The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

by Shade, Victoria;

  As Carol stood next to Cynthia, Cynthia began the introductions.

  “Victoria, I want you to meet Carol. Carol, Victoria,” she said formally.

  As Carol extended her arm down to mine, I noticed the prominent veins in her forearm. Her skin was darker than Cynthia’s, but I could clearly see the veins bulging from her arm. Her grip was firm, and her hand rough. We shook hands.

  “Hi Victoria,” she said cheerfully.

  “Hi,” I replied uncomfortably, knowing my face was still visibly wet with tears.

  After the introductions, I hugged Cynthia one last time, and followed my mother out of the office, to the car waiting outside in the bitter cold rain.

  If only I had known then how Carol would change my life . . .

  10

  Training with Carol turned out to not be so bad—it was pretty great, actually. She teased me endlessly, pulling me out of my shell of pre-teen insecurities. Our lessons were filled with jokes, challenges, and were usually topped off with a life lesson. At the end of every lesson with Carol, I walked away knowing that I had learned something, knowing that she had pushed me to my physical limit, and knowing that I had had fun. I knew Carol would be important to me after my first lesson with her.

  I was twelve years old when I started training with Carol. I was still a novice dressage rider, riding only the farm’s school horses, horses that were available to the general public. I told Carol about my adoration of Freddie, and that he was my favorite school horse. She let me ride him in most lessons, but insisted that I ride other horses.

  “Why do I have to ride the other school horses? Freddie’s the best and he’s my favorite, so why bother with the other ones?” I complained.

  “Because you can only improve if you ride other horses and challenge yourself. Don’t you want to be the best rider you can be?” she rationalized.

  “Fiiiine,” I let out overdramatically so she would know I was joking, “I’ll get Scooter.”

  Scooter was an average school horse—average size, average coloring, dark brown all over, average temperament, and he knew a little bit of basic dressage and basic jumping. I had never ridden him before, but I had seen other people less skilled than me ride him, so I wasn’t particularly excited about the lesson I would have on him.

  “Good posting trot,” Carol instructed during my lesson. “Now, going into the corner, try to find a clear spot to ask for more bend and pick up the canter.”

  When the arena was filled to capacity with horses, like it was on that day, I had to look for an open spot to pick up the canter. I couldn’t do it too close to another horse, because it might set off that horse. Since I was picking up the canter, the fastest of dressage’s three gaits, I also had to get on the rail. The rule was that the faster moving horses got the rail when going to the left, but very novice riders got to ride on the rail for all three gaits. Since I was riding on a Saturday, the ring was packed with novice riders, which made it more difficult to find a good spot to pick up the canter.

  I found a clear spot in the second corner, just before the long side. I gave the horse the cue to pick up the left lead canter, squeezing with my right leg. When he ignored that, I kicked him with my right heel. Apparently that offended the animal, prompting him to launch himself forward into a buck, catapulting his hind end in the air. I had developed a strong lower body from years of riding horses just as spirited as this one, so my body knew what to do. Even though the force of the buck had propelled me forward, my legs automatically gripped the saddle, my core muscles engaged, and my hands landed at the base of the horse’s neck. I wasn’t coming off. But I was afraid of hurting anyone behind me, so I kicked him with both legs to make him run forward, which would force all four of his legs back to the ground. Then he bolted. Now, I was pissed. He was being a jerk for no reason. So, I was a jerk back. I yanked hard on the reins, knowing that I was hurting his mouth, the meanest thing a rider can do. He then threw his head up and reared, rising up on his hind legs.

  “GET UP!” I snarled in his ears, now four inches from my face. I grabbed his mane, slammed my legs hard against his sides, and he bolted down the next long side of the arena.

  “HEADS UP!” I yelled. Everyone stopped and gathered in the middle of the arena, waiting for a riderless horse to start running around the ring, not an uncommon occurrence.

  Now furious that I had caused a scene, I took it out on the beast. I kicked him hard, and aimed him directly for the wall. I didn’t care if he ran right into it. I wasn’t going to fall off no matter what he did. But the animal had enough sense to lock his front legs just before hitting the wall. I knew he would try to pull this stunt—stop short right before hitting a wall to send his rider sailing over it. Too bad I had ridden this ride one too many times at Leslie’s. I sat back, and pulled on the reins.

  “You OK?” I heard Carol ask, approaching me from the middle of the arena.

  “Yeah, but this horse is such an asshole!” I fumed, completely unraveled.

  “No cursing,” she smiled. “And don’t ever yank on the reins like that.”

  “But—” I objected.

  “Pick up the posting trot,” she interrupted. “Let’s try it again, without the rodeo.”

  11

  After a year of training with Carol, she announced, “You’re riding Patches from now on.”

  “Patches? Doesn’t he live in the boarder barn?”

  The boarder barn was off limits to anyone who didn’t own their own horse, so I rarely set foot on that exclusive part of the property.

  “Yep,” she beamed.

  “But isn’t he owned by someone?” I asked the obvious question.

  “Yep,” she smiled, now obviously taunting me with her cryptic answers.

  “So, how can I ride him?” I continued.

  “His owners don’t ride him anymore,” she simply concluded, “his tack is in the boarder tack room. Meet me in the indoor in ten minutes.”

  Patches was a small horse, smaller than Freddie. Maybe even smaller than Tango. He was aptly named because of his coloring—his white body was splashed with patches of black. He was unique, just like Tango.

  As I set his tack in front of his stall, and turned the latch to open his door, I heard a voice amongst the murmurings in the boarder barn.

  “Hey, aren’t you that kid who rides all the schoolies?” a woman asked, peeling herself away from a conversation she was having with another woman by one of the stalls in the barn.

  I recognized her. She was always chatting with the barn manager, Kim. I didn’t know her name.

  “Yeah.”

  “Victoria, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m Victoria.”

  “I’m Helen, Mandy’s mom.”

  “Mandy, get out here and meet Victoria,” she called into the stall next to Patches’s.

  Mandy emerged, she was shorter and younger than me, I estimated about five years younger.

  “Hey,” she said, popping her head out of her pony’s stall.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “This is Sweet Pea,” she said, struggling with the pony attempting to escape the stall.

  “She’s yours?” I asked.

  “Yep, just got her a few months ago,” she smiled proudly.

  “She’s cute,” I said.

  And she really was cute. She was petite, about 12 hands tall, she had a diamond shaped blaze on her head, and tiny ears that poked out through the fluffiest forelock and mane I had ever seen. Her dark bay coloring faded to black on her knees, going all the way down to her tiny hooves.

  “She sure is, but a real pisser though, nuthin’ sweet about her so far,” Helen said, blocking the pony’s escape route from the stall. “Get back in there, mare!” she hollered, throwing her hands up to scare the pony back into her stall.

  “Three year olds!” she huffed.
/>   “Watch out for that old geezer you’re about to get on!” she let out.

  “He’s old?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah, about 22 or 23, I think. Still has plenty of pep, though! Bucks off everyone who tries to ride him.”

  “Great,” I muttered, grabbing the saddle pad.

  Patches wasn’t polite about getting tacked up. He insisted on doing laps in the stall while I tried to put on the saddle pad and saddle. When it came time for the bridle, he threw his head up beyond my reach. He was even less polite about being ridden. He insisted on doing two things all the time: 1.) trotting, 2.) with his nose defiantly in the air. No amount of rein, bending, or leg aids could persuade him to do anything else. His blatant disobedience was embarrassing. I couldn’t even get his head down. What kind of good rider can’t even get a horse’s head down?

  When I could no longer feel my fingers and arms, I stopped and asked Carol, “Why do I have to ride this horse?”

  “Because he’s a dressage horse, and you’re learning dressage.”

  “This doesn’t feel like dressage.”

  “Might be because you’re not doing dressage,” she needled.

  “Great, thanks,” I said, growing frustrated with Carol’s unyielding philosophy that every mistake is the rider’s fault. This horse’s issues were clearly not my mistakes. After all, this was my first ride on him, how could it be my fault?

  “Just keep riding. Sitting trot on a twenty-meter circle around me,” she instructed.

  __________

  The advantage of riding Patches was that he allegedly knew all of the high level dressage moves. I learned that he was a Grand Prix dressage horse back in the day. The disadvantage was that he had no desire to do anything remotely resembling dressage when I was on his back.

  Carol insisted that I continue riding Patches through the spring. My reward for a half-decent ride on Patches was a lesson on Freddie. The lessons on Freddie were effortless, especially after the body-wrestling matches with Patches.

  “Guess what,” Carol said to me playfully at the beginning of a lesson on Patches.

  “What?” I asked, knowing from her devilish grin that she had something up her sleeve.

  “You’re doing your first show next month!”

  “Really?” I let out.

  I was elated. Last summer, I watched most of Carol’s students, the private boarders, compete in each of the farm’s summer shows. I watched ride after ride. Each rider got to dress up in a fancy outfit, fancier for the higher levels of dressage. Their horses were also dolled up, getting their manes braided, hooves painted, and coats shone to a sparkling sheen. For each five-minute ride, they would get the chance to show their stuff to the judge and every spectator watching.

  I was even more envious of the riders who were advanced enough to compete at shows off the property. Every time the boarders trailered their horses to go to a horse show, I imagined they were going to an elite show, reserved only for superior riders. Only the best riders at the farm competed off the property. I was painfully aware that I was not included in either group of riders allowed to compete.

  “How come I can compete now?” I asked Carol. “I still don’t have a horse,” I stated, knowing that a basic prerequisite to competing in a horse show is having a horse to compete with.

  “You got special permission to compete two schoolies,” Carol explained.

  “Freddie?” I asked optimistically.

  “And Patches,” she ended.

  “But he doesn’t even go on the bit, Carol!” I complained.

  “Well, now you have a month to figure out how to get him on the bit,” she advised.

  “I can’t, Carol. I really can’t!” I insisted.

  “Yes, you can,” she responded.

  “Carol, I—”

  “I want you to read a book on visualization,” she interrupted. She told me the title of the book and where to buy it.

  “Why?”

  “So you can be a better rider,” she answered. “I want you to visualize a move before you actually do it.”

  “Halt,” she ordered. I wrangled Patches to a stop. She came to him, and held him by a rein to keep him still.

  “Close your eyes. Picture the perfect leg yield. Imagine how it feels. Think of a perfect trot, with the energy coming from his hindquarters, traveling through your body, into your hands, and to his mouth. You already know how to let that energy pass through your body and you know how to use that energy to control the horse. That’s your talent. See, for me, I have to think about everything I need to do to get the horse to do something. If I want go from a trot to canter, I have to think about bending the whole horse’s body, sitting on the inside, squeezing him with the outside leg, and be ready to push him into the canter with my seat, all at the same time. To you, that’s all one move, and I know you don’t think about it, your body just knows what to do. Some people call it the ‘feel,’ but I call it talent. What we have to do now is teach you how to use it. Because you have a natural feel for the horse, you need to feel every movement before you do it. Then, when it comes time to do that movement, your body will just know what to do. Does that make sense?”

  “I guess so,” I replied, recognizing that I had never really consciously dissected what I was doing when I was in the saddle. I just kind of did it.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” she continued.

  “Now, picture the perfect leg yield on Patches. You’re coming down the long side, and he’s moving forward into the bridle. Your seat is going with his movement, keeping the impulsion going into the corner. You use the corner to create the bend in his body needed for the leg yield. Now you’re set up for the leg yield. You turn down the center line of the arena, you apply a little pressure with the outside leg, and let him drift away from it. Feel him stretch his front right leg out, reaching for the ground. Feel the suppleness in his body, feel the impulsion continuing forward.”

  “Now. Open your eyes and show me,” she said, releasing the reins.

  12

  The morning of my first show was electric. I didn’t understand why so many of the boarders were so excited, since they had shown before. In my mind, I was the only one who was justifiably excited, since it was my first dressage show.

  “Are you nervous? I’m so nervous!” one of the boarders exclaimed more to herself than to me.

  “Umm, I don’t know. I don’t think so,” I replied tentatively.

  “Well, why not? It’s your first show, right? And you’re only twelve years old, aren’t you? I would be so nervous if I were you! Hell, I’m nervous already!” she continued.

  “Yeah, you sound pretty nervous.” I couldn’t help myself.

  “How are you not nervous?!” she suddenly fumed at me.

  “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t had a chance to think about it,” I concluded, dismissively. I didn’t enjoy talking to most of the boarders. Some of them acted like owning a horse made them better than everyone else. I know people thought I was shy and quiet, but really, I just didn’t want to talk to most of them.

  I hustled through the excitement in the boarder barns, and made my way to the school barn in the back of the property. Freddie stood in his stall, patiently waiting for me, clean and braided. I had bathed him thoroughly the night before, and one of the girls had braided him for me since I didn’t know how to braid yet.

  “Good boy,” I cooed at Freddie through the bars of his stall, beaming with pride over my little gentleman for staying so clean overnight. I bet he knew it was my first show and it was important for him to stay clean and not rub out his braids. I gave Freddie some carrots since he had clearly already earned them. Then, I went to check on Patches in the boarder barn.

  I had also scrubbed Patches to a gleaming sheen the day before, taking pride in how the blackness of his spots leaped out of his snow-white coat. I even sponged
his nose, painstakingly wiping off the dirt and grime, which ultimately revealed a pink muzzle. I finished him off with a coat of clear hoof polish, to let his tan hooves shine in their natural color, rather than stain them black with an artificial black hoof polish.

  When I got to his stall, the first thing he showed off was a massive manure stain on his right cheek. The dark brown stain was painfully obvious against his white coat.

  “Patches! What did you do!?” I steamed, before I realized I was talking to a horse.

  After inspecting my treatless hands and pockets, he turned to his hay in the corner, exposing an even more massive brown stain on his left hindquarter. And finally, the brute turned yet again and showed off his mangled mess of a mane. What used to be braids were now tortured knobs of hair jutting straight up and out, in different directions, from behind his ears, all the way down to his withers.

  “Oh, Patches,” I sighed, already defeated.

  Despite Patches’s attempt to win a prize for worst presentation, I was still excited to finally be competing in a show. I was proud to have earned the privilege of riding the most educated school horse, and even more proud to have earned the honor of competing him in a show (despite his appearance).

  Unfortunately, the judges did not share my enthusiasm. We lost points as a result of Patches’s insistence that he trot around the arena with his nose as high up in the air as he could get it.

  “Cute horse and rider pair, need to go back to basics,” the majority of the judges’ comments read. We got the lowest scores for submission, mostly 4s (on a scale of 0 to 10, with 0 being the lowest).

  “Let’s see your score sheet,” Carol insisted whenever the scores for one of my classes were announced over the loudspeaker.