I had one more week before it was time to go to the Junior Nationals. I got up late the Saturday before the show, tired from the driving and riding during the week. My mother had set breakfast for me on the table. There was a big white envelope in the middle of the table.
I looked at her.
“It’s from NYU!” she exclaimed.
We both knew a big envelope was good news and a small envelope was bad news. This was a big envelope, and heavy. I held my breath and my heart started to race.
“Open it, open it!” she chanted as she clapped her hands.
I silently said a quick prayer that my grandmother had taught me, stuck my finger in the corner, and ripped it apart at the crease. I looked for the cover page.
“’We are pleased to inform you,’” I read out loud, and then my mother grabbed me violently, giving me an uncomfortable sideways hug.
“Oh, honey! Congratulations! I am so proud of you!” she said, as she held me tightly and rocked me from side to side.
“Mom, can’t breathe,” I gasped. She had twisted my neck, cutting off my air supply. As she undid her grip on me, she yelled, “Baby! Your sister got into NYU!” My sister was still sleeping.
My sister’s door opened suddenly. She was cranky.
“That’s great,” she said as she sat down at the table.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of the orange juice.
My mother was already on the phone, calling everyone she knew.
When she was done, she sat down at the table and announced that she was coming to the farm with me.
“Why?” I asked suspiciously.
“Just because. Who wants more eggs?” she said.
I knew this meant she was going to tell everyone at the farm that I had just been accepted to NYU.
“Mom, please don’t tell everyone, OK?” I asked.
“Aren’t you proud of your achievement? People should know!” she said adamantly.
“Mom, people don’t really care.”
“Yes, they care!” she said conclusively.
“Good luck with that,” my sister said. We both knew my mother would follow through with her intention of telling everyone the good news; when she made her mind up, that was it.
We arrived at the farm. I drove and managed to tolerate my mother’s flinching, squirming, and back seat driving because I was still happy and relieved that I had gotten into my first choice college.
She was out of the car as soon as I had parked it, and in a blink, she was in the office.
And she’s off, I thought, smiling.
As soon as I was on Moonshine, I was congratulated by everyone I came into contact with.
Man, she’s fast, I thought.
Then it was time for my lesson. Carol met me in the outdoor arena.
“Congratulations! I just heard the good news!” she called as she entered the ring.
I’m sure everyone has by now, I thought.
“Thanks, Carol,” I replied.
43
I knew we were ready for the big show, and couldn’t wait for the drive down. The week dragged by. Nora would take us in her trailer. I loaded Moony into the trailer, and then drove down to DC behind the trailer with my mom in the passenger seat. I found it poetic that this show was being held at the same show grounds as our first away show, four years ago. I couldn’t afford to pay Carol the training fee for the whole weekend, so it was just us. But that was fine with me. I knew Moony would be great.
The trailer rattled as usual, from Moony’s incessant kicking. When we finally arrived and I unloaded him, I noticed one side of Nora’s trailer was covered in blood. Then I looked over Moony’s body and saw that he had worn off most of the hair on his hindquarters, and blood was dripping down his legs. I rushed him to the nearest hose, and ordered my mother to find his stall, and then the on-site vet.
Nora observed the huge bald spot on his haunches. “Talk about a severe case of monkey-butt!” she said, and erupted into cackling laughter. “Maybe you can cover it up with some black spray paint!” she laughed again. I usually appreciated her humor, but not this time. I smiled politely as I rushed Moonshine toward the barn.
The friend I made from the Schumacher clinic greeted me immediately.
“Hey, Katie!”
“Victoria! Good to see you again!”
“Hey, do you know where the vet is?” I asked, pointing to Moony’s bloodied butt.
“Oh, gosh, no. Wow! That doesn’t look good,” she replied.
“Mom, hang out with him for a second, OK?” I asked her as I put him in his stall.
I sprinted to the office to find medical help. I knew how to treat a surface wound, but Moonshine was limping.
“Oh boy,” the vet sighed when he saw Moonshine standing in the aisle. “That doesn’t look too good,” he said as he put down his emergency kit and examined Moonshine’s haunches.
“Yeah, but he’s also limping,” I said.
“Was he kicking in the trailer?” he asked me.
“Yeah,” I confessed.
“He’s probably just a little sore from the kicking. Just alternate cold hosing and walking him for ten minute intervals for about an hour. I wouldn’t ride him today, though,” he said.
“Thanks, doctor,” I said.
I was grateful that we had arrived two days before we were scheduled to compete. It was Thursday; we weren’t set to compete until Saturday and Sunday.
“Looks like you get a day off, monster,” I said to him as I petted his neck.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t too worried about missing a workout before the championships. I knew he was familiar with the tests and the movements. I was more concerned about Moonshine.
After I cold hosed his leg for ten minutes, I decided to walk him to the arena where we would compete—the stadium.
__________
I walked him down the ramp. It was October, so the entire arena was adorned with colorful Halloween decorations—scarecrows, pumpkins, and hay bales, all around the ring. They were cute, but all that stuff would spook even the calmest horse.
“Remember this ring, Moon?” I asked him as we descended the ramp and entered the magnificent arena.
“This is where we won our first class, little man,” I whispered to him. He pushed me to the side, disinterested in the arena.
“Not afraid of any of these decorations?” I asked him. He wasn’t, marching forward, clearly on a mission of getting around the arena so the walk could be over and he could be back in his stall, eating his hay.
Even though I was annoyed with him for having torn up half of his body in the trailer, I was grateful for his confidence. If anything ever caught him by surprise, he never ran away from it, instead, he would turn around and attack it. After having ridden all the horses I had up to this point, I had come to realize this was a rare and valuable trait in a horse. Most horses ran away from frightening stimuli. I had become thankful for the trait that I had detested most in my horse—his aggression.
As I walked Moony around the arena, I noticed Gunilla sitting up in the secretary’s stand with all of the other Junior riders. She waved at me to come join the party.
“OK, buddy, let’s go back to your stall so you can eat your hay,” I whispered to him. As soon as he realized we were headed for the exit, he picked up the pace, to the point where he was leading me back to the barn, as he usually did when he knew where we were going.
__________
I was the last one in the crowded secretary’s stand. There was pizza. I realized I had forgotten to eat. But I wasn’t hungry.
Gunilla was speaking. I realized she was one of the organizers of this show. As soon as she saw me, she stopped addressing the other equestrians.
“Hi, Victoria! How is Moonshine?” she said.
“A little sore from the trai
ler ride down here, but I’ve been cold hosing and walking him, so hopefully he’ll be OK tomorrow,” I said.
A look of concern flashed across her usually confident face. This was not training at home; I did not have a back up horse here, and we both knew it.
Nevertheless, she continued explaining the itinerary. She told us that this was a national competition, and that we would be divided into three teams—East Coast, Midwest, and West Coast. Katie and I were on the same team—we smiled at each other.
“OK, guys, I know this is the first FEI competition for a lot of you. That means there are special rules that you must follow. Additionally, this is a Junior National competition, so there is another set of rules you need to know. Because this is a national show, you will all compete before three judges, instead of one, as you might have become accustomed to doing. In FEI competitions, the show begins with the jog. You must each jog your own horse on a flat surface chosen by the ground jury. For those of you who don’t know, the ground jury is all of the judges who will be judging you. You must all show up for the jog at the same time, and in business casual attire, such as khakis and a dress shirt. However, being that this is the Junior Nationals, you will be required to wear the team jackets that I have here in this box. You are the only twelve Junior riders chosen out of the entire country who were invited here to compete. You are therefore representing all of the Juniors who couldn’t be here this weekend. That means you must always look neat, make sure your horses look tidy, and wear these jackets at all times. Think of yourselves as ambassadors for all the American junior riders. Finally, your hotel rooms will be paid for by the show organizers, as well as all of your meals,” she said.
Oh, wow, so cool, Mom doesn’t have to pay for the hotel! I thought. I knew that was always one of the biggest expenses of going to shows far away from home.
After the pizza party/information session, I went back to the barn, where my mother was reading a show program outside of Moony’s stall. Moonshine was eating his hay.
“How’s Moony?” I asked.
“Eating,” she replied.
“Please feel better quickly, Moon,” I said softly to him.
__________
The next morning, I got out of bed an hour before the time set on the alarm. I couldn’t sleep any longer. I wanted to see if Moonshine was sound or lame. I was at the barn at six, before anyone else. I first gave him his breakfast, his grain and his hay. I had to wait twenty minutes for him to finish eating before I could enter his stall. But I saw that his leg was not swollen.
That’s a good sign, I thought, optimistically.
“Mom, I’m going to take him out and trot him—let me know if he looks even, OK?” I asked my mother.
“Sure,” she replied.
I entered the stall with the halter and lead rope. I knelt down quickly beside his hind legs to feel them for heat, which would be a bad sign. They were not warmer than his front legs, another good sign. I approached his head and slipped the halter over his ears. I then turned to exit, and he followed without any tension in the rope.
I led him outside. The sun was rising. I could see it peeking through the autumn clouds, creating a bouncing light of soft orange and yellow. It was mesmerizing in the surrounding darkness. I turned him down a straight stretch of the concrete road. Please be sound, please be sound, I pleaded silently.
“OK, come on Moony, trot!” I cued.
As I started to jog, he pinned his ears and picked up a trot to catch me. When we were shoulder to shoulder, I listened. Clack-clack, clack-clack. His trot was two-beat, and even! I slowed him to a walk, turned down the same road, back to the barn. I had to be sure.
“OK, Moony, again!” I urged.
And again, he delivered an even, two-beat trot.
“He’s even!” I heard my mother call from the entrance of the barn.
“Thank you, Moon,” I whispered. I was relieved.
“I knew there was no stopping you,” I said, patting his neck.
The other riders and their parents began to trickle in.
“Hey, Victoria!” Katie saw me polishing my boots when she arrived an hour later.
“Hey, what’s up?” I greeted her.
“How’s your horse?” she asked.
“Good,” I smiled.
“You ready for the big jog at nine?” she asked me.
“Sure. I mean it’s just a jog, though,” I replied.
“Yeah, but you have to admit it’s pretty cool to do a jog, like we’re famous, you know?” she said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
It was cool, really cool. We were suddenly important, a brand new phenomenon for most of us, especially Moony and me. We were told that once the jog was over, the official competition would begin. That meant that nobody besides us riders and one additional person, designated by each of us, were allowed in the barn. We were all given two ID badges, and after the jog, each of us and our additional person had to wear the badges at all times. We were only teenagers but were being treated like high profile riders.
At eight o’clock, Gunilla and three other people walked through the barn.
“Guys? Your attention, please. The jog will be held right outside the barn, and will begin precisely at nine. Please come outside with your horses in their snaffle bridles, in the appropriate attire. Thank you,” she announced. Then she and her entourage were gone.
Moonshine had been gleaming, but I brushed him again at eight-thirty and gave him an extra spritz of shine spray. I double checked his snaffle bridle for any grime I may have missed the last time I cleaned it. Then, at a quarter to nine, I put it on. I checked myself, to make sure my khakis and team jacket were still clean. I pulled my hair back into a bun. Most of the other Juniors were also tacking up, so I felt comfortable heading out of the barn before nine. I didn’t want to be late.
I saw Gunilla down the path, a few hundred feet away, with a much larger entourage. As I approached, I recognized some as the world-famous judges I had read about. I also noticed photographers and a video crew, with massive cameras and equipment.
Isn’t this a bit much for just a jog? I wondered.
As soon as I had walked Moony out of the barn, there was a line of equestrians donning their blue team jackets, leading their perfectly groomed horses out of the stable. Moonshine and I were in the lead, and I was grateful, knowing how much Moony preferred being first. He might have been fussy toward the back of the line.
Gunilla gave me a quick tip just before I started to jog Moonshine.
“Just run him down the path there, and turn him to the right, not the left, like you would normally do, and then run back, OK? That’s how they do FEI jogs,” she advised.
Just then, a photographer popped out of nowhere and took our picture. I was startled, and distracted. I was nervous; I hoped Moonshine would trot soundly. If he wasn’t sound, we wouldn’t be allowed to compete. I petted Moonshine one last time, and then I took the first running stride, hoping he would follow with even footsteps. As I ran, I listened to the footfalls. They sounded even. I hoped they looked even. I was preoccupied with how he looked to the judges. Then all of a sudden, I heard, “Turn!”
Gunilla was gesturing me to turn around. I slowed my horse to a walk, and then pulled him in my direction to turn him around. As soon as I had turned him, I realized I had turned him to the left instead of to the right!
Oh, shit! I hope that’s not a really big mistake! I thought, wanting to kick myself.
Before I knew it, we were back with the group of judges.
“Gunilla, I’m so sorry!” I began, but she waved me to be quiet.
“It’s no problem,” she smiled at me.
How could I forget an instruction she just told me? I thought to myself, frustrated.
“Number 74 is entered in the competition! Next horse, please!” One of her entourage declared
. My heart skipped a beat. We can compete!
Since Moony seemed OK, I decided I would get on and exercise him a little bit so that he would be in top form for the competition the next day. I don’t know if it was the team jacket I wore or that he was in a more advanced double bridle, or if I had just grown up, but this time in the warm up ring, I was not intimidated. I was again surrounded by the superstars that I idolized, but I was less in awe of them and more focused on my own ride. I also did not feel alone without Carol or Gunilla there to supervise my ride. I rode with Carol’s voice in my head. After all the lessons I had taken from her, it was unclear to me now where her training ended and mine began. Was it one and the same? I knew what her corrections would be, so I applied them whenever necessary. It was incredible, she wasn’t here with us but her voice still drowned out everyone else’s. Her voice was all that I heard.
44
The next day was the first competition day—the team test. Since there were only twelve of us riders, we did not have to compete for a spot to be able to ride the individual test the following day. There was, therefore, less pressure on us than there would have been on the professionals, who would have had to compete for a spot in the final round.
The show organizers were incredibly gracious and took great strides to make us all feel welcome. We were fussed over as though we were celebrities—we were photographed constantly, given goody bags for our horses, and we were always being checked on—did we need water, how were our horses feeling?
The biggest deal for me, though, was walking around with the team jacket. I don’t know if it was the radiant royal blue color, or that it was the one clean piece of clothing we all had in common, but it commanded a high degree of respect. If any one of us stepped out of the barn with the jacket on, we made sure to look tidy because we might be photographed, but if two of us walked around the property with the team jackets, we were sure to be photographed. Walking around with the team jacket was like walking around with the Olympic gold medal—everyone knew who we were, everyone smiled at us (including our idols), and had pleasantries to exchange with us. It was as if we had all been inducted into an exclusive club.
The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse Page 26