Horsekeeping

by Roxanne Bok

  An uncooperative Bandi refuses to raise or keep his foot up or will even kick sideways at me to shake my grip. And, because I am positioned just beneath his haunch, awkwardly angled and intent on the task at hand, my chance of getting punched or stepped on, should he quickly stamp his foot down, is high. It pays to be alert and light-footed. I now realize the power of horse legs. If the jerking hoof clips my hand I’ll suffer a gnarly bump that spreads into a blue/green bruise. Sometimes, with resolve and muscle I can restrain a restless foot with a firm grasp and a sharp “WHOA.” Even with a peaceful Bandi it takes a while to chip out the dirt, often concrete-solid and stuck, and my weak back tires and starts to ache. After just one foot I’m sweating like a linebacker, with three more to go. I move to the hind, which on Bandi goes a little easier because he relaxes more. It is heavier though, and lower, and I find myself wedged claustrophobically against the back wall of the stall. I take a breather, give him a carrot and hobble to the other side, not bothering to fully straighten up.

  That done, I bring in another carrot and the saddle pad. Placing the pad slightly forward of the withers, I drag it back to smooth the hair and align the pad into the curve of his back. I exit again and lug in the saddle and girth. Gently positioning the saddle on the pad, I aim to keep the kneerolls just behind Bandi’s shoulder blades allowing freedom of movement. Threading the girth billets through the saddle pad keepers, I buckle the girth, four attachments in all, loosely across his front belly. I will tighten it more snugly just before mounting. Only one more carrot before bridling: bridle on means work, not grazing. I tuck my gloves into my pants. Retrieving the bridle I remember to close the stall guard behind me and put on my helmet. I place the reins of the bridle over his head and unhook the cross ties. Confidence, speed and dexterity are helpful here now that the horse is free to bolt, especially when tacking up in a grooming stall where the front side is open to the aisle.

  I stand next to the left of Bandi’s neck looking in the same direction. Holding the top of the bridle in my right hand on the right side of his face with my arm under his neck, I steady his head with that same hand on his face between his eyes and nose while unbuckling and lifting off the halter with my left hand. Threading the halter over my left shoulder to free my left hand, I slip the metal bit of the bridle into his mouth, inserting my fingers into the toothless part at the back of his lips to get him to open and take it above his tongue all the while keeping a firm hold with my right hand. Some horses do this more willingly than others, and Bandi, thank goodness, is amenable every time.

  With the bit set back to the corners of his mouth I am afforded enough slack to slip the top of the bridle up and over his ears, pushing them forward and through, one at a time. I shift around to face him while buckling the throat latch where his neck meets his head, remembering to insert the strap end into the looped leather keeper. I even out the cheek pieces and tuck the nose band straps inside these, buckling them underneath his muzzle, again securing the end neatly in its keeper. All of this straightening and buckling can frustrate since the multiple bridle parts are connected yet mobile and can slide and shift into innumerable combinations of unevenness. Though sorely tempted I don’t dare unbuckle anything unfamiliar; once, I second-guessed a Bobbi-calibrated strap and wound up with three disconnected pieces of leather in my hands and my tail between my legs. So, I pull on one side only to cock up the other and conclude a degree in physics might help. Bandi eyes me—that’s not right—and I fiddle some more. I lift the reins back over Bandi’s head, holding them under his chin. Hanging the halter on any rail I can reach, I remember my crop as I unhook the stall guard. Finally ready, we clip-clop down the long aisle and out to the ring. I feel done-in already and the riding hasn’t even started.

  At the mounting block I cinch the girth strap one or two holes tighter around the thickest part of Bandi’s body. Some horses breathe deep to expand their rib cages against the girth; later, the resulting wobbly saddle can topple a novice rider dangerously sideways. Other horses nip at you while tightening, but Bandi doesn’t mind the squeeze of his girdle. I pull down the stirrups along their leathers releasing them from their high enfolded safety position that prevents them banging on the horse’s sides or catching on anything should he get away. Leading Bandi alongside, I step up onto the mounting block. Sometimes it takes a few circling attempts to parallel park him accurately. I slide on my cotton-crocheted, tan leather-palmed gloves and loop the reins back over Bandi’s head, taking up the slack. Grabbing some mane hair with the reins in my left hand, I step my left foot into the left stirrup and hoist my right leg over his back. If he walks off, I “WHOA” him and sit heavy, tightening my thighs. Inserting my right foot correctly into the right stirrup, I rest my crop along the side of my left thigh and head off for a warm-up walk. There is an awful lot to remember, and I worry that I am not hooked up properly.

  After my hour lesson and a leisurely walk to cool him down, I dismount by releasing my feet from the stirrups, swinging my right leg over the butt end of him and sliding down and slightly away on the left side. Mounting and dismounting is always from the left, a tradition attributed to right-handed soldiers in accommodation of their left-hanging swords. I breathe relief and satisfaction. I lavish Bandi with good boy pats and, still holding the reins, thread the stirrups up the leathers to looped safety position. I loosen the girth as a thank you, and we head back into his stall. I unbuckle and remove the bridle and girth along with the saddle and pad, undressing him in reverse order, and restart the carrot stream. I replace the halter on his lovely face. Collecting the lead line, shampoo, scraper, sponge, fly mask and fly spray in a bucket, we walk to the outdoor wash stall, and I cross-tie him between the two posts.

  Adjusting the water to slightly warmish, I hose him, careful to keep a hand on his rump to let him know when I pass behind. It is counter-intuitively wise to stay in tight to the back of a horse and absorb any short kick or swing widely out of range (their legs are longer than you’d think) to avoid one altogether. The tendency is to venture just far enough to receive the strongest blow. A behaved horse won’t attack you unless surprised, but a perfectly distanced kick is not worth the risk.

  I fill the bucket with shampoo and water and generously soap sponge every nook and cranny I can reach. After a good rinse, I drag the scraper like a windshield wiper and flick it to remove most of the water: this tool’s efficiency is satisfying; the cascading water hits the ground with a splat and immediately his copper coat dries and lightens. I run my hands down each leg twice to hand-squeegee the excess water there. Then I give him the once-over with chemical-free marigold fly spray, replace his fly mask, attach his lead line and unhook the cross ties. Leading him some distance away from the washing station, I stop and say “Okay . . . Now” and allow him a hearty graze in the special grass, while I bask in the aftermath of a safe ride and good care taken. I scan the blue mountains in the distance, enjoying Bandi’s serene, musical munching. Laying my head against his shiny smooth, sun-warmed sides and neck, I stroke and talk to him and train his errant mane off to the dressage-preferred right side. He casually sways his tail against the flies, I swat those he can’t reach, and we sigh in unison.

  It is an opportune time to observe Bandi for any injuries. One time a raw gash glared on his left haunch. A branch or a nail must have cut him, though we never determined the culprit. With some cleaning solution and salve, he healed up nicely. Another time Bandi’s long penis caught my eye as it emerged from its neat pocket. I recoiled at its scaly, filthy condition.

  “Joy,” I called to a barn employee as she washed down another horse. “What is all this grey stuff on Bandi’s schlong?”

  “Oh,” she replied, a little embarrassed, “that’s just old skin and dirt.”

  “Can I pull it off, or should I wash it somehow?” Compelled to pick, I was also afraid to reach under there and mess with it lest he take offense and kick me in the head.

  “Well, there is a soap you can use, and he may let
you just peel some off.”

  By the time I weighed Joy’s words “may let you,” Bandi had retracted, all clean and tidy again. The idea didn’t appeal to him either.

  “But how do I get to it now?”

  “You can just reach in there, but you better have Bobbi show you how,” she tossed over her shoulder, suddenly remembering some pressing business in the other direction.

  I always hate to end Bandi’s after-bath grazes, but, perpetually late, I also always need to hightail back to my neglected family. Tugging Bandi’s face out of the grass I lead him and his skuzzy sheath, with authority, back to his paddock, and pat him goodbye with one more carrot. I trek to the barn and wipe down the bridle, saddle and girth with a damp sponge and saddle soap, ferreting inside all the tight loops. I tuck and hang all tack and materials neatly into their places and scurry home—tired, dirty, unbelievably thirsty and thoroughly happy.

  This was the procedure each and every time I rode, two hours total if I’m efficient, with slight variations depending on the season: in colder months, brushing and blanketing would substitute the bath, with extra indoor treats supplanting the fresh grass graze.

  I ASKED BOBBI about Bandi’s scaly member the next day.

  “Oh yeah, it can get pretty disgusting in there. The scunge actually has a name: ‘smegma.’”

  What a great word, I thought, vaguely Yiddish, and later consulted the OED: “A sebaceous secretion, esp. that found under the foreskin.” Yuk. No wonder no one wants to deal with that.

  “It certainly looks like it sounds. Is it unhealthy? Should I clean it?”

  “I’ll get some special soap and a sponge and show you how.”

  I intuited it wasn’t one of her favorite jobs either. And I figured horses have been living in the wild without busybodies washing any part of them, let alone their nether regions, so nature must guard against infection. Though we did eventually get the soap and sponge that was the last I heard of it.

  Months later, in our own barn, I heard Bobbi prophesy many times that we would have to get her friend Terri to clean the horses’ sheaths. Why Terri? I wondered. Enjoyment? Technique? Remuneration? No: I deduced Terri’s job as chief sheath cleaner piggybacked another thankless role: motherhood. Mothers deal with diapers and vomit and all kinds of ick and therefore become immune, or at least seasoned to retch-inducing tasks. Likewise, I didn’t mind too much peeling off what I could given the chance, that is when Bandi relaxed and dropped. It is gratifying in the way of picking at chapped lips, or a hang nail. My mental tally confirmed my theory—the childless among our crew were much more squeamish, and I am still awaiting my sheath-cleaning lesson.

  I wondered what else I might expect in the gross department. Do they get trailer-sick, like kids and pets in cars?

  “Do they ever throw up?” I asked Bobbi.

  “No. They can’t, the way they’re designed. That’s part of the reason they colic; the bad stuff has only one way out.”

  BY THE END OF THE SUMMER, I grew fairly confident about grooming and riding. The former became second nature and the latter less scary. Some skills noticeably improved—trotting, steering, and at the canter I occasionally managed the half-halt, that minimalist tightening of the outside rein and quick release to gather back a strung out gait without breaking into a trot. While turning, I could shift his head in the direction I determined, curving his body around my inside leg, and sometimes even push him into a corner he attempted to shave. I tried a little “jumping” too, just a few cross rails that Bandi mostly trotted over. But once or twice he cantered, and I actually got some air. Honest and smart at the fences, Bandi paced himself and made it easy. I just fixed my position up out of the saddle, heels down, eyes up and hung on. And it’s easy, if all goes well. If it doesn’t, well, I hoped I would find that out later, after the sheath cleaning.

  I achieved a milestone over that summer as well. I rode several times alone—that is without Bobbi minding me. I brought Bandi in from his paddock, tacked him up, rode both in the ring and in the field, trotting and even cantering. Then I washed him down and returned both him and me safely to our respective homes. My solo flights taught me that the anticipation of riding generated more anxiety than the actuality. I began to feel like a real horsewoman: not expert by any means, but with enough knowledge to get by. I was never more sweaty, grimy and parched in my life, but fitter too, my body realigning itself. It got increasingly easier to straighten up after zipping on those half-chaps and hoof-picking. I imagined that with caution this sport could be safe, enjoyable and good for me both physically and mentally. Then I overheard farrier Hilary and Bobbi discussing the recent death of a trainer they both knew just across the Hudson River in New York State.

  “I can’t believe she wasn’t wearing a helmet,” Bobbi said.

  “I was out there just last week and yelled at her for not wearing it, and she said with certain horses she didn’t need to,” Hilary replied, shaken.

  “Was the horse trouble?”

  “No, but it seemed to have some kind of neurological problem they were trying to figure out. For some reason the horse went down, she hit her head, and that was it.”

  I took the opportunity to harangue Bobbi to always, always, always wear her helmet and to never take any chances at our farm. Part of me lived in perpetual fear of a serious accident. Not two weeks later she reported another incident.

  Bobbi’s friend Jane agreed to help with a horse the owner had purchased by video. A large dark bay with impressive moves, Sebastian’s supposed one bad habit was bolting. Jane, a very experienced rider, took him on. Their first outing went well, but he dumped her on the second.

  “Did he bolt?” I asked.

  “No, she was prepared for that. He actually bucked her off,” Bobbi said.

  I knew bucking is a big no-no in a horse. I certainly would not want that trait in mine. But to expect one bad habit and get another upset my tightly-held theory of preparedness.

  “She expected to be sore, but went to the hospital later that night because she was having trouble breathing and thought she might have punctured a lung. But apparently she just bruised her heart wall.”

  Just? I thought and started, once again, to rethink riding. I was still glad we had bought the farm, but maybe Scott was right about its use—preserving the land by growing hay would have been a whole lot simpler.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When in Doubt, Show

  RIGA MEADOW SCHEDULED A SHOW at the end of September to fundraise for their pony club. A Herculean effort undertaken in the dog days of summer, jumps and fencing were dismantled and re-painted, fields were cordoned off to nurse the over-heated, done-with-growing grass, white picket fence-potted plants clumped together awaiting their places, and tractors roared around grooming riding rings. Making the place pretty seemed of paramount concern as if the equally fussed-over horses, always buffed to their toniest for shows, would notice. But for riders and spectators a classy setting inspires even more horse devotion. Everyone asked if I would enter. “No way,” I’d immediately answer, incredulous. I pegged showing for the experienced and talented. I remembered the humiliation I had witnessed at a clinic, let alone a show.

  In June, Riga Meadow hosted a former Olympic rider and a well-known instructor, here designated as “Trainer,” to teach a one-day riding clinic. Barn locals and others further afield paid for an hour lesson, in groups of two or three, with the expert. I came to watch Bobbi with her younger horse Toby and also to meet Karen, an applicant for our farm’s position of live-in stable hand. Bobbi warned me this trainer was a yeller. I have generally considered workshops supportive rather than abusive, so I was curious. Karen and I settled in some lawn chairs under our sun hats to observe; it was a perfect riding day, lukewarm and overcast.

  “You really can learn a lot from auditing these clinics,” Karen said.

  “I wonder if she still rides?” I queried. Trainer looked rather out of shape: she limped and carried extra pounds. She unfolded he
r director’s chair in the corner of the outdoor ring and loudly proclaimed that her knees ached, so she would sit a lot.

  “Okay, who’s the first victim?” Trainer yelled, rubbing her hands together and chuckling, amusing herself.

  Three women on horseback lined up.

  “Tell me about your horses,” she commanded.

  Riders specified ages, habits, strengths, weaknesses and what they were currently working on. With a queen’s wave she dismissed them to walk and trot the ring. She zeroed in on faults, interspersing tidbits of horse-think in the process.

  “Your horse should have a good reason for walking a diagonal line without bending his head or his body, and it is up to you to give him one.”

  Everyone attempted a leg yield, edging their horses along a diagonal line without actually turning. Kathy’s horse resisted and got feisty to boot.

  “Don’t pull on his mouth so hard—what’s your name again? Yes, Kathy—I have trouble with names—your horse should respond immediately to your aid. Use your legs, and if you need the reins, tug once, firmly, but not hard, and release immediately. If he doesn’t respond, ask again, but DO NOT engage in a tug of war with your horse, because he will just get hard to the bit.”

  “But he always . . .”

  “No excuses. Just do what I tell you.”

  Trainer turned to the other riders who performed the leg yield marginally better. Kathy was jittery now, anticipating failure, and her horse sensed it. Trainer requested the canter and repeated transitions to the trot and walk. The riders cantered, well spaced-out, stopping and starting as directed. Then Kathy could not get her horse to stop and sped to the inside past a rider that Trainer was addressing, distracting them both.