“Hmmm, that does make sense,” I said.
“And the cool part of it is, when an advanced rider and horse are so in tune with each other, the rider can just think of a move, and the horse immediately does it,” she added.
“Wow, that is really cool,” I said.
“Yes. Now pick up the canter,” she instructed.
I applied the basic aid for canter, which was to squeeze with my outside leg. Moonshine was supposed to automatically pick up the canter; instead, he started trotting faster.
“Why do you think he didn’t pick up the canter?” Carol asked.
“To be annoying,” I said.
“You weren’t clear enough. Remember, everything comes from your seat. Did you ask with your seat or with your leg?”
“My leg. How can I ask with my seat?” I asked.
“Just start cantering with your seat, and he’ll pick up the canter,” she said.
I did as I was told, convinced it wouldn’t work. But it did.
“It worked!”
Carol smiled.
At the end of my lesson, Carol told me there we had a lot more work to do. Apparently, my seat had been pretty bad.
“We’ll do lunge lessons for about a month, until you can ride with just your seat,” she informed me. “And when we’re not in a lesson, when you are riding on your own, I want you to ride bareback—no saddle,” she added.
“You want me to ride full workouts without a saddle?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“So, I have to do all the movements we practice with no saddle?” I asked.
“What’s the matter? Can’t hack it?” she challenged.
“Of course I can!” I always fell into her reverse psychology traps. “It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone riding full workouts without a saddle.”
“Well, you get to keep the bridle, and you can sit on a saddle pad, so the hair doesn’t go up your butt,” she winked.
“Great, thanks,” I said sarcastically, but smiled.
26
“Beth has to go to a big show in Connecticut next month to get her qualifying scores, and you’re coming,” Carol informed me. “I want you to sign up for the Second Level qualifying classes, so you can try and qualify for the Regionals at the end of the summer,” she instructed.
I was elated that I was finally allowed to move up from First Level, which didn’t have any of the more advanced movements that Moonshine and I had been practicing. I was also excited that Carol thought I was good enough to try out for the Regional Championships.
Regionals? I thought. I knew the Regional Championships was a prestigious show at the end of show season, for which riders had to earn at least two qualifying scores. After all, only the best riders from the region (usually a cluster of six or seven states) were invited to compete. I was worried that we would not be able to go, as the requirements called for two scores from two different shows from two different judges of over 60%, and Moonshine and I normally scored between 50% and 55% when we competed.
“So you’re tagging along with Beth to the show in Connecticut, huh?” Richard asked a week later, as he passed through the barn.
“Yup,” I beamed.
“Be ready at 4:00 a.m.; I’m not waiting,” he added.
“I know,” I said. I had grown used to his perpetual attitude with me, and was less and less offended by it.
The morning of shipping, I was ready at four. I walked Moonshine to the trailer, where Richard stood by the steep ramp, waiting.
“Give me the horse,” he commanded, as he snatched the lead rope from my hand. I never put the chain part of the rope over Moony’s nose, as some people did, for more control of the horse. I didn’t need it, Moony just followed me everywhere; I didn’t even need a rope. But Richard did. I watched as he put the chain over my horse’s nose.
Moonshine tossed his head. Richard yanked on the rope to punish Moonshine for tossing his head. Then Richard walked off in the direction of the ramp, pulling on the rope. Moonshine pulled back and moved backwards.
“Quit it!” Richard screamed immediately.
Moonshine remained planted where he was.
“Beth—get me the whip from the trailer,” he ordered.
Once he had the whip, he slashed it hard across Moonshine’s neck.
“STOP!” I screamed, louder than I had ever screamed in my life. Moonshine exploded; I knew he wouldn’t tolerate Richard’s whipping him, and he did just what I feared he might—fight back. He reared up, completely vertical in the air, striking out his front legs at Richard. When he was back on all four legs, he threw his ears back and lunged at Richard. Richard dashed out of the way, dropping the rope. When Moonshine was free, he trotted away into the darkness. I ran after him, following the sound of his hooves. He had escaped into the dark field.
“Moony,” I called, my voice shaking. I was riddled with guilt for putting him in the hands of someone I knew would hurt him. It was hard to look for him in the darkness with the water building in my eyes. Then I heard him snort, and walked in his direction, talking to him the whole time, so he knew it was just me. I saw his dark outline, and then the white star on his forehead. I walked to him, hand outstretched, with a peppermint candy—his favorite.
“I’m sorry, buddy, you’re a good boy,” I cooed, petting his cheek, as he crunched the treat. I bent down to pick up the other end of the lead rope, and turned back toward the trailer. I kept my right hand in my pocket, knowing Moony couldn’t resist searching my pocket for more goodies.
“He won’t touch you again. Come on, let’s go to the show,” I said as I started toward the trailer. Moonshine followed, and we walked shoulder to shoulder back to the trailer.
“Give me the horse,” Richard commanded.
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m loading him.” I didn’t care about the consequences of talking back to Richard now. He wouldn’t hurt my horse again.
Surprisingly, he simply turned and walked back to the truck.
“OK, buddy, it’s just you and me,” I said to Moony.
I walked Moony in a circle in front of the ramp, and then, shoulder to shoulder, we scampered up the ramp together. It was so easy, the lead rope was even slack, but Moony was glued to my side. I backed him up into the free stall, next to Beth’s horse. Once he was in, he turned his head to bite at the giant horse standing next to him. I hooked him up to a cross-tie, to limit the range of motion he had with his head, and to keep Lugano safe from my tiny terror.
I wasn’t sure what happened to Richard, but then I heard his truck door slam shut and the engine blew alive.
I petted Moonshine on his neck and nose and said, “Be a good boy, OK?” I pulled another peppermint out of my pocket and gave it to him, and then ran down the ramp, to my mother’s car, idling in the parking lot.
__________
I was thrilled to go to an important away show with Carol and Beth, Carol’s best student. She almost always got the qualifying scores she needed. I, on the other hand, did not, and this show was no exception. Our scores improved slightly, but they still were not qualifying scores. I was again disappointed toward the end of the show, but proud of my horse. He was precise and correct in all of the tests. He was performing at his best, and was now completely obedient in the show ring. Yet, most other horses placed above us. I sometimes watched their tests and saw that their performances would be riddled with errors. The rider would forget a movement, the horse would buck, and there were other mistakes that should have been major deductions in their scores. But most of those other horses were talented, unlike Moonshine. They had huge, graceful strides while Moonshine had short, choppy movement. I was growing frustrated with the judging system.
“What’s wrong?” Carol said, when she saw me scrutinizing one of my score sheets with all of the judge’s comments.
“I got a 55%, a
gain,” I replied.
“So? That’s good,” she encouraged.
“Thanks, but this test I rode had no mistakes,” I said.
“That’s great, good for you!” she stated.
“No, you don’t understand,” I lowered my voice, as I pulled her closer to me, “the other riders in the class had lots of mistakes in their tests, but they all scored higher,” my voice went up as I finished the statement.
“Let me see the score sheet,” she said.
“Accurate circle, rider has effective seat, horse’s gaits—four,” she said as she read down the score sheet.
All the movements are individually scored on a scale of 1 to 10, and the end of the score sheet provides four additional general categories to evaluate on the same scale of 1 to 10—the horse’s gaits, rider’s position, submission, and impulsion.
“Ouch, that was pretty low,” she said, “I don’t think Moony’s gaits are a four.”
“Yeah, me neither!” my eyes widened.
She looked at me, quizzically, and thought.
“OK this is done, we can’t change it. You have one more class. Be perfect,” she said.
“But I was perfect!” I interjected.
“Give it everything. Be perfect with something extra. Don’t just do the movements, ride the whole test, you have to be perfect for every stride. I want you to visualize all the movements before you do them. See yourself doing them perfectly and fluidly, and then do them how you saw them in your head. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of, I don’t know,” I sounded defeated.
“Don’t get discouraged just because one judge doesn’t like your horse.”
“It’s not just this one judge. I always get low scores on Moony’s gait and impulsion.”
“And you also always make up those low scores on the high scores you get on your position and submission,” she reminded me.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said.
__________
Carol gave me a full half hour lesson before my class, which was rare, since she usually focused on her more advanced students at shows.
“You’re ready. Let’s head over to the show ring,” she said.
It was unusual for Carol to escort Moonshine and me to the competition arena. On the way, she reiterated, “Do your best, Victoria. You and Moony are a great team, show the judge how brilliant you are. Take your time. And smile.”
I trotted around the arena to give the judge a chance to see that I was on deck and ready to go. She rang the bell. I saw Carol standing just outside of the ring, watching me.
I entered the ring, halted and saluted the judge. I smiled as I raised my head after the salute. I collected the reins, and cued Moony to push off into a trot to begin the test. I tried to elongate Moony’s strides by imagining that I was sitting on a big warmblood; the vision must have slowed my seat down, because I could feel Moonshine shift his weight back onto his hindquarters, so that he could have more spring in his gaits, and lengthen his strides. I steered him deeper into the corners that I had ever done before. I noticed the hoofprints from the other horses before me—no one had gone so far into the corners. I kept my inside leg and outside rein on strong, but not rigidly. I pushed Moonshine especially hard in the extensions, to show how much power he had. He opened his stride more than he had ever done before, especially in the last canter extension, where we covered the entire diagonal line across the arena in 10 canter strides, and normally it took 16 to 17. His strides had almost doubled in length! My lines were straight, and I knew the judge would only see two tracks—right and left—when I came down the center line again for my final salute. I also knew my halt was straight and Moonshine’s legs were square under me. I saluted as Moony stood motionless.
Then I heard applause. I looked up and saw a sizable crowd peppered around the arena. Some famous rider must be next, I thought as I smiled at them and patted my horse.
“Good job,” Carol beamed.
“That was a really nice test!” I heard a stranger say.
I looked in the direction of the voice and said, “Thank you.”
As I headed back to the show stable to untack my horse, I wondered if I would get a qualifying score for that ride. I was hoping the judge would reward my effort.
An hour later, the announcer came on to reveal the results of my class.
“Second Level Test Four Results!” he started.
“In fifth place, we have number 34, with a 51.22 percent. In fourth place, number 213, with a 53.65 percent.”
My number—12—had not yet been called. I closed my eyes, willing myself to have won the class, with any score over a 60%, which is what I needed to qualify for the Regionals.
“Third place, number 67, with a 58.894%.”
Oh my God, I got higher than a 58%! I thought, gleefully. This could be it! We could have qualified!
“Second place, number 12, with a 59.95%. And in first place, number 112, with a 64.59%. Congratulations, riders. Please pick up your score sheets and ribbons in the secretary’s stand.”
My mouth gaped. I was devastated; we were a tiny fraction away from a qualifying score! I looked around the barn, where was Carol? Then I saw her; she looked worried. She started toward me; I was frozen.
“It’s OK, Victoria,” she said as she put her arm around my shoulder. The others in the barn gathered around.
“Oof, that sucks,” a voice said.
“It’s OK, Victoria,” others chimed in.
“It happens to everyone,” someone else said.
I hated this kind of attention, and Carol knew it. She pulled me out of the barn, as she said, “Let’s get out of here.”
It always helped to do something else when I was upset, even if it was something as simple as walking.
We walked silently through the back field of the show grounds, where no one would notice us, as it was in the opposite direction of the show rings, warm up ring, and secretary’s stand.
I saw cows in a neighboring field. I had not been so close to cows since I was a child. They looked massive.
“Those cows are really big,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Yep,” Carol said.
“I’m sick of being a loser,” I let out.
“You’re not a loser,” she said.
“Yes I am. I always lose, so I’m a loser,” I insisted.
Then she stopped, grabbed my shoulders and leaned down to me. Her face was inches from my own. I had never been so close to my trainer. It was strange to see her so serious, she looked almost angry. It was bizarre to see her not smiling.
“You are doing a great job with Moony. It doesn’t matter what these judges say. I know and you know that Moony gives you everything he’s got, and you are bringing out his best. Nobody else has been able to do that with this horse, Victoria. But you have to understand that these judges have to judge other horses in the class, and most of them will always be warmbloods. Judges will almost always favor the warmbloods over Moony. I know you want to win, but try to focus more on yourself and less on other riders. You know when he’s good and when he’s not so good—let that knowledge be your measure. It’s good to listen to others’ feedback, but sometimes, it’s just as valuable to listen to what you know.”
“OK, thanks, Carol,” I replied.
__________
I went home feeling defeated and deflated, again. I still needed two scores from two different shows, by August, to qualify for the Regional Championships.
“Carol, if I do the Oakwood show in July, would the two days—Saturday and Sunday—count as two separate shows?” I asked, hoping she might say yes.
“No,” she said apologetically.
“Well then, I’m not going to the Regionals,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Ummm, because I have no qualifyi
ng scores,” I said, confused.
“So? You can still enter the regular classes. They don’t only have Championship classes at the Regionals,” she said.
“Oh, really?” I asked.
“Yeah, go ahead and print out an entry form. Bring it to me, and I’ll tell you which classes to enter. But you should still try to get a qualifying score,” she concluded.
“Alright, thanks!” I said, refreshed.
__________
I had signed up for the July show at Oakwood, as well as the Regionals in August. I looked forward to competing at both shows. I felt ready. Moony had been good the entire week before the show. I was optimistic; this time I would get a 60% or higher. I checked the weather forecast for that weekend—rain.
Ugh, that will be annoying, I thought, but no big deal. I can ride in rain.
Saturday morning arrived. I had been awake since three that morning, not because I was particularly nervous or anxious, but because of the wind and rain. The elements hammered against the house, whipping around garbage cans and the trash they held.
It will die down by the time I have to ride, I told myself.
At five, my mother and I got into the car and headed for the farm. It was worse out there. The sky was black. Once we arrived at the farm, I sprinted to Moonshine’s stall. He was inside, clean, dry, and safe. I looked out at the arenas from the safety of the barn, but I couldn’t see them through the waterfall.
The show would go on, as dressage shows always do—rain or shine.
I took my time getting ready, as my first ride wasn’t until late morning. At around ten in the morning, I tacked up and headed for the indoor arena, where I would warm up.
“Can you believe this rain?” Nikki, a friendly older teenager who boarded in Moony’s barn, called as she passed by on her horse.
The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse Page 14