hawk and attached him properly to the small bench seat perched between two large spoke wheels, but she eventually fit all the pieces. A slatted floor
cum
foot-rest slanted in attachment to two long wooden poles similar to a rickshaw. Hawk fit nicely in between and was secured with leather at various locations, with the reins stretching from his bridle at the sides of his mouth, across the length of his back and into our hands in the cart. Lacking side panels, human escape would be quick should the need arise.