by Roxanne Bok
I had arrived at the barn by 8:00 a.m. and planned to return home after Elliot’s last test at 1:30. By 5:00, I still could not drag myself away from the afternoon’s higher level rides. The heavy weather had ceded to bright and breezy, with a nodding sun glinting rays off the few top-hatted experts strutting their regal paces around our well-draining, not-soggy ring. As masterful horses fancy-stepped their distinct silhouettes against the stadium wave of the luxuriant maples, a few of their leaves portending autumn, I mourned this coda to a transformative, vanishing summer. I draped my bone-tired frame over the fence, cooler now in the long shadows of the day, intently watching the exquisite pas de deux that years of fine-tuning can cast between horse and rider. Looking into both their faces as they waltzed past I saw such utter concentration coupled with their stately strides, human and animal confident in their abilities, and in tune only to each other. Their eyes may have stared vaguely out, but their focus was turned deeply inward, monitoring and refining every body part and its movement, their very skin alert, striving for grace and accuracy in the spaces between every second, and in the air between footfalls. Their wordless communication of thought and motion energized through seat, legs, fingertips, muscles, bones, sinews and brains was so compelling that I already yearned to be back up on my horse so, together, we could do better.
As I reluctantly turned to my car and the pull of home, Meghan unabashedly paraded Angel around the grounds in the green fleece “Weatogue Stables” embroidered cooling sheet that they had won as a team in June. A preening close to our successful event, her “billboard” promoted both our farm and Bobbi’s accomplished horse that Meg had just ridden at a high level test. They both shone in the sun’s golden beam. I was filled with goodwill and sheer joy as they passed by.
“Show off,” I teased, and then sincerely noted, “You two looked great out there.”
“Oh, I made plenty of mistakes, but she’s teaching me,” Meghan humbly replied, patting Angel’s sleek neck. She slipped me a sideways smile that transmitted our shared, silent gratitude for this horse life.
“Wasn’t that you and Bandi cantering in the field all by yourselves yesterday?” she asked with a nod toward our back pasture.
“Yes it was,” I responded proudly, “just Bandi and me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
End Tales
IT IS ALWAYS SOMETHING WITH HORSES, usually something that costs money. Just when I thought I had purchased all possible accoutrements, more treasures tempted me. The basic must-haves—bridle, saddle, stirrups, a pad and a spare whet my appetite for the irresistible and just plain fun—that fifth saddle pad in mint green with diamond quilting, duotone piping and micro-tricot lining that wicks away moisture, or the baby blue anti-pilling, breathable polar fleece cooler designed with a tapered chest and hook and loop closures for a close fit that matched my riding vest. A sucker for all the cleverly advertised “necessities,” that I coordinated my clothing to that of my horse was vaguely disconcerting. But who could argue for trapped sweat, a poor fit, weak fabrics or careless color combinations?
I figured I had Bandi pretty completely outfitted, but then he changed shape. His expanded girth shouldn’t have surprised us: all summer his head inclined toward the grass, unlike his comrades who occasionally came up for air, and as a result my gently used Pessoa jumping saddle “bridged” Bandi’s shoulders causing him to shudder these weird spasms when I tacked him up. Bobbi consulted “Wolf,” a robust German saddle expert to determine whether we could “reflock” my old saddle, but the verdict was a thick “Nein!”
I had discovered the comforts of a dressage saddle during my Angel ride, so I shopped for two new saddles—at several thousand dollars a pop. Either I ante up or put Bandi on a more restricted diet. But we had already cut him to a cup of grain a day, slender rations for my poor boy who lived for his chow. It broke my heart. They term such horses “easy keepers” but I would prefer a metabolic machine able to put away the groceries without portliness, one I could lovingly over-feed with the best of Jewish mothers. To certify that Bandi’s pudginess did indeed derive from gluttony, we tested for Lyme disease and a thyroid problem.
“Good news and bad news,” Bobbi said. “Bandi’s tests were all negative. He’s healthy—just fat.”
“Oh no,” I replied, fearing the next slimming step. “He’d be so unhappy as a basket head.”
“Let’s just hope he trims down over the winter.”
“I thought your motto was ‘fat and happy, lean and mean,’” I joked.
“Yeah, but cellulite is rippling on his neck.” She pinched his inches. “There is a limit, you know.”
“Policing food is hard enough with my kids; I was hoping I’d get to indulge my horse.” I patted his padded rump and sighed.
So my education continued. Bandi and I settled into a compatible relationship, and our trust deepened. I began to physically manage, not just intellectually understand, that he calmed when I calmed, and I aimed to maintain this virtuous circle. Sensing my budding confidence, Bobbi lobbied me hard to join her on an upcoming hunter pace. While I felt more inclined than before, I still chickened out. This horse business is a marathon, not a sprint. As with Yoga, there really is no there, there, and it takes “many lifetimes” to attain “expert.” Almost every trainer I meet still works with one more experienced. It is nice not be in a hurry for once; so much of my daily existence is taken at a gallop. Elliot however, thrilled at the idea of a pace, so he and Cleo ran wild with Bobbi and Bandi, taking a very respectable team sixth. All four love to canter, and I consoled my ego with the facts that Elliot made a more sporting companion and Bandi had more fun under Bobbi. I envied Elliot’s spirit of adventure and did not want him to leave me behind, but was proud of his courage and his growing passion for horses.
Janie forged ahead as well. Bobbi rescued a “free” pony—an oxymoron if ever there was one—named Peaches. Bobbi just can’t help herself when it comes to sad-sack cases, and I thought that Peaches looked the wrong side of useful. At eleven hands, our new pony fit in between Hawk, whom she outgrew, and the nearly horse-size Cleo. Although ribbed and mangy, Bobbi espied an inner-Peaches, a sandy blonde dappled cutie with a long mane and matching tail the peroxide color and texture of Barbie hair, an attribute that endeared her to my daughter and set me wondering whether the dolls were manufactured with real horsehair. To seal the deal, Bobbi outfitted Peachy with a pink halter and Jane with a matching riding crop in the shape of a glittered hand that sparkled in the sun.
“I don’t have a daughter,” Bobbi justified, “so I get to spoil Jane.”
Peaches needed serious TLC, but she was sturdy, had a promising trot, and was supposedly good with kids. Elliot and Jane immediately adopted her into our Weatogue fold, so I hoped for the best. Our family grew—we added ponies in between our ponies.
Petite Meghan was just slightly big for the job so Elliot first cantered and jumped the rehabilitated Peaches to test her fitness and safety for Jane. How exciting that Elliot’s broadening skills enabled him to play the trainer. We joked that Peaches “breezed” (track-speak for a short speed test) the same day as our resident Thoroughbred racer Humble Bee breezed in her return to Belmont. Both performed admirably. Soon Elliot and Jane were regularly playing tag on horseback, a strategic game that Meghan introduced to develop balance, steering, speed and brakes. The ponies undertook all with equanimity.
Bobbi kept life interesting at the barn. Jane and I looked forward to our first “bling” party, right up my material girl’s alley. Barn friends were invited to arrange beads and jewels into patterns that Bobbi’s crafty friend Cynthia would encrust into leather brow bands for our horses’ bridles and into matching belts for us. Who thinks this stuff up, I wondered?
“But Bandi is a boy. Well, sort of still a boy,” I protested, disappointed because it sounded like so much fun.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Bobbi. “Pick masculine colors. Toby has one.”
So I brought a choco
late mousse cake from The White Hart, and Bobbi cooked up her famous chili, and while Scott and Elliot kicked off the first ice-hockey practice of the season, Jane and I ran back and forth to test out variations of color and style across the brows of our dozing, unimpressed horses, creating equine jewelry in the company of new friends in the cozy tack room.
Oh, and the best news of all: a minor miracle, really. On Friday the thirteenth of October, Bobbi was driving home after night check. A half mile from the barn a black-and-white blur sped across the road.
“Can’t possibly be . . .” she thought, but stopped her truck to climb out into the darkness.
“Is that you, Smudge?” she called. “Here Smudgy, Smudgy.”
An approaching car allowed her one more cat call, though she already convinced herself she was mistaken.
“Smudge? Come on now.”
As she started to withdraw into the warmth of her truck, disappointed yet again, a meowing Smudge emerged from the tall grass and into her arms. Bobbi returned to the barn cottage and surprised a pajama-clad Meghan with a joyous, midnight reunion. Thin and hungry enough to scarf down a can of food and look for more, Bobbi warned an effusive Meghan to go easy. The next morning Bobbi called our house bright and early.
“I have great news but I want to tell Elliot first,” she sang happily.
I passed Elliot the phone and stood by, all ears.
“You’re kidding. That’s awesome,” 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
NEARLY 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.