by Roxanne Bok
“What was that about?” Scott asked me, squatting to rub Jane’s back.
“Wow. I don’t know. I guess it was a food thing.” My heart pounded. “Jane, honey, it’s all right. Horses are like that sometimes. They are big and strong and they wrestle just like you do with Elliot, and sometimes it gets a little rough. But they’re okay, and no one was hurt.”
I wasn’t so sure about that and expected Bandi’s neck to be bleeding and one of them at least, leg lame. Cowed city rubes, we retreated to the barn to hug and squeeze the mellower bunnies.
After her training lesson with Chase, Bobbi expressed surprise at our carrot-inspired war.
“They’ve really been perfect together so far. They play with one another but never anything vicious.” She pulled the heavy saddle from Chase’s sweaty back. “I’ll go check the damage.”
Bobbi began apologizing for their bad behavior, so I explained the situation. I should have anticipated that food could provoke a hierarchical battle from the top horse, obviously Hawk in this case.
“I think Bandi was just curious about what Hawk was getting, but Hawk took offense.”
“Well, Hawk is a stallion who forgets his size.”
“Like the small bully in the playground who starts things and then gets the shit kicked out of himself on a regular basis?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Well, it was stupid of me to do the carrot thing.”
“Don’t worry. They’re still settling in, and as we discussed, if we need to, we’ll geld Hawk.”
Later that weekend Hawk reassured me, at least as far as people were concerned. My kids crowded his stall, groomed, hugged and patted him with nary a hint of bad temper. Indeed, he was extremely affectionate, taking carrots gently without nips, and otherwise exulting in the attention. I’ll give Jane credit—she’s brave without rashness and recovers from her fears quickly and completely. Hawk and Jane bonded right away: he’s sturdy against her unintended roughness and yet petite enough for her to relate to in the human-to-horse scale ratio. They matched. Jane trusted that despite his strength and stallion pride, he’s a right pacifist around people. His job is driving, and Bobbi ordered his petite harness and wood and leather two-seat cart. We looked forward to seeing Hawk in action. Supposedly this little black-and-white ball of furry brawn can pull two adults, even uphill. After seeing him muscle Bandi around, we believed it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Be Careful What You Wish For
THE WEEKEND AFTER THE HORSES MOVED IN I planned a lesson with Bobbi. Finally my dream was before me—to ride my own horse at my own barn. I arrived at two thirty to ride at three, pleased by the one minute drive to Weatogue Stables versus the fifteen minutes to Riga Meadow. How thrilling to pull into the farm with horses grazing in the pastures.
I noticed the place was uncharacteristically deserted except for the horses. It was Sunday after all, though weekends don’t count for much when it comes to animal care, barn chores and lessons. I knew Bobbi was gone with Toby at a show. Maybe our new first hire had the day off. Petite with long, streaked blonde hair and a little girl smile though close to thirty, Meghan showed genuine excitement about our farm the day she helped move the first horses in. Her current part-time job assisting in euthanasia of the sick and dying at the local vet was burning her out. She grew up around horses: her mother rode and her dad was a retired jockey. She exemplified “real trooper,” sleeping on a cot in the small, minimally heated, mouse-infested viewing room of the barn with only her rescued Boxer “Boomer” for protection until the cottage was complete. Not long after, Meghan left her vet job and became Weatogue’s assistant trainer, concentrating on the many children who, one by one, turned up for lessons. She had a knack for horses and kids despite a few tattoos and an alarming (to me at least) pierced tongue. Bobbi appreciated her willingness to wield a hammer and lug heavy feed bags, as well as her self-directed work ethic and upbeat personality. Her ability to exercise the horses would come in handy as we filled up.
For my first ride at Weatogue I looked forward to someone helping me ready Bandi until Bobbi returned just in time for our scheduled lesson. But no Meghan and no Bobbi. I was disoriented not having all my systems in order for the new space. Don’t worry, I coached myself, by now I’ve walked Bandi in from the paddocks many times at Riga Meadow, and tacked up on my own. Even so, I was leery and preferred some company, but decided to brave it. I arranged my tack by the grooming stall and walked outside for Bandi. Luckily he came right over to the fence and accepted the halter while Hawk stayed out of the way, saving me a skirmish or an escape.
As I led Bandi up the path, he repeatedly halted to look around, alarmed: ears back and twitching, eyes a little wild, body tense and edgy. I got more anxious, too, and wondered what I’d do if he tried to bolt. “It’s okay, Bandi—you’re a good boy. This is your home now.” At the barn door he stopped dead, and it took some cajoling to get him in. I maneuvered him down the main aisle, and he bullied me as I clumsily circled him into the grooming stall. He whinnied and high-stepped, and so did I, admonishing him and minding my toes. After several attempts, and a little tap with the lead rope on his belly, he moved forward the two steps I needed to secure one cross tie. For the life of me the second one wouldn’t hook. It’s a tricky mechanism with the hinged bottom lip extending out rather than in, so that with a strong pull panicked horses can free the latch and take off. This bucks logic until you hear how much damage a freaked out horse can do to himself, others and the stall if he’s stuck when all his instincts are shouting “Flee.” A runaway horse will generally settle in the grass somewhere to eat or head for the familiarity of his paddock or stall.
My unexpected spasticity with the cross tie flustered me, all of my unexpressed anxiety loudly and clearly absorbed by my sensitive horse. Bandi grew more tense, and together we looped a vicious circle when I counted on a virtuous one. He, at least, had always been as cool as aloe, except that one pre-show experience, so this was new. With no rescue in sight I tore two nails forcing the second cross tie. “Shit,” I muttered and sucked at my bloody finger. Though damaged, I forged ahead, grooming him in the same pattern we’d established all summer at Riga Meadow. I removed his very dirty blanket—he must have been rolling—unsuccessfully keeping my torn nail bed away from the manure encrusted tail strap. I fed him a steady stream of carrots through the curry combing, the brushing, and the hoof-picking. Our oversized grooming stalls allowed him ample space to push me around and twist himself sideways. He nipped at me as I passed from one side to the other, not altogether good-naturedly, even though the carrots flowed steadily. He pawed repeatedly at the concrete between the rubber mats of the stall and the aisle, echoing a grating scratching. A horse whinnied from the field, and Bandi stretched out his neck and head to issue a long, loud, plaintive moan.
What the hell does that mean? Will he bolt to his buddies the first chance he gets? With me on him? I gave him pecks on the nose and collegial pats, but there was no disguising our unease when Bobbi pulled up and unloaded Toby from her chrome trimmed, white metal trailer.
“Hi. Sorry I’m late. I called you at home, but you’d already left. How are you getting on there?” She bounced into the barn.
“Okay,” I replied shakily.
Her eyes narrowed as she tuned in to the static between me and Bandi.
“I’m going to put the Tobster in his paddock and be right back in.”
I bent to hoof-picking, which went better than I expected.
I wondered if it was appropriate for Bobbi to be AWOL so many weekends to show, attend clinics and judge. The busiest part of the northeastern horse circuit runs June through November, half the year, and Scott had already expressed his reservations about Bobbi’s weekend absences, when our family and working boarders would ride. I defended her, arguing that her riding advancement would benefit her students and our barn’s reputation, but at that moment, blundering in the grooming stall, I realized how much dedicated babysitting my fa
mily would need for the foreseeable future. Barn manager and trainers must be physically present to manage and train. And, she seemed to be habitually late. That I silently had to admit to my own perpetual “barn time” tardiness only peeved me further.
Bobbi returned, and we finished the grooming and tacking up together. She soothed and talked to Bandi. As she told me later, she could see the both of us were pretty much wrecks.
“Are you okay to ride?”
“I think so, but he seems riled up.”
“Why don’t I get up on him for a bit first?”
Now you’re talking, I thought to myself.
As we walked to the indoor ring, I heard my daughter, her sitter Marie, and Jane’s play date Lindy arrive. Great, I thought, what a time for squealing, running girls. The kids perched themselves on stools set catty-corner to the ledge of the ring wall, and we all watched Bobbi flawlessly walk, rise to a posting trot and then a smooth canter. Bandi was perfect, though keenly alert to every sunbeam, car rumble and wall kick sounded by Jane and Lindy’s sneakers at the ends of their restless legs. But he seemed to trust that Bobbi would protect him from any monsters.
“Is it okay for the girls to be there?” I asked Bobbi, desperate to erase any possibility for spooking.
“Yes. He might as well get used to it.” In theory, the more horses are exposed to, the more they accept without surprise.
To my relief, the bored girls noisily scrambled off to visit the bunnies and Hawk. I reluctantly climbed up.
“Breathe,” Bobbi said, exhaling loudly as a guide.
I rode. My lesson progressed smoothly, and though I felt secure in the saddle and even managed to get the canter more easily than usual, my heart raced, and my trapezoidal muscles clenched painfully in anticipation of calamity. The breathing was moot. Our indoor ring had a double door at the far end just like the one at Riga Meadow. Would Bandi drop his shoulder and jump that one-eighty that landed me in the dirt? And, so jinxing myself, or, more accurately, inadvertently cueing my horse to what I feared, as we cantered past one of many windows he leapt toward the middle of the ring and ran a few fast startled strides toward the stalls. Pulling up sharply I barely stayed on. Quaking, I forced him back to that spot and continued around. Bobbi and I both gamely tried to ignore this mishap away, drawing little attention to it as you should a child’s tantrum.
I cantered a few more circles, slowing him as he strengthened toward the barn end of the ring and prompting energy as we headed away. We motored nicely until again, at the same window, he sprang up, reversed direction and bolted forward, strongly toward the ring entrance. I felt my body air-born and off-center above him. Instinct urged me to leap off before falling, but I pulled hard on the reins and miraculously relocated the saddle. I barely resisted this panicky flee response, a weaselly tactic to control my physicality, when I couldn’t control Bandi’s.
“Bandi, you silly boy! It’s only a window,” Bobbi exclaimed, walking towards me. “Are you okay?”
“Um, yes?” I croaked. “I was tempted to bail. Isn’t that safer than getting tossed?”
“No. It’s always better to stay on if you can.”
Great. There goes my exit strategy.
“Maybe we’ll try the stronger bit,” Bobbi continued, “the Mikmar that Stacey mentioned Bandi likes. It might help him focus and give you more brakes. Can you canter once more to end on a better note?”
“No,” I shouted internally. How much do you want from me? But I knew that Bobbi was fighting for my confidence. I also knew I’d be dwelling on this incident to no end even if I now managed the best canter of my short, sorry equine career. Against all inclination, I cantered again, half a length with heart pounding, and walked to cool him down. He picked up his ears at the kids roughhousing noisily on the hill outside the windows. Bobbi and I held our breath against a spook. Despite the cold day, Bandi and I were both sweating: our combined nerves generated a lot of heat. I should have walked him more, but I couldn’t postpone my two feet on mother earth a second longer.
As I untacked, Bobbi and I ignored the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room that was my bad first ride in our new place. Instead, we discussed that the horses were still settling in. Bobbi apologized for not schooling Bandi the last two weeks given her lesson schedule and all the work necessary to get the farm in order. And your show schedule, I thought to myself. There were still so many loose ends, odd jobs. Dusk approached, and the warning chill of a long, cold New England winter penetrated the barn. I drove home, scared and upset with Bobbi and myself. Did we jump the gun on this horse? I admitted to myself that I hadn’t truly looked forward to riding since my fall at Riga Meadow. And this exciting day that we anticipated for months was a bust. I didn’t yet have a full file of good rides in which to bury the bad ones.
Scott arrived home contentedly weary from a harmless hike up Bear Mountain. I could have been with him instead of risking my neck, I thought as we relaxed in the hot tub before dinner and the ride to New York. Knowing he could make this very point was salt to my wound; still, it didn’t take me long to unburden myself.
“How was your ride?” he asked.
“Not so good.”
I paused.
No response.
“Aren’t you at all interested?”
“That’s not fair. Sure I am.”
“I’m having a bit of a crisis about riding at all.”
“Why? What happened?”
I poured out the events of the day.
“I wonder if Bandi’s the right horse for me. I’m not even sure he likes me much. I mean, I know he’s not the most affectionate horse, and this I accept. But I sometimes think that he’s too much horse for wimpy me, and even though I may look like an experienced rider because I’m athletic and a fast learner, my ‘head’,” I knocked my noggin with my fist as we settled into the 101-degree bubbles, “has only so many hours in the saddle.”
“Bandi has a habit of spooking, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. Even once with Bobbi, though it seems to happen mostly with me. I think he’s a little high strung and so am I—we might feed each other’s anxiety. I spend the whole ride waiting for the dump and run and probably bring it on myself. I really wish I could be braver.” In my frustration I felt like crying. “I know Bobbi wants me to learn to jump and go on hunter paces with her, and I love the idea, but I feel farther and farther from it the more I ride him.”
“Maybe you need a quieter horse.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “But we’ve discussed how this can’t be a full-time thing for you. We have a life in New York, and you have two kids and a husband. As it is, we don’t do half the things together that we used to.”
I sparked, but couldn’t flame that chestnut again. Beyond mad, I was just downright tired, deeply weary of the whole enterprise, with no fight left in me for Bandi or Scott. I knew Scott meant well, that he missed me, and he chastised kindly, but still I felt scolded for neglecting him. He was also right. To conquer my fear and master Bandi would take a lot of time and energy, both of which I lacked as a commuting parent of two kids running two households, not to mention the job of decent spouse. And I already felt sneaky, squeezing riding in around the edges when I’m least likely to be missed. Scott must have felt like the wife who lost her husband to golf, another passion that regularly takes three hours each outing. It didn’t help that Scott selflessly had resisted pressure to swing the clubs in order to maximize his family time. Plus, I’d been spurring myself to ride, reluctant rather than champing at the bit.
“There have to be horses that don’t spook. Why don’t you give him some time to adjust, and if he doesn’t, we get you a different horse. Don’t feel guilty; it’s not such a big deal. There has to be a horse that’s right for you.”
“I couldn’t bear the thought of selling Bandi to another unfamiliar place,” I said. For better or worse I loved that damned horse, and didn’t want to be one of those people who change horses on a whim. I also suspected his jitteriness was
more my fault than his.
“But I’ve already decided that I don’t want Elliot or Jane on him even though we planned for Elliot to ride him sometimes,” I continued.
“I agree. The kids should absolutely not ride him until we know he’s safe. But maybe you could ride but only walk around, until you feel comfortable.” Scott was trying his hardest to be supportive, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. I was in this one alone.
“But I don’t want to give up on myself or on my horse: it feels like failure. I should be able to ride him and not be so scared. It’s not like he’s trying to dump me. At least I don’t think he’s trying that.... But all I really want is a reliable horse that I can ride around the farm without fear—walk, trot, canter. I don’t even really care about jumping fences, and I can’t see doing shows or hunter paces at all.” We both sighed, no answers in sight.
I pondered it the whole ride to New York, even through my attempts at conversation about what was going on at Scott’s office. My dream was unraveling, and I keenly felt my lack of faith in my first horse. I saw the path where heartbreak lay. I imagined a new owner loading Bandi up, his eyes accusing me from the trailer window as I waved good-bye. I resolved to take a break from riding and speak frankly with Bobbi. If she and I bet on the wrong horse, it seemed important we be upfront with each other.
I CALLED HER THE NEXT DAY TO CONFIRM DETAILS for our official opening, a December caroling party inspired by our family visit to the Billingslys’ farm last Christmas Eve. We chatted about the goings-on at the farm until I sputtered:
“Bobbi, I’m not so sure about Bandi.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know that we’re a good match. We make each other nervous. I’m not convinced he likes me—he takes nips at me and pins his ears back.”
“Well, he always makes faces when he gets groomed.”
“I know, but I’m afraid he might be too much horse for me.” In defense attorney mode I explained my decreasing confidence and my expectation and fear of his spooks. “I don’t want you to feel bad about our buying him, or about my first horse experience. I know every horse has his issues; I’m just not sure that I can deal with this one. I suspect he’s going to take a lot more time and energy than I have right now. I want to enjoy riding and not work so hard.”