Dante of the Maury River

by Gigi Amateau

  Saddle Mountain knows how I tested Ashley with my bad habits, and kicking was the least bothersome. When I’d spook and bolt away from her or screech to a halt, Ashley never broke toward me in anger. I even thought things were going well until I overheard Mrs. Maiden tell Ashley otherwise.

  “I have never given up on a horse before, but if Dante can’t start to get along with the other horses and learn to behave no matter who handles him, I’ll have no choice but to surrender him back to Riverside.”

  Ashley dropped her head. “I was hoping we might try to get him ready for the first summer show at Tamworth Springs.”

  Mrs. Maiden put her hands on her hips. Her voice went up way high. “You’re not even riding him yet, Ashley. Way too early to even think of showing him. Any student of mine ought to be able to muck the stall of any horse in this barn without feeling scared while they’re in there. Talk to me about showing him when you can easily pick his feet, safely get him tacked up, and quietly lead him to the ring.”

  Ashley pleaded with me to try harder. “Can you even understand me? I promise to help you, but you have to want to change, too. The other kids are scared of you. Napoleon’s the only horse who likes you. I love you, too, but that’s not enough.”

  The question of the day proved not to be can a racehorse change, but could this racehorse change?

  Well, maybe. If you’ve got forever and a day, but I didn’t have that kind of time.

  I needed some help and fast. An expert. A mentor. That kind of horse wasn’t grazing in my field. Sure, Napoleon had a strong résumé of experience with Mrs. Maiden and the Maury River Stables, but he didn’t have the look of eagles. By that, I mean the Shetland was most concerned with the moment in front of him and the hay at his feet. I needed to find an equine with a longer, deeper perspective. One who understood what it meant to look out along the distant mountains and tap into the wisdom of the bloodlines and knowingness of the ages. A horse like me.

  Alongside the western edge of my field was the mare field, which shared a fence line with the geldings. Mostly boarded horses lived there, the exceptions being two school horses belonging to Mrs. Maiden: Gwen and Daisy.

  Anybody could see that Gwen, a blood bay Hanoverian with three white socks, had a strong maternal instinct toward every horse and every rider. I wondered if she might not be growing tired of keeping things in order. Little fights over hay and water tended to break out regularly among the mares. Though quite regal in appearance, Gwen seemed more interested in teaching and mentoring than enforcing a strong rule of order.

  Whereas Gwen’s second in command, a little old flea-bitten gray Welsh cob named Daisy who stood at least two hands smaller than Gwen, was acknowledged to be both the oldest and wisest among all of us.

  Daisy had lived at the Maury River Stables her entire life, and so had her dam. She carried herself as proudly as any Thoroughbred I’d ever met, and that intrigued me. I calculated that she could teach me what I needed to know, but I suspected there would be an extensive price to pay.

  Upon my honor, I truly wanted to do right by Ashley, and Mrs. Maiden, too, but I didn’t know how to start. Anyway, I wasn’t about to go groveling to a pony by asking for help.

  The truth is I didn’t know how to befriend a mare or a gelding. People were a might easier, especially if they were ones like Filipia and John, with their stories and songs, and hearts as full of shadows and light as mine. That’s why I liked them, I supposed, but never had I lived with a horse or pony who really understood me, not even Marey.

  I caught a whiff of new grass, overlooked up to that point. The Welsh stuck her muzzle through the fence slat on my side and pulled at the sweet clump. Our eyes met, and for just a flash, I caught a possibility that the Maury River Stables might could be a different sort of place, where I might could become a different sort of horse.

  “Do you care to share, or do you plan on taking all that for yourself?” is what came out of my mouth. Not the finest offer of friendship, but there it was.

  Daisy didn’t even acknowledge me or say anything. A powerful urge was building in me to try something new, like make a friend, but I had nothing. Daisy returned to grazing on the mare side.

  Turns out Daisy herself took care of initiating a conversation during our next visit at the fence line. Every mare I’ve ever met thinks she knows what’s best for me. Daisy was no different.

  One evening after Ashley and I had worked together under saddle, Daisy called me over.

  “Dante, a word,” she said.

  Of course, the Welsh was in no way the boss of me, but if I had learned a lick of a lesson about anything, I figured after my initial display of poor manners, I ought to at least give some sort of tribute to this pony. I didn’t intend on obliging her every little demand, but no harm in pretending to listen. I made my way toward her, stopping along to nab assorted grasslings and sproutlings.

  She stomped her foot for me to hurry up. “This is no trivial matter. You and I’ve got business to discuss. If you don’t care to give Mrs. Maiden and the children your best effort, you’d best move on to your next stop. And I hate to imagine where that might be.”

  I admit; she startled me. I grabbed a mouthful of clover and sidled up to the fence. She laid into me in a way that no horse had ever done, nor has done since. Soon as I reached her, that bossy pony turned on the forehand and proceeded to kick the tarnation out of the fence planks. The boards shook and rattled all down and up the line. Every gelding and every mare lifted their heads to look at me. Somebody whinnied. Not a one of them went back to grazing.

  “I’d rather your hind end was the recipient instead of an innocent wooden board. You should be ashamed, and I’m certain your dam would be if she had any notion of the mean and angry horse you’ve become.”

  My muzzle dropped agape.

  “Shut your hay hole, Dante. I watched Ashley try to ride you today, and that was the last time you will act out or put a student of ours in danger. Do you hear me?”

  I was stunned. “I love Ashley. I’d never hurt her.”

  “Are you really blind to your own reckless arrogance?” Daisy was screaming at me. “You reared up. Twice. The second time she came off. Then you refused to let her mount again. The child left our barn in tears.”

  I had to defend myself. “First of all, she had a crop in her hand, okay? I do not like pointy things. Second of all, Ashley cries all the time. Especially when she’s mad.”

  Daisy slammed on the fence so fast and so hard that the top board cracked. I knew better than to run away. For one, everybody was watching. If I bolted, they might think I was scared of a Welsh pony.

  When finished, Daisy had another question for me. “Why are you even here?”

  I didn’t need to think too hard about my answer. “For Ashley.”

  “Then grow up and be a horse. Stop acting like a wean. Your grain may run late, but it will always come. Some hay flakes taste better than others. People use pointy things: needles, pitchforks, hoof picks, and, yes, even spurs. My advice? Search your heart and decide who you are and who you want to be, Dante.”

  The boarded horses whickered. Even Napoleon nickered. So. Everybody agreed with Daisy. Well, truly, if that wasn’t like the fog lifting.

  I let out a big sigh. I had a choice to make. One: walk away with my pride intact and my head held high and risk losing another second chance. Or two: take the mare’s advice and search my heart and try to make it work at the Maury River Stables.

  Not a gelding nor a mare spoke to me for a whole night and day after Daisy scolded me. When I went toward the hay, they scattered. The water tub? Same. All the school and boarded horses turned their backsides to me.

  I got what I had been asking for. They were leaving me alone, isolating me socially. Letting me know that I wasn’t really part of the Maury River Stables. And they wanted nothing to do with me.

  Daisy waited until evening turnout, after Mrs. Maiden had closed the place down and after the moon had come full up
. She whickered softly for me to come over to her. “You could be a great horse,” she said. “You have what it takes. I can teach you, and I will. And if you agree to follow what I say, you could be a leader like me.”

  “No disrespect,” I said. “I thought Gwen was the lead mare.”

  “No, I am now. We came to a civil agreement after she saw how I put you in your place the other day. She’s been a good alpha, and I love her, but things are changing. The Maury River Stables is bigger than just Gwen, Napoleon, and me. Mrs. Maiden is trying to run a real riding school. A new kind of leadership is needed. Gwen understands.”

  “She agreed, just like that, without a fight?”

  “She’s older now, and she tires more easily. Her job will be to mentor new horses, especially those working in the therapeutic program. That’s a higher calling than lead mare, to tell you the truth.”

  She pulled some clover, and we grazed side by side in silence for a time.

  “Why did you call me over here?” I asked.

  “Dante’s Inferno, I want you to stay at the Maury River Stables,” she said. “And if you’ll follow my orders, you’ll remain here and our two fields will become a herd. I want you to take your command from me.”

  One thing I knew Daisy couldn’t do as well as she’d have liked to from her side of the fence was to control the geldings. But I most definitely did not need the burden of managing that motley group of equines.

  I learned pretty quickly, however, that the Welsh are a stubborn, determined breed.

  Daisy sure was trying to convert me over to her version of the world. As if I had a choice, if I wanted to stay. I needed to fast-track my way into Mrs. Maiden’s good graces.

  I bowed toward the gray cob.

  “You got it. Dante’s Inferno at your service.”

  “Good! We’ll start you off with the Shetland. Have you noticed how Napoleon prefers to stay near you?”

  Seemed like I could hardly step to or fro without knocking into the little guy. Even though the pony was always under my feet, I liked him. Daisy had noticed the easiness between him and me, and she had a mind of shifting some of her Shetland duties over to me.

  “Before you came, I would huddle at the fence under the stars with Napoleon. He likes a story at night,” she said.

  “I’m not ashamed to admit, I’ve become pretty attached to the Shetland,” I told Daisy. “But I don’t know many stories.” I lifted my head and looked around to be sure I knew where he was. Right on time, he stood first in line at the hay, as Mrs. Maiden tossed in our evening square bales.

  “No worries. You’re in training.” She flicked her tail. “Besides, I know some of the Shetland-breed tales. I learned them from my dam, whose name was Fancy, only I called her Mabin. I can teach you my Mabin’s stories.”

  In training? Learning stories wasn’t hardly any kind of training. Not for a Thoroughbred. As much as I had taken a shine to Napoleon, the thought of Daisy thinking she could offer me any kind of training at all hit me like an insult.

  Didn’t she know what all I had accomplished in my life? I may not have won the three tests, but I was still a grandson of Dante’s Paradiso, and in my glory I showed as a fine, fine racehorse.

  I walked over to the cedar tree to think a minute. What Daisy was suggesting was mares’ work.

  “I’m a racehorse, not a pony sitter,” I told her when I came back.

  “Correction, Mister Sporty-Sport. Were. You were a racehorse. What you are trying to be now is a school horse, so act like one.”

  I showed that mare my backside like I never intended to turn my face around to her again.

  “Go right along playing like you’re ignoring me, but you’d better listen. You could be a great leader. You have what it takes, but you lack discipline, focus, and drive. I can teach you, and I will. If you agree to do as I say.”

  As the sun disappeared behind Saddle Mountain, the temperature dropped, too, and all the geldings settled in for the night. On summer turnout, we spent the dark hours under the stars. Like he had started doing every evening, the Shetland trotted over to me. Stuck right to me like a blanket of dew on morning grass.

  The mare’s words had really chapped my flank. Me, lacking in discipline? No focus, no drive?

  I ignored Napoleon, but could not ignore the shift that occurred in my heart as he followed me around the field in silence, blinking those brown lashes, seeking some comfort, looking for a friend.

  A heart must hurt when it’s growing and expanding, the same way a heart aches when it’s cracking and breaking. Mine opened just enough to realize that I had given that pony no good reason to show me such devotion.

  Daisy, watching me from the fence line, tossed her head up and down. I caught her drift.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said to Napoleon. “Did I ever tell you about my first race? Not too terribly far from here, over in Charleston. Oh, it was a good one, too. Fifty-to-one odds in a field of thirteen two-year-olds.”

  He nuzzled in close to me. “That sounds quite exciting, Mister Dante. Like a lovely story I’d like to hear. Go on, then.”

  Now, agreeing to tell a pony one story does not erase a lifetime of pain and suffering, both felt and inflicted. But it’s a start.

  Want-to is not the same as can-do. Stretch as I might, I couldn’t one hundred percent allow myself to trust anybody but Ashley. Barely tolerated even Mrs. Maiden. My bloodlines, the pedigree on file at the Jockey Club, will tell you where I came from, but I hadn’t the first clue as to how to get where I needed to go or even where that place might be.

  Ashley did her best. Everybody did, but they didn’t know me well — by that, I mean nobody at the Maury River Stables yet possessed the tools to help me unify body, mind, and spirit.

  After a while, my hooves had grown long and were starting to crack. Even though I wasn’t in what I’d consider a habit of real work, Mrs. Maiden knew better than to let a problem take root in my feet. I wasn’t helpful in that matter, either. I had kicked the shins of a few farriers that had tried already.

  One morning after grain, I overheard Mrs. Maiden on the phone scheduling yet another farrier to come out to the barn. “We’ve got an OTTB out here who’s pretty fiery. He needs a trim, but I’ll warn you, he won’t stand easily. Three others have tried and failed. They refuse to come back.” Then I sensed a lightening of her load. “Well, I would appreciate your visit. Sure, I’ll hold him.”

  It seemed the whole barn — horses and people — seemed, was about ready to give up on me, including myself, and each for our own reasons, when a miracle walked through the barn door.

  My old friend John. Good glory, how I nickered when I saw him, and I would have cried had I been capable. Ashley was holding my lead. John reached his hand out to take me.

  “Dante, you are a sight for sore eyes.” A big grin broke over his face. “I love this guy,” he said to Mrs. Maiden. “You don’t remember, do you? Dante and I were locked up together. Behind bars,” John said. “Right, boy?” He patted my cheek.

  Mrs. Maiden’s face pinched up tight. “Locked up?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I won’t lie to ya. I served five years at Riverside for a felony offense. Nothing violent, I promise. Prison’s where I met Dante. I met you and Ashley there, too.”

  John had brought a little low-to-the-ground dog with him. A corgi named Katie curled right up at Ashley’s feet. Her friendliness got a good laugh and seemed to dispel the anxiety that might have been stirring up in Mrs. Maiden.

  She smiled. “Oh, Bet’s program? Now I remember you. You showed us Dante, right? You’ve grown a beard. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “You got it,” said John. He cut away from talking about himself. “I can show you a few tricks about him. He’s as good as they come. Particular in his ways, but as good as they make ’em.”

  Ashley patted me like she always did, with a loud whop-whop-whack on my shoulder.

  “See, that’s how I know he likes you. He’s letting you handle him roughl
y. He’s dancing around a bit but not putting up much of a protest.”

  “That’s rough handling?” Ashley asked.

  “To him? Yes, indeed.”

  “He’ll hardly let anybody touch him,” said Mrs. Maiden.

  John nodded. “Right, he’s persnickety. Watch.” John stroked my neck. “Easy is more his style.”

  Ashley copied him. I stayed as still as a blade of grass on a day without a breeze. Only sweet feed could’ve made me move.

  “Are all racehorses nervous and crazy acting like Dante?” Ashley asked.

  “Nope, every single TB is different. Has to do with their pedigree and, of course, how they were treated and trained.”

  “Bet tried to tell us that he needed a lot of work. I had hoped we would have made more progress by now,” Mrs. Maiden said.

  “Yeah, I hear you. Everybody wants a Thoroughbred today. Some OTTBs could probably trot right in here and get working as school horses. Others? Maybe not ever. Some are wound so tight from the track that they need to chill in a field for a few years.”

  “What do you think about Dante?” Ashley wanted to know. “Will he ever let me ride him without bucking and taking off? Or figure out how to do anything other than run fast and be mean to other horses?”

  I understood what she was saying, but little did she know, in my younger days I’d have been vigorously protesting this entire conversation happening around me.

  John took a sidelong look at me. “How’s he coming under saddle? Are you able to work him?”

  “Not really,” Mrs. Maiden said. “Ashley longes him every day.”

  “That’s good,” John said.

  “Almost every day. Some days I just groom him, but I’ve stopped trying to tack him up, even,” Ashley chimed in.

  John led me to the cross-ties. Bet your last bale of timothy hay that not a word of this talk was lost on me. While my old friend the farrier trimmed my feet, I stood for him without a lick of trouble. As best I could, of course.