The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

by Shade, Victoria;

  I knew my father had no intention of spending a dime on me or my sister, and definitely not on what he considered to be our temporary hobbies. I knew any kind of discussion about pursuing dressage on a larger scale, like going to Germany to train, was off the table. But I had an ally—my mother.

  I called her that evening to tell her that Mr. Theodorescu thought I was talented and had invited me to train in Germany.

  “Oh, honey, I am so proud of you!” she said.

  “And he told Victor that I need a good horse and to go to Germany if I wanted to be really good,” I continued.

  She was silent. “Can you put your father on the phone?”

  I handed my father the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

  He walked over to the phone and took the receiver.

  “What?” he asked.

  Silence.

  “Yes, he said she was talented.”

  Silence.

  “So?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t care, she is just a child. She needs to finish school. And then she has to go to college, are you crazy?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t have that kind of money!”

  He slammed down the phone.

  “Your mother is still crazy,” he said as he went back to watching basketball on the TV.

  I dialed the number again, and she picked up. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Why are you sorry?” she asked.

  “Because he hung up on you,” I said.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry, honey. We will figure something out,” she comforted.

  If I weren’t in Atlanta, watching the Olympics live, and I hadn’t just met one of my dressage heroes, I wouldn’t have believed her, but now I did.

  32

  The next day of dressage competition would determine who would compete in the finals. Michelle and Peron had again risen to the occasion and turned in another stunning performance. I was elated. The German team had all put in solid performances, including Mr. Theodorescu’s daughter, Monica. They had all been awarded high scores, and all four Germans qualified to ride in the finals on Saturday and Sunday, as everyone had expected. The Dutch team met the expectation that they would be right behind the Germans—they had also qualified, although their average score wasn’t as high as the German score. Finally, three of the four American riders had qualified. This meant that they all had to put in stellar performances, because all three scores would be counted; there would be no fourth score, known as a drop score, to throw out. The Finnish and Swedish teams suffered the same fate as the American team. I knew that the team and individual gold and silver medals would go to either Germany or the Netherlands, but the team and individual bronze medals were up for grabs.

  I desperately wanted Michelle to win an individual medal. She was a beautiful rider; a hard worker who had plucked an unwanted horse from a field, and turned him into an Olympic mount. The perfect way to punctuate her Cinderella story would be with an individual Olympic medal. I thought that if Michelle won a medal, she would erase the outdated notion that only those with perfect pedigrees could be serious dressage contenders. I hoped Michelle would open the door for me.

  __________

  Saturday, the day of the individual qualifying competition, finally came. If Michelle qualified to compete in the individual round, she would have a chance to make history, and compete for an individual medal.

  In the stadium, I sat on the edge of my seat, rocking back and forth with anticipation for her ride. She appeared on Peron. I sat on my hands to keep from biting all of my nails. We are so close to a medal! my thoughts raced.

  She put in another stunning performance. The crowd erupted. The score was posted—she had qualified to compete in the individual round on Sunday!

  “She did it! She’s going to get it!” I clapped my father multiple times on his shoulder in my excitement.

  The final individual competition was the freestyle, where she would ride to music. I knew she had an impressive freestyle, because so many magazine articles reported it to be a stunning routine. I also knew that freestyle scores were often higher than regular competition scores, so I was convinced that Michelle would be the first American to win an individual Olympic medal in dressage.

  I couldn’t eat or sleep that night. I was too excited for the next day, too anxious to watch history unfold. I was wide awake and glued to the television until the early morning, when I drifted off. I woke up at five in the morning and shoved my father awake.

  “Get UP, Dad!” I shouted into his ear.

  Half of his face was buried in the pillow. One eyebrow lifted to open one eyelid. He looked at me and closed it.

  “Come ON!!” I was shrieking now, pulling his arm.

  “OK, OK!” he said, irritated.

  As he shuffled to the bathroom, he muttered to himself, “Thank God this is the last day of this damn torture . . . crazy child . . .”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, and flipped on the television as I waited for him to adorn himself with whatever special outfit he had picked out for today.

  __________

  The morning competition was filled with the lower profile riders. All of the superstars, including Michelle, Monica, and the reigning Olympic and World Cup champions, were scheduled for the afternoon.

  I sat in the bleachers during the lunch break, not wanting to miss the afternoon rides. The two women who sat to my right were speaking loudly between themselves.

  “What time is Michelle riding?” one said.

  “Two thirty,” the one closer to me replied. “Poor girl, I hope she makes it, terrible what they did to her.”

  I was normally quite shy, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “What happened to Michelle?” I asked.

  She turned to me and said, “You haven’t heard? I thought everyone knew by now.”

  “No, what?” I was going to explode if she didn’t tell me immediately.

  “Yesterday, Peron’s owners told her to drive out to their house two hours away, even though she had to train. They said it was urgent, so she went. Then they told her that today would be the last time she would ever ride him because they wanted to turn him into a breeding stallion here in the States. Everyone’s saying how she can’t stop crying. She’s devastated, poor thing.”

  My mouth dropped.

  “Those idiots,” the other woman interjected. “They couldn’t wait until after she rode today to break her heart? They ruined our chance at a medal!” she huffed.

  “She can still do it,” I said, hopefully.

  “I doubt it. Everyone knows how much she adores that horse. After riding him for the last five years, I am sure she is devastated now,” the closer woman said.

  I turned back to watch the empty arena. One of the Swedish riders entered, and the music began. The performance was respectable, but the score was not high enough for an individual medal. Then a Finnish rider, British rider, Dutch rider, and then Michelle entered the arena. My heart raced. I couldn’t see her face, which agonized me.

  The music began. She’ll do it, she’s so close, she has to take it, I told myself, squeezing my hands until my knuckles turned white. In the middle of her performance, she turned the corner to begin one of her trademark moves on this horse—the piaffe, where the horse trots in place, showcasing the highest degree of collection in dressage. This was her strongest move, so I was confident she would nail it. It started out rhythmically and steady, but then, out of nowhere, Peron bolted sideways, and then backward! There was a unified gasp throughout the stands. Michelle was noticeably shaken; the rest of the performance was lackluster. I was devastated; I knew she was America’s only chance at an individual medal and we had just lost it.

  I rose, with the whole stadium, to give her a standing ovation.

  The score was posted. I looked up�
��it was too low for an individual medal.

  Nothing else mattered now. I watched the rest of the competition that afternoon, apathetic. The results were posted. I didn’t have to look up to know what they would be. This Olympics was no different from previous ones—team gold went to Germany, team silver went to the Netherlands, team bronze went to the US. Individual gold went to Germany, silver and bronze went to the Netherlands.

  I was disappointed for so many reasons. First, I knew I lived in a country full of talented riders who didn’t have the opportunity, the chance to prove themselves, because they weren’t paired with equally talented horses. I was jealous of German riders, because the sport’s expenses weren’t as high in Germany, where there were many more talented horses to choose from, many more experienced and knowledgeable trainers, and smaller distances to drive between shows. I had also learned that the German government provided some funding to dressage, unlike the US, where dressage is a little-known sport. There are very few sponsors for Americans, and without any financial support, even the most talented American equestrian can be forced to leave the sport they love and get a regular job, just because they can’t afford to ride.

  If Michelle had won a medal, despite all of the factors working against her and other American riders, she would have been catapulted to superstar status in the dressage world. I would always respect and admire her, and, in a way, I felt that because of all of the sacrifices she had made, she should have been given a medal. But medals were special because they weren’t handed out to those who sacrificed the most to compete for them. Medals were special because they were earned.

  __________

  When I was back home, I was eager to share my experience with Carol.

  “Carol, you know what I heard?” I couldn’t resist sharing my inside knowledge of Michelle’s performance at the Olympics.

  “What?”

  “I heard that Peron’s owners told Michelle the day before the freestyle that this Olympics would be the last time she would ever ride that horse,” I started.

  “Yeah, I heard that, too,” she interrupted.

  “How?” I was stunned.

  “Gunilla was there, and she called and let us know as soon as she found out,” Carol answered.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe so we wouldn’t get our hopes up about an individual medal,” she concluded.

  “This sport is impossible,” I said. “If you are lucky enough to get a sponsor to pay for a horse that you can compete with, there’s always the risk that they can take it away from you whenever they want. But then if you own your own horse, you’d have to get a regular nine to five job to be able to pay for it, and then you wouldn’t be able to ride as much because you’re at work all day, trying to pay for it. I don’t know how anybody makes it in this sport,” I concluded.

  “I guess some people just get lucky,” Carol replied.

  “So the people competing for the highest honors in the sport aren’t necessarily the best dressage riders, just some riders who caught a lucky break? That’s not fair,” I said.

  “Well, we don’t have enough time to think about what’s fair and not fair. That’s just the way it is. Pick up a rising trot around me.” And that was that.

  It was sad. If she had a decent horse, Carol would have been competing in the Olympics. I wondered how many more Americans like her were out there. Able, but unable to compete at the highest level.

  33

  The end of summer was fast approaching, and this year’s show season proved just as mediocre as last year’s, although Moonshine and I did advance one level. Carol insisted that her students first have fun with their horses, and then let that show in the competition arena. She must have sensed my and a few others’ disappointment at again not qualifying for the Regional Championships, because she organized a group trail ride, including all of her thirty students (she was the busiest trainer at the farm, even busier than Gunilla). We would load our horses into all of the farm’s trailers and those boarders who had their own trucks and trailers would bring them as well. Moonshine now walked into any trailer, following in step right behind me. I think he liked to travel and see new places; or maybe he craved all of the extra attention he got when we went away. After all, at shows I would spend the entire day with him since we usually stayed at a hotel nearby. When we weren’t showing, I only saw him for a few hours, three days a week. I’m sure he realized that any time he got into a trailer, it meant we would spend all day together, with some competing thrown in. It was ideal for both of us.

  Our trail riding destination was only a quick, half-hour drive away. As soon as we got there, I jumped out of Jean’s car, since she had offered to drive me, to be one of the first to get my horse out of the big, six horse trailer.

  I led Moony out of the trailer, and easily slipped on his bridle after all the horses had been unloaded. He was calm and confident, unlike many of the other horses, who were animated by the new surroundings. Moonshine was the only horse that kept his head low, so that I could make the usual adjustments to his bridle. He was totally unimpressed and unaffected by the other horses’ whinnies, and anxious hopping around. It was only when I positioned myself to get on, that I learned he was just containing himself—just as I slipped my foot into the stirrup, he trotted off with me hanging off his side! I grabbed his mane with my left hand, pulled my body up, and threw my right leg over his back. I yanked him to a stop with the reins. Nora was in front and had witnessed my graceless mounting spectacle.

  “I guess Moony’s ready to go!” she hollered.

  “As always, with or without me!” I laughed back, now that I was adjusted in the saddle. I could only imagine how hilarious I looked trying to climb onto Moonshine’s back as he happily trotted off.

  Moonshine loved to be the leader of any group, and hated when a horse walked shoulder-to-shoulder with him or passed him. He especially hated when a bigger horse was anywhere near him. If any such larger horse ever dared to approach Moonshine, he would pin his ears back, bare his teeth, and dive into an attack. I was usually quick enough to pull the reins in the other direction, so he hardly ever got to actually bite his would-be victim.

  On this particular day, however, he was surrounded by warmbloods, all of which had strides twice as long as his own. He couldn’t keep up with them. We eventually fell to the back of the long line of horses. To my surprise, Moony wasn’t rushing to stay with the herd, he seemed to enjoy being alone with me at the end of the line. I trusted him so much, that I let him have the rein, riding with loops, and dropped my feet out of the stirrups.

  Carol turned to see where we were and when she saw that Moony and I were at the end of the line and not rushing to stay close to the pack like everyone else, she called, “Are you guys relaxed enough back there? Do you want a piña colada or something, Victoria?”

  “I’m good for now, maybe later though!” I called back to her.

  It was getting hot and we were approaching a clearing, which was the small beach of a lake. When all of the horses saw that the land in front of them disappeared into water, they spooked. As the line of horses came up to the water, each shied away from it and ran back to the trail. But when Moonshine saw the water, his ears perked up and he charged through the crowd of horses. He shoved his way through, and ran right into the water. Instantly, my horse was submerged in water up to his shoulders, and my boots and saddle were in the lake with him. But that wasn’t good enough. Moony insisted on swimming to the middle of the lake! When he got shoulder deep, I pulled him back, and then he started pawing and turning, like he always did, before he was about to roll. Then, everyone started screaming, “Get out! Get out! He’s going to roll!”

  Carol kicked her horse as hard as she could to come in and help me, but her horse reared up and ran backwards.

  “Victoria, he’s going to ROLL! GET OUT OF THE WATER!” she yelled.

&nb
sp; “I’m TRYING!” I was caught somewhere between amusement and genuine concern. I was worried because everyone else was visibly agitated. But seeing how determined Moony was to roll in water just struck me as hilarious. I kind of wanted to let him roll since he was so determined and I figured it would make him happy. But I had once read in one of my horse magazines that if horses go under water, they can’t hold their breath like humans, since their nostrils are so huge, and they might drown. So, I reconsidered letting Moony have his way. Plus, everyone was screaming at us to get out of the water.

  But Moony was just as stubborn today as he was on every other day. The harder I pulled on the reins to direct him back to the beach, the further into the lake he went! So now the water was above my knees, and quickly going up my thighs. Moony was gleefully in shoulder-deep, and heading for deeper water. I was kicking him as hard as I could, and pulling his head one way or another, any direction but straight ahead. Finally, when I saw the water rise to my thigh level, a wave of strength took over my limbs. My right arm whipped his head to the right, and just as I got his head turned, my legs kicked with such force that I created a wave under the water. Moonshine was infuriated that I thwarted his plans to go deep sea diving, so he angrily about-faced and charged the beach—where everyone else was standing! He slashed through the herd of horses, and tore back on the trail. I sat back and pulled the reins with my whole body, and he stopped short. Then, he shook off like a dog.

  “Good thing you don’t have expensive tack!” Carol joked as she trotted her horse up to Moonshine.

  “He’s so mad right now!” I laughed to Carol, pointing at his ears, flat on his head, and the menacing head-tossing and gnashing teeth he was threatening Carol’s horse with.

  Moonshine’s antics on that trail ride were the talk of the farm for a while after that.

  34

  I wanted to spend every waking minute at the barn. But when I started my Junior year, I knew that was the year I needed to excel in school; it would be the year that would set up my whole life. I had to get a good SAT score and GPA so that I could get into a good college. Ignoring boys was easy; ignoring Moonshine was not. I decided that when I wasn’t at the farm, I would not be there mentally, either. When I barricaded myself in my room to study, I would study—no more staring out the window, daydreaming about making it big with Moonshine. I soon realized that controlling my mind was one of the hardest things I had ever done. How do I not think about what I wanted most?