Horsekeeping (50 page)

I passed Elliot the phone and stood by, all ears.

“You're kidding. That's
awe
some,” Elliot shouted, smiling broadly. I ran to the extension to hear the whole story.

After we hung up, Elliot repeated it to me again, and we picked over the details before sharing them with Scott and Jane.

“You know, Mom, I would often cry about Smudge at night before I went to sleep,” Elliot admitted.

I am not sure what mortality lesson this taught us, when the dead resurrected. But we willingly took the boon. Smudge moved in with Meghan, a cottage cat now much to her chagrin, since we could not convince Scott to add her to our house family. If Smudge couldn't meld with Boomer and Meghan's eclectic gang, we would find her another good home.

Speaking of home, our neighbor Ursula finally rebuilt her house and returned Thanksgiving of '06, fifteen months after the fire. Rumor had it she wasn't happy, but how can a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old school house and forty years of living in it ever be recreated? She and George had a falling out, and he relocated, but continued to keep up our yard work. In late January '07, I heard Ursula was in a nursing home battling cancer. I bet against the disease.

Also in January, Weatogue Stables suffered two, this time irreversible, good-byes. Katie, an out-to-pasture thirty-year-old mare, lay down in her paddock for several hours the day before our first real cold snap of the winter. The girls pulled, slapped and pushed to get her up, but she reclined again in the barn, in and out of mild distress throughout the night. Meghan spent the first night with her, and Bobbi the second, walking her around the indoor ring in the wee hours to give her a fighting chance. By 5 a.m. she died peacefully in her stall. Katie's next door neighbor, Meghan's Q, uncharacteristically dumped all his manure close to their common wall as if, by keeping his back to Katie, he afforded her privacy. Bobbi warned off all the two-legged boarders, borrowed a truck and recruited Big Jane's husband and three more guys for muscle to remove Katie for burial along a picturesque, wooded border of our farm.

It is neither a pleasant spectacle nor an easy task to move such bulk, but they managed with all possible dignity. As much as my family would mourn Katie, I remembered that Bobbi's daily, loving care had spanned fifteen years. And Barbara had owned her for twenty-eight, longer than many marriages I know. Purchased as a two year old, Katie went
consistently lame at sixteen, and Barbara secured her a top retirement, first with Bobbi and then with us. We appreciated her gentle spirit and often acknowledged that she would have made a perfect mother. Peaches, her most recent paddock mate, thought so too: she ran the fence line for two days looking for her.

Two weeks later, in the midst of the bitterest of cold spells, Bobbi had to put down old Theo, her one-eyed rescued Thoroughbred. Young Theo's first act of gratitude upon moving in with Bobbi was to repeatedly buck her off, so she quickly retired him. Despite his failure as a riding companion, she lovingly maintained him for over fifteen years. Theo coughed persistently all winter with Robitussin getting him through, but soon after Katie's death he stopped eating. Hand feeding him carrots and grain did not tempt, and his nose oozed green gunk. Disoriented and increasingly miserable, Theo convinced Bobbi he was done with living. She led him in his last walk across the pasture, telling him he was a good boy, stroking his neck and offering him treats. The vet administered an injection, and he crumpled into his pre-dug grave. She arranged his body and said good-bye. Thirty-two years is old for a horse, but he was appreciated to the end.

Grieving Bobbi thanked me for having allowed Theo a room at the farm in her company amongst the Weatogue action. We all grew fond of the old man, and he alone owned the privilege of trekking back and forth from paddock to barn untethered, moving along at his own pace, occasionally side-stepping off-parade for a look-see elsewhere. Some loud calling of his name would bring him back in line. Bobbi, Meghan and I believed he died of grief at the loss of Katie, his companion of fifteen years, but the vet pegged it more likely age and the weather. I wonder. Old people seem to die off in the winter, but they also tend to follow their spouses. The pain of such parting I am beginning to comprehend: after twenty-five married years, Scott and I both acknowledge that once old, we would choose to die first rather than be left. Happy trails, Katie and Theo.

Epilogue

N
EARLY THREE YEARS HAVE PASSED since these events took place. The barn is comfortably broken in and well-gnawed. Weatogue Stables is full with thirty-five horses in residence, only two stalls empty. We would break even as a business if Bobbi and I could only stop sprucing up the place. Much to Scott's dismay, we've added run-in sheds for each paddock, mirrors to the indoor ring (so riders can check their positions), and exquisite, though extravagant dust-free outdoor footing that cushions the horses' legs and doesn't pollute the trainers' lungs.

Bobbi probably misses the early quiet days as I do, the times when she had time to think and I knew well all the horses in residence. But the farm bustles with good-natured people and creatures, though early friends have come and gone. Brandy and Jason went west to California. Big Jane went back to gardening. Meghan chose to sleep in mornings, waitressing nights at a local restaurant. Old Tuxedo moved on with Meghan and shortly thereafter his marathon life finally expired. Currently two abandoned black-and-white cats cower in our tack room, in training to join Ninja as barn cats. The sisters hiss in fright (who knows what their histories held), but we await their trust and are patient in their rehabilitation.

Our staff has grown to eight, and we welcomed tall, lissome Jen as assistant trainer, along with her massive, handsome, black rescue Don Nero. Seventy-something-year-old Arthur puts us all to shame with his strength and energy, and dedicated, can-do Juan from Mexico lives in the cottage. Our caretaker George slowly drifted away. Ursula survived
many setbacks, but in true Yankee fashion came back swinging. She is back in her new house and recently called the contractor to shout “I'm not dead yet, so I need some bookshelves!”

We eventually purchased Mrs. Johnson's house from her estate, fixed it up and rented it to one of our boarders, Heather, ensuring a horse friendly neighbor. We saved two wooden couches from Mrs. Johnson's place to remember her by, which now hold pride of place in the center of the barn. For the cushions I splurged on Ralph Lauren equestrian print fabric, my thoroughly impractical nod to the ideal aspect of my dream—probably as close as I will get. While we are ever too busy to sit, Jen's aging terrier Jenga and Juan's new rescue pit-bull mix Cody embed the polished cotton to snore away the afternoon hours. When Heather moved in across the street, her younger corgi, Buddy, abandoned his family for AWOL adventures across the street. A third to Jenga's and Cody's brat pack, such happiness radiates from “barn Buddy” that even Heather smiles at his disloyalty when she arrives to drag him home to be “house Buddy” each night.

Yes, Scott just rolls his eyes at the new footing, the mirrors, the dog-draped Ralph Lauren couches and the revolving door of in-need animals. Yet he did accept, if not quite welcome with open arms, another house pet. On horseback last November, Bobbi found a starving, shivering kitten with an ugly abscess on its neck in the manure pile at the edge of the back field. He freaked out in the car en route to the vet and bit Meghan who promptly named him Spaz. He is polydactyl, otherwise known as a Hemingway cat, with twenty-five toes. Despite his travel aversion, his social intelligence stole our hearts as he recuperated and grew large in the tack room. In December, we took him home to New York, and he has been with us ever since.

While Spaz made the cut, Bandi did not. In January 2007, the day Barbaro died, I decided to find my horse another home. Just after I bought those two new, non-bridging saddles! But the Bandicoot subjected me to three dump-and-runs in one session of riding, and though I
stuck them all, the salient fact was that this awkward dance between the two of us was not going to go ballroom. He is a jumper, and more and more I was staking my claim in dressage. Bandi hated those endless circles going for elegance; he needed release across the fences and through the fields. Though he had made great strides in his suppleness, he would never be a happy dressage horse. Terrific in so many ways, he deserved a loving owner who would work him to his skills.

I didn't know if I could actually part with Bandi. The week after my decision I visited him in his stall. Leaving his hay and walking right over, he nuzzled me in recognition. He knew, after our year and a half together, that I was his special, if often absent, “little person” (as Meghan termed horse owners). It is agonizing to send an animal you love into the unknown. We toyed with leasing him, but Bobbi made a few calls and found two young girls who appreciated him. At a financial loss, but content with the barn and trainer that Bobbi knew, I let him go. The two girls feel lucky to have him. He has not misbehaved; thus, I conclude he is happier leaping with the young and nimble. We keep track of him, and I maintain a contractual right of first refusal against a sale as a way to control his future.

Still, it was tough. Pitying my turmoil, my hard-boiled husband said: “Would it help to keep Bandi
and
get a new horse?”

My heart swelled at his indulgence, but I was thinking just the opposite—instead of two, perhaps no horse. I even sported a new sweatshirt that read “I do not need another horse, I do
not
need another horse, I do
not
need another horse.” So what did Bobbi and I do? Bought the first horse we looked at. But this time the connection was immediate: like in love, I just knew. That his birthday is the day before mine surely was a sign. Leonardo (sire Michaelangelo, mare Durona) is a highly schooled, fourteen-year-old Dutch warmblood gelding that Bobbi will be riding at Prix St. George level this summer. A bay with a white star, he is all sweet lover boy who, when I lower the stirrups before mounting, places his head on my shoulder so I can kiss his closed eyes. Though a fancy
dancer surpassing even Angel, he generously teaches me the basics and trail rides safely. I have had him a year and a half; I haven't come off him yet, though I expect I will. But I'm not too worried: when he startles he takes me with him—a sideways little leap, not too fast—and he never bolts. He does crib: that is, he chews on fences and rails to intake air for a quick high, but nobody is perfect. I love him more each day.

So I plowed into dressage with my new vehicle. There are six levels to reach Prix St. George, a respectable halfway house to the top, or Grand Prix. Within each of these early levels are two to four “tests” or courses to be followed to the letter, literally: black letters posted around the dressage ring designate direction for maneuvers of military precision. From Prix St. George, there are two levels of Intermediare to perfect before glimpsing the territory of Grand Prix, a rarified atmosphere few horses and riders get to breathe.

By the fall of '08 I had worked through Introductory and Training levels, more or less to satisfaction, only to be confronted by a major fact that I had somehow, despite my saturation in horse, missed.

“What do you mean all trotting is done ‘sitting' at the upper levels?”

“That's right. There is no posting after Training level,” Bobbi said. “You're going to learn to sit the trot.”

“Leo's bouncy trot?”

“Yes, maam. We'll get you on the longe line and loosen up those hips, don't you worry.”

“Eight years of yoga hasn't succeeded, I doubt you can crack me. But if I'd known how hard this gets, I might have stuck with jumping—just hang on and go.”

I am trying to get this sitting trot thing down, and I despair until I remember back to when I couldn't ride Bandi into a corner, or even stay in the ring for that matter. Inch by inch I progress though I still get humbled, jostled and last summer, again stepped on: it took two months for my big toenail to fall off. The disguising red polish I wore helped us locate it in the pool when it finally gave way over Christmas
vacation. I waited a year for it to fully grow back in. That wasn't pretty. But, it wasn't until attempting the prolonged sitting trot that I realized how natural posting is and why it was invented. Oh, that first sitting trot lesson! Afterward, I took a pee and writhed in pain realizing the raw and... well, all of this is more information than you need to dispel the glam horsey image. Nothing a little cream and time can't fix.

Jane and Elliot are solid riders now and thoroughly at home around horses. Elliot had competed at Training level with me and just completed his sixth hunter pace with Bobbi. (Yes, I'm still too cowardly to join them). He outgrew his beloved Cleo, but is now the proud owner of Sundance Sonata, a palomino sixteen-year-old gelded Draught-Quarter Horse cross that he fell in love with at first sight. Bobbi and I tended toward the more dressage-schooled, fox-hunting Baxter, but Elliot stuck to his first choice, and he was right. Though we adult worrywarts distrusted Sunny's forwardness according to Bobbi's “Whoa is better than Go,” Elliot loves to gallop and can both handle and rein in his horse's “happiness” when need be. Boy and horse are
simpatico
whether in a lesson, alone out in our fields, leading or following in a hunter pace. Sunny is not a dressage horse, but that's fine—Elliot just wants to have fun. His consistent dressage flat work under Bobbi gave him a safe “seat” for the wilder stuff. That Sunny has not misbehaved once earned our trust in him and in Elliot's instincts.