As we walk over to the round pen, I watch the rest of the livestock crew work their horses. So far everyone is holding to their focus. From where I am positioned, I can keep them in my periphery while I work with Randy. Working horses all these years has honed my ability to scan for and detect problems quickly.
Randy practices all his round-pen skills in a bizarre but exact sequence. First, he puts Moo inside the circle of the round pen while standing like a post in the center. Then he raises one of his arms out to the side, straight as an arrow, and announces in a booming, affirmative voice, “TROT, MOO.” Moo has no idea what Randy is saying, but he reads Randy’s body language as clearly as a flashing neon traffic sign. Moo takes off at a trot in the direction of Randy’s pointed arrow. Randy stands like a statue with his arm-pointing dramatics and then, out of nowhere, he drops his arm and slaps it rapidly to his side and raises his opposite arm with the precision of a traffic cop. “TURN, MOO.” Moo pivots and heads off at a trot in the opposite direction. Back and forth they go, with Randy’s long arrows coming up and down, until Randy decides to bring both arms up to his shoulders, then drop them fast and hard to his waist, army style. He tucks his chin to his chest, blows his neck out like a tom turkey, and confidently announces, “HO, MOO.” Moo screeches to a halt, their two large male bodies in complete agreement with each other.
The truth is, Moo knows the round-pen work by heart. He has spent years learning all these necessary skills. But Randy’s animations make Moo more of a believer. They wake him up out of his dreamy slumber. When Moo isn’t asleep, or visiting another world, he prefers to have clear and sharp communication. Mentally, Randy is the definition of uncertainty, but physically he is rock solid. Randy’s clamoring, unconscious spewing of the mouth doesn’t seem to bother Moo, so long as his physical cues are clear.
Randy goes about backing Moo up at the end of a lead line. Next, he practices moving Moo’s shoulders to the right and his hind end to the left. He performs all the turns perfectly. All the while a steady flow of nonsensical conversation floods the air.
“You gotta whip it, Moo. Whip it good. Down to the wire. Like we’re on skates. Curl it up. Turn it round. I’m the man. You’re the man. Let’s get down.” Randy is proud. He’s doing some awkward stationary dance move. Taking a quarter step out, a quarter step back. He looks like a child who has never learned how to play.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, have I lost my mind? This guy has no business sitting on top of a horse.
Randy’s giant gestures coupled with Moo’s immaculate timing have foiled my plan. I’m reluctant, but I must honor my word. It’s time for Randy to get on and try to ride.
Down at the woodshop, Randy has prepared for this day. He’s crafted a three-by-three-foot-wide and two-foot-tall mounting box, made from two-by-twelve-inch pine boards, a sturdy platform from which Randy can mount. His vegetarian diet demands he cut out the meat and the fats. He’s held to this diet like a religion, losing twenty-five pounds in three months. Each new hole in his belt has brought him closer to riding the horses.
In the tack room of my trailer is the largest saddle I own. I haul it over today and every day, knowing that Randy will eventually ask about it, knowing that someday I will have to allow him a chance to ride. I know Randy’s midsection will pour over the pommel and cantle, squish over the skirt, obscuring the saddle. But this is the largest saddle I own.
I take my time and walk Randy through the saddling process. Pull the saddle blanket up and over Moo’s withers. Set the saddle down gently on Moo’s back. I show Randy how to measure the distance behind Moo’s elbow where the cinch will snug up against his ribs.
“Okay, dude, we got the cinch, the horn sits right here, and we got the seat. It looks a little small for my big ass! We’re gonna ride; we’re gonna ride; we’re gonna . . .”
“Knock it off, Randy, and get your shit together. This is a big deal, not fucking playtime. You have to focus!” I feel like a blister ready to pop.
Cinching the saddle on tight, I’m hard and edgy. My throat burns down the back of my windpipe. I’m holding my breath. Randy’s ceaseless talking, his inability to listen, has me reaching for my voice like a knife. I know if I say one more thing, I’m going to slaughter him with words. I clench my jaw and bite down on my lower lip. Moo starts backing away from us on his lead line.
Tony comes back from the pasture, leading Luna alongside. They walk up to the round pen and lean against the top rail.
“Everything alright?” he asks. “Hey, Randy, what’s up with the box?”
“I built it for my bigness, what do you think?” He pops up and down. “I think I need it, don’t you, to get myself up there?”
“That’s cool, dude. Yeah, you’ll get up there. Are you getting ready to mount?”
“Not quite yet,” I interrupt. “I need to put Moo’s bridle on.”
I look past Tony. Sarah is walking by with two other women. Randy, Tony, and I turn around to say hello. The other two women greet us, but Sarah doesn’t look up. Omar trots over on Estrella.
“Look, Sarah, we’re riding Estrella now.” She gazes into Estrella’s face but ignores Omar. A cold wind seems to whip around her as she turns her stare back to the ground and hurries away. It feels like I’ve lost a good friend because of an argument I didn’t know we had.
“I wish they would let her back on livestock,” I tell Randy and Tony. “I don’t understand why she can’t be back with us.”
I turn, pick up the bridle, and move toward Moo. I take three long breaths, spread the bit out between my fingers, lift it up between his parting teeth, and pull the crown of the bridle over Moo’s head. I lay the reins over his neck.
Forgive me, Moo. What have I gotten you into?
As Randy climbs onto his handmade box, the platform digs into four inches of dirt that cradles the sides. Holding the reins snug and grabbing a piece of Moo’s mane in front of the saddle with his left hand, Randy takes his right hand and twists the stirrup around, where the toe of his left boot can easily slide into the small square space of the stirrup and help power him up and onto Moo’s back.
Randy has tried to prepare for this moment, more than any of us could ever imagine. He raises his big brown boot toward the stirrup and tips it through the center until it touches the side of Moo’s awaiting ribcage. Randy’s belt is eye level. I see all the empty holes he has conquered over the last few months, and yet his hairy belly still flops over the buckle. The holes in his belt puncture my frustration with Randy, and for the first time today I feel his tenderness. He thrusts some weight down into the stirrup, getting ready to rise upward. I am standing in front of Moo, the lead line clutched in my palm, making sure Moo doesn’t take a step.
The mounting block quivers in the sand. Randy’s legs tremble. All of a sudden Tony climbs up on the top rail, reaching out toward Randy with worry written all over his face. I hear a long, sorrowful note crawl out of Randy’s mouth, and I look up to meet his eye. In that moment he breaks. Water falls downhill. His torso curls in half. His foot falls free from the stirrup as he folds and collapses from the mounting box to the ground. The sound that comes out of him is subterranean, like a beached whale, blow after blow, deep and lonely. One of his legs lies across the box, the other folds underneath him. Hunched over and sobbing, his head slumps forward with his hands cupped over his face. His wailing sings out into the pastures, and the residents turn toward us, then run back to the round pen with their horses. They tie them to the pipe fencing and rush over, staring down at Randy’s crumpled body on the ground. We sink down around him, comforting him. Touching his big, lumpy body like a baby’s. I can feel our knees pressing together. The skin of our arms sticking to one another. Randy’s sobbing is thick, wet, unstoppable. Our bodies form a capsule around him. We are the blood, the bones that hold him together. Eliza kneels behind him, propping him up. One hand hides the surprise forming on her face, the other rests on Randy’s shoulder. She can say nothing without sobbing herself. We ar
e stunned into silence watching Randy’s body heave up and down. And then Flor cracks open. Her face hangs hollow. Her eyes fill with tears, then pour over her cheeks. Tony is visibly uncomfortable. He stands up and heads off for a roll of toilet paper. Randy is grateful when Tony returns. In between blows, he tries to catch his breath.
We all know the real stories inside Randy’s sorrow. His father’s alcoholic beatings. His mother’s overdose. We know not to ask him any questions or have him share anything about his past. The rules on the ranch are clear. Don’t dwell on who you were before. Be the person you are becoming.
Randy gasps for air. He is just a sliver of himself, half melted away and shaking. We stay clumped in a tight circle, the mounting box in the middle. Moo holds steady; he hasn’t moved an inch. His head is low, about two feet from Randy’s face, bending over our bulge of bodies. His eyes are half-closed, ears out to the side of his head, listening. Waiting for Randy to make the next move.
I can’t quite look at Randy’s face or anyone else’s. It’s as if my skin has peeled back and left the whole nerve of my body exposed. I fall away. I see myself sitting on the dirt inside our circle and hovering above it at the same time, peering downward at our small world filled with trouble.
“Hey, Randy,” Eliza’s voice slips in from the silence. “You can take Scout next time; I promise.”
WHEN HE’S READY, Randy picks himself up and brushes the dirt off his pants. We push ourselves off the ground alongside him. He shakes like thunder. Someone brings him a glass of water. Randy clears his throat, blows his nose.
“Thanks, guys. Thanks a lot. I’m sorry to freak you guys out. I was just, damn, I don’t know. I guess I was scared. You know. He’s a big dude. I mean he’s cool. I love this dude.” He points toward Moo.
“No, Randy. It’s cool. We get it. These horses fuckin’ freak us all out. Damn, dude, you’re good. We got your back,” Tony’s quick to chime in. He’s still uncomfortable with the whole tender show.
Flor walks over to Randy. She looks like a tiny doll standing next to him. She puts her arms around his waist, as much as she can, and pulls him in close. Her head rests just above his rolling belly. The rest of us gather around them. With Flor and Randy in the center, we spread out our arms and create a giant group hug. Touching like this, between men and women, is not allowed on this ranch. We hold on for longer than any of us feel comfortable.
Randy shuffles around the round pen on a short circle, getting his equilibrium back. Moo stands motionless next to the box, reins over the horn, patient and waiting. Randy moves back toward the box, pushes it around in the sand for stability and stands back on top.
I wonder if I should stop him, tell him he has already achieved so much today. But then I look over at Moo. He’s standing tall and ready. He is holding to his mission. Moo shuffles his hooves, putting all four feet squarely underneath his big brown body, preparing to balance Randy on top. Randy grabs the reins and Moo’s mane. His left boot moves smoothly into the stirrup. He shoves off the box, trying to swing his right leg up and over Moo’s rump. He misses. Randy kicks Moo’s left hip hard, his size and flexibility still presenting a challenge. Moo stands dead quiet, like a soldier’s mount, refusing to let any disturbance rock his concentration. Finally, Randy prods his right leg across Moo’s rear end, clears, and lands hard in the saddle. He reaches down to his right and places his off-side boot into the stirrup.
“That’s the way to do it,” Tony calls to Randy.
Randy looks down at us. His face square and concentrated. Only his eyes show the consequence of surprise. His body swallows his fear. Little driblets of tears still mark his cheeks. No one speaks. Eliza and Flor drag the box out of the round pen. I stand in the middle, watching his hands.
“Pick up the reins, Randy. Moo is waiting for you.”
SHE’S NOT READY
Colt Starting / March / 1998
“She’s not ready,” I scream at the famous trainer and the six other men in cowboy hats who gather around the perimeter of the round pen.
“What?” the famous trainer shouts back to me. The sound of my voice is carried away with the wind. I give him hand motions, body signals, trying to let him know, again, that she’s not ready. He’s been pushing me to mount her anyhow.
I’m the last to finish my rides and the only woman in this bunch of trainers who has come to this western ranch to study with the famous trainer for these past three weeks. The wind blows fifty miles per hour, but the sun is out. It’s a good day. Not the blizzard conditions we’ve had almost every day since we arrived.
A breeder came through on our first day and dropped a load of young horses in the big corral: an oval-shaped pen not seventy feet long. Thirty or more colts swirled in the solid-walled tank as the dirt rose like smoke and dusted their hides. The white edges of their eyes grew wide around their pupils as we leaned over the pine planks peering in at them. Our goal was to start four colts each. The famous trainer went through the herd and picked the best ones to work with. This one’s my last. She’s a little filly, all Arabian, only two years old. No name yet. I’ve nicknamed her Terry, after one of my feisty clients back home. The rest of the men are finished with their rides. All their colts accept the saddle and have at least ten rides apiece on them. Today they are free to hang out and watch. The drinking has already begun.
They’re clean-cut cowboys. Not a whisker out of place. A few have the standard rolled mustache I’ve seen in commercials. Their words bounce off each other like balls rolling downhill. We’ve had only a few short conversations in three weeks.
“How’s she coming?” the famous trainer asked me at breakfast this morning.
“She’s real young. And she’s not come through,” I tell him. That’s the language we use. It’s trade talk for she doesn’t trust me yet. Working with the famous trainer means I must adapt my language to the group code. “Soft” means she’s receptive to pressure all over her body. “Generous” means she’s a quick and easy study. “Not very generous” means the famous trainer doesn’t like the horse, and therefore no one in the group does. This little filly has already been sorted into the “not generous” group. For me, I don’t think she’s ready. She’s not mature enough to handle the pressure of humans. She has “try,” as they like to say. She listens to me and has worked all the skills I’ve asked of her. She’s learning. But every day she needs me to start over again. Refresh her mind. Rebuild her confidence. She’s coming, but she’s not there yet.
“You’re just going to have to ride her through it. Some are just like that,” the famous trainer tells me as he eats his breakfast. He’s well-known throughout the country, and the world, as a trainer who takes his time starting young horses. “We don’t have the luxury to take more time,” he says, biting down on a piece of wheat toast. “We’re horse trainers, not counselors. Some you just have to ride out the trouble. If she doesn’t come through, you’ll have to ride her anyhow.” He chews one more piece of bacon while I try to warm myself with a bowl of grits and eggs covered in chili. I nod in agreement because going against the famous trainer is not a good idea. He’s got a healthy-sized ego and a pot full of hot anger under its surface. He is a great trainer. Some think he is the best. I’ve studied with enough of them that I know to keep my mouth shut and nod “yes, sir.”
Terry follows me around the pen like a happy puppy. She’s soft. Her body bends around me like playdough. She’s a short-backed, agile creature, the color of mud mixed with clay, and she stands only up to my shoulders. It took six days to get the buck out of her; every time I put the saddle on she would blow her girth out, round her back, and race around the round pen humped into a ball. Each day got worse until she finally exhausted herself. She carried that saddle around for twelve hours the last day, as per the famous trainer’s suggestion. I put it on her around 8:00 a.m. and left it on until dinnertime. In between the other three colts I was starting, I’d check in on her and make sure the cinch was tight. At lunch, I ran her around the
arena, riding my older gelding and wagging a bright orange flag at her flanks. The famous trainer said this would get her “quiet.” She had foam pushing out from under the saddle blanket by the time I was through with her, but the look in her eyes didn’t change—still terrified of that thing strapped to her back. But this approach seemed to have worked, because the following day she stood still when I saddled her. No buck. Not a flinch. Her eyes were empty. No terror. No nothing. Exhausted, I thought. Traumatized, perhaps. Is this what they mean by finally “coming through”? She carried that saddle around like a prisoner hauling trash on the highway.
Back in the pen, I walk over to the famous trainer and drop my eyes to the ground as he tells me what I am going to have to do. Bend her neck, put my foot in the stirrup, bounce up and down off the ground to see how she’ll do with my weight. I’ve been doing this same routine for the last ten days. She goes crazy once she sees me above her. Every time I’ve left the ground and risen up, with one foot in the stirrup, she yanks her head straight into the air, her back drops down below her withers, her hind legs thrust under her belly. She sees me as a lion on her back. Every time I stand in the stirrup, she gets ready to hump up, bolt off, or both. She’s not “making the change.” She’s not able to decipher that the me who is on the ground is the same me who is climbing on her back. If I swing up and over the saddle, she’ll explode. I know this but keep nodding my head at the famous trainer as he tells me to do it again.
I walk back to Terry. She’s standing quietly with the wind blowing her tail at such an angle it looks like a long, straight broom. I move onto her left side and bend her neck around with the lead rope and halter. I barely touch her. Her neck curves around me like Gumby. She brushes her wet nostrils onto my coat, holding herself in this position without effort, chewing on the corner pocket of my jeans. Then I reach for the stirrup. Her head and neck snap straight and brace for my next move. I bend her neck around again. This time I put pressure on the lead line and hold her folded in half. I pick up the stirrup, twist it around, and as my foot slides through, she starts to twirl in tight circles around me. I spin and hop, spin and hop, until finally she comes to a stop. I release her head straight again as a reward, scratch her neck, her poll, the side of her face. She stands wide and hard, ready to flee. I repeat myself and start the process over. Maybe ten more times, until she stops her twirling and allows me to stand up in the stirrup, hovering over her back. I have her neck bent so tight to the side of her body she could fall over if she takes one step. I’d like to release her, let her stand free with me standing above her, but I know she’ll take off if I let go. Instead I just bop up and down in the stirrup, as the famous trainer suggested, while I take away all her power by breaking her body in half.
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