Horsekeeping (49 page)

As I drove home, I acknowledged that my nerve had been returning over the last several weeks; that now I honestly looked forward to riding and began believing in my own invincibility again; that I could fall and not paralyze myself; that Bandi was more steady when I was confident; that I could catch him in the dump and run and would improve with practice (after all, Brandy, Meghan and Bobbi managed him); that it was foolish to waste this rare opportunity to really know horses by dwelling in a state of fear. This was not racing or bronco-busting but
well-executed, measured control of carefully-trained animals. My perceived huge boulder of risk chipped down into more manageable rocks. I envisioned grinding them into smoother pebbles, maybe even innocuous sand. An endless beach, years of riding pleasure stretched ahead. I looked to that distant horizon and settled in for a long trek.

 

 

THE NEXT WEEK WE HOSTED our own second Weatogue Stables dressage show, pretty much a repeat of our first in June but doubled in size: two rings and two judges. Once again we skirted the predicted heavy thunderstorms and lashing wind with only mist, humidity, and a few brief downpours. A cloud-burst during my first ride rocketed Bandi through our free walk, the section of the test requiring a slow, relaxed pace and a loose rein, usually Bandi's best mode that I expected would boost my score. Elliot, Jane and I all moved up to training level this time, and we rode well, but not great.

By the end of the day I had a hard time recalling exactly where in the middle of the pack Elliot and I placed, but my memory remained scored by other details of a great day—Elliot's controlled canter into the corners and his circular twenty meter circle (one of the hardest skills to perfect); Jane's confidence on Hawk and the kisses she lavished on his neck with her friends all gathered around; the focused faces of the young Weatogue riders working their skills and Meghan's pride watching them; Bobbi, as conductor, centered between the two rings calling the tests as needed and, by walkie-talkie orchestrating every aspect of this complex ballet of a show, grateful for the coffee, coke and water we ferried to keep her going; the lively movement of riders, horses and spectators shifting between the barn and the ring; all this against the lush green backdrop of a renewed farm.

I had arrived at the barn by 8:00 a.m. and planned to return home after Elliot's last test at 1:30. By 5:00, I still could not drag myself away from the afternoon's higher level rides. The heavy weather had ceded to bright and
breezy, with a nodding sun glinting rays off the few top-hatted experts strutting their regal paces around our well-draining, not-soggy ring. As masterful horses fancy-stepped their distinct silhouettes against the stadium wave of the luxuriant maples, a few of their leaves portending autumn, I mourned this coda to a transformative, vanishing summer. I draped my bone-tired frame over the fence, cooler now in the long shadows of the day, intently watching the exquisite
pas de deux
that years of fine-tuning can cast between horse and rider. Looking into both their faces as they waltzed past I saw such utter concentration coupled with their stately strides, human and animal confident in their abilities, and in tune only to each other. Their eyes may have stared vaguely out, but their focus was turned deeply inward, monitoring and refining every body part and its movement, their very skin alert, striving for grace and accuracy in the spaces between every second, and in the air between footfalls. Their wordless communication of thought and motion energized through seat, legs, fingertips, muscles, bones, sinews and brains was so compelling that I already yearned to be back up on my horse so, together, we could do better.

As I reluctantly turned to my car and the pull of home, Meghan unabashedly paraded Angel around the grounds in the green fleece “Weatogue Stables” embroidered cooling sheet that they had won as a team in June. A preening close to our successful event, her “billboard” promoted both our farm and Bobbi's accomplished horse that Meg had just ridden at a high level test. They both shone in the sun's golden beam. I was filled with goodwill and sheer joy as they passed by.

“Show off,” I teased, and then sincerely noted, “You two looked great out there.”

“Oh, I made plenty of mistakes, but she's teaching me,” Meghan humbly replied, patting Angel's sleek neck. She slipped me a sideways smile that transmitted our shared, silent gratitude for this horse life.

“Wasn't that you and Bandi cantering in the field all by yourselves yesterday?” she asked with a nod toward our back pasture.

“Yes it was,” I responded proudly, “just Bandi and me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

End Tales

I
T IS ALWAYS SOMETHING WITH HORSES, usually something that costs money. Just when I thought I had purchased all possible
accoutrements
, more treasures tempted me. The basic must-haves—bridle, saddle, stirrups, a pad and a spare whet my appetite for the irresistible and just plain fun—that fifth saddle pad in mint green with diamond quilting, duotone piping and micro-tricot lining that wicks away moisture, or the baby blue anti-pilling, breathable polar fleece cooler designed with a tapered chest and hook and loop closures for a close fit that matched my riding vest. A sucker for all the cleverly advertised “necessities,” that I coordinated my clothing to that of my horse was vaguely disconcerting. But who could argue for trapped sweat, a poor fit, weak fabrics or careless color combinations?

I figured I had Bandi pretty completely outfitted, but then he changed shape. His expanded girth shouldn't have surprised us: all summer his head inclined toward the grass, unlike his comrades who occasionally came up for air, and as a result my gently used Pessoa jumping saddle “bridged” Bandi's shoulders causing him to shudder these weird spasms when I tacked him up. Bobbi consulted “Wolf,” a robust German saddle expert to determine whether we could “reflock” my old saddle, but the verdict was a thick “Nein!”

I had discovered the comforts of a dressage saddle during my Angel ride, so I shopped for two new saddles—at several thousand dollars a
pop. Either I ante up or put Bandi on a more restricted diet. But we had already cut him to a cup of grain a day, slender rations for my poor boy who lived for his chow. It broke my heart. They term such horses “easy keepers” but I would prefer a metabolic machine able to put away the groceries without portliness, one I could lovingly over-feed with the best of Jewish mothers. To certify that Bandi's pudginess did indeed derive from gluttony, we tested for Lyme disease and a thyroid problem.

“Good news and bad news,” Bobbi said. “Bandi's tests were all negative. He's healthy—just fat.”

“Oh no,” I replied, fearing the next slimming step. “He'd be so unhappy as a basket head.”

“Let's just hope he trims down over the winter.”

“I thought your motto was ‘fat and happy, lean and mean,'” I joked.

“Yeah, but cellulite is rippling on his neck.” She pinched his inches. “There
is
a limit, you know.”

“Policing food is hard enough with my kids; I was hoping I'd get to indulge my horse.” I patted his padded rump and sighed.

So my education continued. Bandi and I settled into a compatible relationship, and our trust deepened. I began to physically manage, not just intellectually understand, that he calmed when I calmed, and I aimed to maintain this virtuous circle. Sensing my budding confidence, Bobbi lobbied me hard to join her on an upcoming hunter pace. While I felt more inclined than before, I still chickened out. This horse business is a marathon, not a sprint. As with Yoga, there really is no
there,
there, and it takes “many lifetimes” to attain “expert.” Almost every trainer I meet still works with one more experienced. It is nice not be in a hurry for once; so much of my daily existence is taken at a gallop. Elliot however, thrilled at the idea of a pace, so he and Cleo ran wild with Bobbi and Bandi, taking a very respectable team sixth. All four love to canter, and I consoled my ego with the facts that Elliot made a more sporting companion and Bandi had more fun under Bobbi. I envied Elliot's spirit
of adventure and did not want him to leave me behind, but was proud of his courage and his growing passion for horses.

Janie forged ahead as well. Bobbi rescued a “free” pony—an oxymoron if ever there was one—named Peaches. Bobbi just can't help herself when it comes to sad-sack cases, and I thought that Peaches looked the wrong side of useful. At eleven hands, our new pony fit in between Hawk, whom she outgrew, and the nearly horse-size Cleo. Although ribbed and mangy, Bobbi espied an inner-Peaches, a sandy blonde dappled cutie with a long mane and matching tail the peroxide color and texture of Barbie hair, an attribute that endeared her to my daughter and set me wondering whether the dolls were manufactured with real horsehair. To seal the deal, Bobbi outfitted Peachy with a pink halter and Jane with a matching riding crop in the shape of a glittered hand that sparkled in the sun.

“I don't have a daughter,” Bobbi justified, “so I get to spoil Jane.”

Peaches needed serious TLC, but she was sturdy, had a promising trot, and was supposedly good with kids. Elliot and Jane immediately adopted her into our Weatogue fold, so I hoped for the best. Our family grew—we added ponies in between our ponies.

Petite Meghan was just slightly big for the job so Elliot first cantered and jumped the rehabilitated Peaches to test her fitness and safety for Jane. How exciting that Elliot's broadening skills enabled him to play the trainer. We joked that Peaches “breezed” (track-speak for a short speed test) the same day as our resident Thoroughbred racer Humble Bee breezed in her return to Belmont. Both performed admirably. Soon Elliot and Jane were regularly playing tag on horseback, a strategic game that Meghan introduced to develop balance, steering, speed and brakes. The ponies undertook all with equanimity.

Bobbi kept life interesting at the barn. Jane and I looked forward to our first “bling” party, right up my material girl's alley. Barn friends were invited to arrange beads and jewels into patterns that Bobbi's crafty friend Cynthia would encrust into leather brow bands for our horses' bridles and into matching belts for us.
Who thinks this stuff up,
I wondered?

“But Bandi is a boy. Well, sort of still a boy,” I protested, disappointed because it sounded like so much fun.

“Doesn't matter,” said Bobbi. “Pick masculine colors. Toby has one.”

So I brought a chocolate mousse cake from The White Hart, and Bobbi cooked up her famous chili, and while Scott and Elliot kicked off the first ice-hockey practice of the season, Jane and I ran back and forth to test out variations of color and style across the brows of our dozing, unimpressed horses, creating equine jewelry in the company of new friends in the cozy tack room.

Oh, and the best news of all: a minor miracle, really. On Friday the thirteenth of October, Bobbi was driving home after night check. A half mile from the barn a black-and-white blur sped across the road.

“Can't possibly be . . .” she thought, but stopped her truck to climb out into the darkness.

“Is that you, Smudge?” she called. “Here Smudgy, Smudgy.”

An approaching car allowed her one more cat call, though she already convinced herself she was mistaken.

“Smudge? Come on now.”

As she started to withdraw into the warmth of her truck, disappointed yet again, a meowing Smudge emerged from the tall grass and into her arms. Bobbi returned to the barn cottage and surprised a pajama-clad Meghan with a joyous, midnight reunion. Thin and hungry enough to scarf down a can of food and look for more, Bobbi warned an effusive Meghan to go easy. The next morning Bobbi called our house bright and early.

“I have great news but I want to tell Elliot first,” she sang happily.