Spirit of the Horse

by William Shatner

  Dr. Dick would have no hay mowed to be dropped into the mangers, nor would he have it stored directly above us all. He insisted that the dust would inevitably sift down and be the cause of various diseases of the eye, ear, throat and lungs.

  He was particular about the stalls and feed boxes, too. He said it was a shame for an animal with a low body and short neck to be expected to take any comfort eating from a box put up for a high horse with a long neck. He had each stall fitted up with reference to its occupant, nor would he allow us to be put where we did not belong.

  Queen and Julie were regular long, clean-limbed roadsters and their feed boxes were much higher than mine. I am of heavy build, with short legs and neck. The first time Dr. Fred looked me over—when Dr. Dick was absent—he remarked: “A pretty horse for a doctor! Slow and clumsy! No endurance!”

  CHAPTER II.

  Besides the bays, the Wallaces owned one other horse, old Ross, a somewhat worn and battered veteran, who entertained me for hours at a time, when we were standing alone in the shady pasture or in the barn, with tales of what he had seen, known and experienced.

  “You look like a nice young fellow,” he said on the second day of my arrival; “but I’d rather be myself, all battered up as I am, than you, for I have the satisfaction of knowing that I can’t live many years longer and you may happen to suffer through a long lifetime yet.”

  “Why,” I said, “is it so bad as that to live? I have always had a good time.”

  “Yes, it is very bad to live if you are owned by some people. Of course I am happy and contented here, only I know I shall be sold by and by. I am about worn out, and Dr. Fred said before he went away that I was getting too stiff for a doctor’s horse.”

  “But my Master is never going to sell me!”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He says I am going to live with him always, and be shot beside his grave.”

  “Well, Dr. Dick is an exception among men; but he don’t always get his way.”

  The season following my coming to K____ proved to be a never-to-be-forgotten one. Cholera raged for many weeks, and I had to take my share of the work, especially as Queen was not strong. She was never as well again before that night in the livery stable. She took cold easily and could not endure fatigue. Days and nights together Master never rested and scarcely ate anything, but in one sense it was a good thing; it helped him forget.

  One day he had had the bays out since just after midnight and Ross had fallen terribly lame the day before, so when a call came for him to go a dozen or more miles in a pouring rain he was obliged to saddle me.

  “Poor little Dandy!” he said, “your legs are too short for such a journey, but it is life or death to the mother of seven little ones.”

  That was enough for me; my legs might be short but they were strong, and though the doctor was heavy I felt equal to the task. I started off on a swift canter but Master drew rein, telling me to husband my strength for the last half of the way.

  It had long been dark when we arrived—inky dark, too, with no cessation of the rainfall. A trembling hand held out a lantern while a hollow voice fairly sobbed: “I’m afeard ye’re too late, doctor, my woman is sinking fast.”

  “Now, see here, my man, you take good care of my noble little horse here and I’ll pull the wife through, or fail doing my best.”

  By the uncertain light of the lantern I saw that I was being tied in a sort of shed. My saddle was removed, but its place was soon supplied by a stream of water that trickled through a hole in the roof. Move which way I would, a leak was directly over my back. The man laid some newly-cut grass across some poles, barely within my reach, and went away.

  All the while I was aware that the place had another occupant, though I could see nothing. Presently a horse’s voice in the darkness asked if I had come far. From the first tone I noticed a sadness, but I replied to the question, adding that I would rather be out of doors than in this leaky place.

  “Oh,” she said, “this ain’t bad now, but it is a dreary place in winter with the snow drifting in and the wind whistling through.”

  I was too much surprised to answer at first, and in a minute she gave a long, piteous whinny.

  “Whom are you calling?” I asked.

  “My baby, my pretty, little roan colt; they took him from me last week and have not brought him back. It seems as if my heart must break! We were never separated an hour before, and I don’t see how he will get along alone. My baby, oh, my baby!”

  I expressed my pity for her, and she said it did her good to have some one to talk to.

  “Oh, it is a dreadful thing to be a mother, loving your offspring as much as human mothers do, and yet be speechless and helpless,” she moaned.

  “They tied me in here and drove Selim into a corner and caught him. I jerked and neighed until master kicked me and bade me shut my head. By this time the others had got Selim out, and I could hear him calling to me. His voice grew fainter and fainter and then all was still.”

  “I suppose your master sold him. Ross, the old horse at our place, says he was taken from his mother and sold.”

  “Oh me! if colts must be taken from their mothers in that way, why can’t they get us used to the separation by degrees, not tear us apart without a moment’s warning or word of farewell?”

  “Why can’t they?” I repeated, then added: “But I guess your master is getting pay now for his cruelty. His wife is almost dying with cholera, and my master says there are seven little children.”

  “I shall certainly pity the children if they are deprived of a mother’s care, but they will feel no worse than little Selim does.”

  After a while Dr. Dick came out to the shed. I suppose the rain had ceased by that time, at least the stream of water on my back had, but I was standing in some sort of filth, with the mud hardening on my legs. A long while he scraped and rubbed my legs and back, then turned me out into a little pasture.

  “It will be better than this dirty place, Dandy,” he said, and it was.

  It was just growing gray in the morning when a man rode past the pasture on a horse that fairly swayed from side to side, he was so exhausted, and blood and foam poured from his mouth and nostrils.

  In a minute more Dr. Dick was calling me.

  “Likely you’ll have a time to ketch the colt,” the owner of the premises was saying as I came up. The doctor laughed.

  “Why, that is queer,” the man said. “I can never get near the old mare, even when she’s out.”

  “Well, sir,” replied Master, looking very serious, “I would be ashamed to treat a dumb animal so badly that it would fear to come at my call. My horses know that I am their friend, and that, though I may have to work them hard, I will not require more of them than they can do, and that they can trust me in all things.”

  Then he stroked my face, and I put my cheek against his.

  “Dandy and I love each other,” he added. Then he went for the saddle and bridle. My companion of the evening before was still neighing pitifully, and Master inquired the cause.

  “Sir, if your wife or any of your children die,” he said severely, when the other had told about the colt, “just remember that you deserve it, for having no regard for the feelings of a dumb mother. The God who noteth the sparrow’s fall, will measure unto you as you measure unto the helpless. There is a merciful and humane way of dealing in all these matters. If I were in your place, I’d send one of the boys to bring that colt where its mother can see it for a day and then let her watch it go away. ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.’”

  We now joined the other man standing beside his heaving horse at the gate.

  “Follow at your leisure; that poor beast is well-nigh done for; I will hurry on and do all I can,” Dr. Dick said to the stranger, whose sister had been attacked by the epidemic; and away we flew.

  My training had all been for the saddle, and, whether built right or not, I was at home under it. We turned in at the
Wallace gateway just forty-eight hours after going out of it.

  “How did the colt stand it?” was the hired man’s first query.

  “Dandy is a jewel, Bob!” Master replied heartily, “a perfect saddle horse and with ambition and sense enough for a dozen horses.”

  And thus began my actual experience as a doctor’s horse; and from that time on our names were continually associated together, first by the family and finally by the whole town and neighborhood.

  I remember one small boy, coming in haste for the doctor, breathlessly announced that he had come for “Dick and Dandy.”

  I was soon trained to drive in a sulky, and grew to like it better than the saddle, only that I could not hear quite as well what the doctor said to me—in common conversation—as we traveled along.

  The news of the epidemic brought Dr. Fred home some little time before he intended coming, but his coming brought no additional happiness to the stables, whether it did to the house or not.

  He rushed about everything, spoke in a loud, confusing tone, issued one order only to countermand it by another, used profane language and—drank whisky.

  “We’ve had our good time,” Ross remarked significantly, and Julie gave an acquiescent snort.

  Meanwhile a new blacksmith had bought out the old one in K____ and Dr. Dick was wondering if the former was a bungler. Ross did not get over his lameness, and Master had had his shoes removed and turned him out into the pasture.

  THE STABLE AS CATHEDRAL

  For most people—perhaps all?—wherever they love to be, that place is a cathedral to them. A place of solemn joy, perhaps a place of great spiritual portent. For athletes it might be a stadium—empty or filled, it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it’s a hilltop under the vault of the sky. For many actors, it’s a stage.

  For me, it’s a stable.

  I do love the stage, any stage, but I go there to work. I love my work, but that’s not the same as my love of riding … and stables.

  Let me tell you a little bit about the place where I feel most spiritual. Before I do that, keep in mind that I have been to truly sacred and highly spiritual places. I’ve been in sweat lodges, I’ve been in smoke ceremonies where a shaman drifts smoke over you, I’ve been at the confluence of several mountains near Mount Everest where there was a great Buddhist temple, where all the spirits were supposed to flow. It was beautiful, it was incredibly serene, it was filled with the energy of ages gone by. But what I got from that was not a spiritual experience. I understand where others could find those places profoundly spiritual. For me, something personally relatable must be present. I could be talking to any one of you and have a spiritual experience. I could be in front of a camera, working with an inspirational actor.

  Or I could be in a stable.

  I am not entirely sure if one picture could replace these thousand or so words. When there are horses present, when I first enter it is a sort of idyllic passage, if you will. Something happens to me. You enter and you stand in the semi-darkened light and the first thing you smell is the sweet/sour odor of horses mixed with the nose-alerting scent of manure. There are all kinds of perfumes in each balloon of air, including the smell of the leather, the smell of the leather oil. For me that unique mixture is almost like a pheromone. It triggers a social response. I begin to feel closer to the animals than I do to my own species.

  There’s dust in the air. The light filters in through the particles that come from all the hay, and the feed, and the horses’ hair. These motes hang suspended, weightless in the columns of light. They stir as you pass, or if the stable is airy they are constantly drifting in lazy, unpredictable ways.

  Then there’s the sight of the horses themselves, especially the eyes, which are beacons. And in those eyes you can see many things: the dreamy state of some of the horses, the angry state, the anxious eyes imploring, “When do I get out? When do I eat?” There are many kinds of emotions hiding in the stalls but, over all, in a well-run barn, there is a feeling of peacefulness, and contentment.

  There are sounds, too. The slap of the leather when saddles are moved. There’s the ever-present crunch of the hay, like background music. There’s the staccato rumble, like timpani, of the poured corn and mash that has grain in it, a mix so sweet that the horses hunger for it because it’s like candy. They whinny for it, over it. And of course, there is the occasional drumbeat of horse hooves. There are also the subtler shuffles of the horses’ inner rhythms. They never quite stand still, they’re always shifting their weight from one leg to another. Or there’s the impatient stamp of a horse anxious to get out, or anticipating eating, or anticipating riding. There are the soloist sounds of dog barks. There’s a symphony of orchestration in a barn, and if you just tune in, it becomes massive and melodic.

  I mentioned the dogs. Wherever the stable, in whatever part of the world, you and the horses are never alone. Dogs are always part of the stable. The Jack Russells hunt mice and rats. Sometimes they’ll lay them at your feet, proudly. The longer, leaner dogs accompany you on the ride.

  There are birds. Not only are there birds but there are birds’ nests, because they eat the seeds that fall along every avenue from a horse. Eventually, they just make their home at the source.

  The animals serve a dual purpose, though. Since horses are herd animals, those horses that leave the comfort of their own stall with some frequency, or who are competitive and are inclined to make trouble with other horses—these animals will be given a friend that they come to view as noncompetitive member of their herd. I’ve heard of chickens, I’ve heard of goats, I’ve heard of pigs, I’ve heard of dogs, I’ve heard of cats. All have been substitute herd members and the horse would be very uncomfortable if they were shipped without their friend.

  Naturally, the rider isn’t the only human in a stable. There are a variety of people who visit stalls on a regular basis, stables on a regular basis. And these people add to the mix as well. There’s the trainer, who is the boss, who says this horse needs that, and that horse needs this. There are the stable boys and girls, whose daily work is to feed and curry the horses. There are the owners, who come at prescribed times to visit with their horses and perhaps learn from their horses, and ride their horses. There is the occasional visitor who has been mesmerized by horses and just wants to pet them and be part of the experience.

  There are children, too.

  For the most part, horses want to befriend humans of all kinds—but they seem to acknowledge that a smaller, weaker person requires something of a change in behavior toward them. And they quite frequently are more gentle, more giving. I’ve seen that among my horses often.

  Conversely, every so often there is a dangerous air from a stranger, whose association with horses is suspect, and everybody keeps an eye on that dark cloud of an individual, who may or may not be there for nefarious purposes, but gives off that vibe. Like a dog with its hair up, everybody reacts to that person and protects the horses. In a stable, the horse is everyone’s top priority.

  With all of these elements active and in play, there is also rich, ripe expectation, the anticipation of mounting the horse and being part of the horse, and having a period of union with the horse in the outdoors.

  I have come to realize that with any spiritual place, there are two major components: the energy that you bring and the energy that is brought, and left there, by others. Does the memory of a “big game” ever truly leave a stadium? Does the emotion of a wedding or a funeral ever leave a church or temple?

  A stable has all of those energies, the triumphs and joys and sadness. And there are two more reasons it is like a cathedral. First, being there has made me a better person and a better actor. Being one with a horse has made me understand, even better, being one with a role, letting the dialogue and the character emerge from an inner place and not being afraid of what comes with it.

  The second reason is perhaps the most important of all. When you enter a cathedral, you take off your hat and bow your knee. You embrace humi
lity.

  If you are lucky, that, above all, stays with you.

  A Race Horse That Paid a Church Debt

  TAKING CHANCES, by CLARENCE LOUIS CULLEN (1900)

  Mr. Cullen authored all kinds of stories for The New York Sun—including many about games of chance—which were collected in Taking Chances. He wrote amusingly in the introduction:

  To the man who, at any period of his days, has been bitten by that ferocious and fever-producing insect colloquially known as the “horse bug,” and likewise to the man whose nervous system has been racked by the depredations of the “poker microbe,” these tales of the turf and of the green cloth are sympathetically dedicated. The thoroughbred running horse is a peculiar animal. While he is often beaten, the very wisest veterans of the turf have a favorite maxim to the effect that “The ponies can’t be beat”—meaning the thoroughbred racers; which sounds paradoxical enough. Poker, too, is a mystifying affair, in that all men who play it appear, from their own statements, to lose at it persistently and perennially. There is surely something weird and uncanny about a game that numbers only losers among its devotees.

  “A friend of mine who came here from Chicago for the Bennings meeting was telling me about that Jim McCleevy mule,” said an old-time owner of thoroughbreds who is wintering a string of jumpers and breaking a bunch of yearlings out at the Bennings track. “That makes a queer story, and there are some strange things connected with the thoroughbred game, at that. This McCleevy horse wasn’t worth a bag of moist peanuts at the beginning of the present racing season. He couldn’t beat a fat man. He had never been in the money. He was a legitimate thousand-to-one shot in any company. He was the candidate for the shafts of a brick cart, when by some odd chance he passed into the possession of a nice young woman who was going to school somewhere in the State of Iowa. The girl’s uncle was mixed up some way or another with the turf, and he bought the McCleevy plug for a joke, paying a few dollars for him. In a spirit of fun he wrote to his niece that he had bought Jim McCleevy in her name, and that the horse belonged to her and would be run in her interest. The young woman didn’t know the difference between a race-horse and a chatelaine bag. She was an orphan, and struggling to get an education for herself. Her ambition was to take a course at a woman’s college, but, up to the time of this incident, which lasted throughout the spring and summer, her hope of putting this ambition over the plate was pretty shadowy, and it looked like it was up to her to get a job teaching at a country school in order to support herself. But she wrote to her uncle that she accepted the gift of the no-account racer with gratitude, and inquired if the horse could not trot right fast, for, if so, she might be able to dispose of him to some well-to-do farmer in her neighborhood.