The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

by Shade, Victoria;

  Even though Junior Nationals was the biggest show that Moonshine and I had ever been to, I was more confident and at ease at the show that at any other. I was not freaking out about our impending performance. I was just thrilled to be there. I felt like we had already won.

  Moonshine and I were scheduled to compete in the late morning of the first day of competition.

  “Ready to show your stuff, Moony monster?” I asked him as I brushed him, two hours before my ride time.

  “Do you know your test?” my mother asked as I cleaned my horse.

  “Of course,” I said confidently.

  “Do you need anything?” she asked.

  “No, Mom,” I replied.

  “Are you sure?” She was visibly nervous.

  “Mom, calm down,” I said.

  “I know, I know,” she was agitated.

  “You can shine my boots if you want,” I said.

  My boots were already shiny, but I knew that having something to do would calm her down.

  Once Moony was tacked up, I pulled on my boots and headed out. Every time someone left the barn to compete, everyone else in the barn would wish that person good luck. I thought it was cute.

  “Good luck, Victoria!” voices called behind me.

  “Thanks!” I replied.

  I hopped on and headed to the warm up ring. Moonshine wasn’t at his best in the warm up, which only bolstered my confidence. After so many shows with him, I had learned that when we had a lackluster warm up, we would turn in a great performance in the show ring.

  I checked my watch, and saw it was time to head to the show ring in the stadium. Moonshine ambled down the noisy ramp like a pro. He seemed to believe that this is where he belonged. Unlike the first time we competed in the arena, when the only people in the stands were my fellow boarders from Oakwood, now there were random people peppered throughout the stadium. It wasn’t filled, but this time, the audience didn’t consist of just my own supporters. These were strangers, here to watch Moony and me perform.

  “Look, buddy, they’re all here to see you,” I whispered to him. Moonshine loved an audience. He knew when he had large audience—he would puff himself up, and took longer, flashier strides, showing himself off.

  The announcer introduced us over the loudspeaker, and the audience applauded. When Moonshine heard how many hands came together to welcome him to his stage, he grew another foot. His trot transformed from choppy and small to lofty and airy.

  “You’re such a ham,” I whispered to him, as I circled the outside of the arena, waiting for the judge to ring the bell so that I could begin the test.

  The bell rang. As I approached the entrance, I heard Carol’s voice in my head, “Take it slow, don’t rush the test. Enjoy it, show your horse off, and smile.”

  I did as my trainer had told me. Moonshine and I were relaxed but working hard in the ring. I was breathing hard in the trot work. Then, finally, came the walk break in the middle of the test. The movement required the horse to stretch out his neck, and walk across the diagonal of the arena on a long rein. The purpose of the movement is to show that the horse can go straight from challenging trot work to a relaxed walk, where he stretches through his back and neck.

  Moonshine must have really felt comfortable in the arena because just as he crossed the middle of the ring, he stopped! I was squeezing him with my legs to keep going forward, but he wouldn’t budge. I felt his back lifting, and I knew he had just lifted his tail. He had stopped to poop in the middle of the ring, in front of all three judges! I started to kick him, but he didn’t seem to be bothered. He insisted on relieving himself then and there.

  Moonshine, are you kidding me? I thought. I couldn’t believe he had parked himself in the exact center of the ring to take care of business. I was also dismayed that he had come to a grinding halt, and would not move. He never did this in training! Why now?

  Finally, when he was done, then he continued walking.

  When we finished the test, I saluted, and the audience applauded. I spotted my mother waiting by the entrance gate. As I approached her, we made eye contact and we laughed at the same time. So many of Moony’s antics were amusing, and this was no exception.

  When we got the score sheet back, the score was average, having been knocked down by the points we lost for Moonshine’s “disobedience.” This was the one time I laughed over a score sheet.

  __________

  The next day, I hoped that my horse would at least let me look like I was in control.

  “Hey, Moon,” I greeted him in the morning, as I dumped his grain in his feed bucket. After I tossed him a flake of hay, I stood outside the stall and watched him eat.

  “You going to be a good boy today?” I asked.

  He pinned his ears and flashed his teeth at the bars, insisting on being left alone to eat his breakfast. I smiled as I walked out of the barn. He was feeling feisty and confident—a good sign. I went out to the food vendor to get breakfast. The sun was still rising, and the morning dew clung to the grass around the barn. Only a few people were at the show grounds, mostly the grooms. I saw one horse being lunged, another being braided. It was peaceful. I walked slowly, soaking in the quiet, crisp morning. Moony needed a full hour to finish his food, after which it would be safe to fuss over him. Before I knew it, I was at the food vendor, ordering a bagel. I looked down at my watch. I still have forty-five minutes before Moony’s done eating. Now what? I thought, wondering how to kill so much time. I wandered to the stadium.

  I sat down in the second to last row of seats, on the aisle chair. I placed the wrapped bagel on my lap, unfolded the wax paper, and took a bite. Three years ago, the whole Oakwood Farm team sat a few rows down from where I was sitting, cheering and whistling after Moony and I had been announced as the winners of that Junior Equitation class. I smiled at the memory.

  I wonder if we could win here, too, I thought. I knew my fellow competitors were skilled riders, and that most of them rode talented dressage horses. Our chances of winning were bleak, as always, but I still hoped.

  What if our test was absolutely perfect? What if we entered at A, and Moony landed square into a halt at X and stood absolutely still during my salute? What if he would then jump right into a big, powerful trot, and bend deep into the corners? What if he floated across the arena in the half-passes? What if he had a little extra suspension in the extensions? What if the walk was relaxed and full of forward moving momentum? What if the walk to canter transition was light and crisp? What if the flying changes were straight and rhythmic? What if the last halt and salute were as perfect as the first? What if the whole test was perfect? Could we win?

  “Programs! Get your programs!” I heard someone shout.

  Oh crap! What time is it? I checked my watch, and it had been just about forty-five minutes. I wrapped up the uneaten part of my bagel and hurried to the barn.

  I mucked out Moony’s stall and gave him fresh water. I then grabbed a bucket, turned it upside down, placed it by his shoulder, stepped up on it, and began braiding his mane. The barn now was abuzz with the other Junior riders feeding horses and mucking stalls. I wanted to run through my test in my head as many times as I could, to make sure I had it memorized. An hour later, I was done braiding and I knew my test. I then curried and brushed him vigorously. I wanted to give him a massage, but also get him spotlessly clean. After I was done brushing, I spritzed some shine spray and smoothed it into his coat with a towel. He glistened even under the barn’s fluorescent lights. I was satisfied. Then I saddled him before I pulled on my shiny leather boots, strapped on my spurs, and fastened my stock tie. After I was dressed in my show attire, I slipped his double bridle over his ears, and he opened his mouth, accepting the bits. I offered him a peppermint as soon as I had the bridle on his head, which he promptly sucked in, like a vacuum. After I secured the noseband and buckled the throatlatch, I led him out of
the stall. I grabbed the hoof polish, painted some on, and led him out of the barn.

  “Good luck!” voices called after me.

  “Thanks!” I yelled back.

  I put my left foot in the stirrup, and found my place in the saddle. I kept the reins loose, looked where I wanted to go, and Moony turned toward the warm-up ring.

  I looked straight ahead. I didn’t care who was riding around me. I was riding Moonshine. And Moonshine had qualified for this show; Moonshine had earned the right to be here.

  I let him walk around on a free rein for fifteen minutes, like always. Then I gathered the reins, and he instantly collected himself and picked up the trot. He knew the warm-up just as well as he knew the test. As I worked him, people gathered around the fence.

  Our warm-up was lackluster. He didn’t try his best, and I didn’t push him. As I put on my shadbelly coat, ten minutes before my ride time, I was confident. A bad warm-up usually meant we would have a great test.

  I steered him toward the stadium. He ambled down the ramp, and stepped out onto the sand. I was surprised by the size of the crowd in the stands. There were a lot of people peppered throughout the seats. I picked up the reins, and Moony not only collected himself, but also puffed up his body a few inches. He knew he had an audience and was ready to strut his stuff.

  As soon as the judge rang the bell, Moonshine entered the arena with a dominating trot. He halted sharply and squarely, and stood frozen while I took my right hand off the reins to salute the judge, and start the test. As soon as I held both reins again, he launched into a powerful trot. I had practiced this test so much that he had memorized all of the movements. He knew exactly when to start bending for the half-pass. But he didn’t just set himself up for the movements, he gave me more. At the start of each half-pass, I could see his leading leg—he was reaching more than he ever had. His body stretched more than ever in the extensions. His flying changes were smooth and straight. His pirouettes were perfectly balanced, as he lifted me and his front end easily with each turning stride. He danced like never before. It was the ride I had always wanted, the ride I dreamed about. But before I knew it, I was saluting the judge, and the test was over. The audience erupted.

  “Such a superstar,” I said, petting him on his neck after I saluted. A tear escaped my eye. This was our last show. I knew it was time to retire Moony. As hard as it was to get here, though, I also knew I would miss it. I would miss it all—the fights we had, the backaches, the heart aches, the thrill of going to our first show and winning the equitation class, the joy of earning his trust after he started following me into trailers, and the satisfaction of becoming a team, when we competed in a hurricane and he wouldn’t let me fall.

  “Thanks, Moony.”

  I didn’t need to see the score sheet or know what place we had won. He had proven himself. All of the hours, days, weeks, months, and years of work and struggle culminated into just six minutes we had in the arena. But those six minutes were a dream come true. Moony was now a competitive dressage horse. We had finally shown that we belonged in this world that had rejected us for so long.

  Back at the barn, I gave him a whole bag of carrots. An hour later, the loudspeaker crackled to life. It was the first time I had been in a barn with a loudspeaker in it. The riders didn’t have to scurry out to hear the results. But all of the activity came to a grinding halt, and everyone shushed each other.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have the results of the 1997 National Junior Dressage Team Championships!”

  I continued to brush Moonshine. I didn’t care what place someone else tried to put us into. It didn’t matter to me if those judges thought Moony belonged in third, second, or first place. Moony had already won.

  “The bronze medal winning team is the team from Region 1!”

  That wasn’t us. We were Region 3. So, we had won either first or second place.

  “The silver medal winning team is the team from Region 3!”

  “And the winners of the 1997 National Junior Dressage Team Championships is the Region 2 team!”

  We won second place. Not only were we one of the top 12 best in the country invited to compete at this prestigious event, but we were also the second best out of those horse and rider pairs. Moony, a horse that had been discarded and dismissed, had won second place in the country.

  At the end of the day, it was time for the awards ceremony. We were instructed to go to the stadium in our show attire, but were told to wear our team jackets instead of our competition shadbelly coats, and enter with white wraps on our horses’ legs. We entered in a line. There was a large podium in the middle of the arena. Gunilla, along with some of the other judges and multiple photographers, waited for us to approach. They applauded as we entered the arena. My team was instructed to line up on the right side of the podium.

  “All riders dismount, please, and approach the podium,” the announcer said through the loudspeaker.

  We did as instructed. Each of our horses had a handler there who would hold our mounts as we made our way to the podium.

  I handed the reins to the man assigned to hold Moony. “Don’t stand in front of him,” I warned. Moony was sure to try to dominate the man and head-butt him. Once all of the riders had assembled atop the podium, one judge began adorning us each with our own medal.

  He approached me, and I bent down so that he could put the medal around my neck.

  “Congratulations,” he said, as he shook my hand.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  I looked down at my medal and then at my horse. He was pushing his handler around, just as I thought he would.

  “Hey, Moon,” I called.

  He froze, and his ears flew up. I admired how handsome my horse looked. I smiled at his ears. No other horse had ears that curled inward like Moony’s. They were just another trait that made him different, unique, special.

  “Good boy,” I called again.

  When he knew where I was standing, his head dropped to a relaxed position, his ears rotated outward, and he stopped fighting with his handler.

  I smiled again, knowing that he had found the other end of the invisible rope that kept us tied together.

  Epilogue

  Moonshine retired from the show ring after the 1997 Junior Championships. The following summer, Victoria trained with George Theodorescu at his farm in Germany. It was through Mr. Theodorescu that she acquired a four-year-old Dutch warmblood/Thoroughbred cross named Luino. She came home in the fall to attend college at NYU. Mr. Theodorescu wanted to keep Luino in Germany for one year to establish some basic training with the horse. The following year, Luino came to the US. Moony did not enjoy sharing Victoria’s attention, and would frequently bite and kick at Luino, but he eventually accepted Luino as part of the family.

  Victoria spent her college and law school years training and competing with Luino, acquiring her USDF Bronze and Silver medals, as well as qualifying for the Regional Championships. Meanwhile, Moony enjoyed his semi-retirement. Victoria would occasionally ride Moonshine without a saddle but with a simple snaffle bit, to let Moony execute the movements of upper level dressage. She was sure that after all of the attention showered on him as a show horse, he would not appreciate full retirement. She was right—Moony was delighted when it was “his turn.” He swelled with pride when others watched him perform tempi changes in a simple snaffle bridle, and without a saddle on his back. He taught many other riders the upper level movements such as tempi changes, piaffe, and passage.

  It was during Moony’s semi-retirement that Victoria met her future husband, Brian. Victoria really liked Brian, so she gave him the key to unlocking Moonshine—he needs to think he’s the boss. Brian played along and endured head-butt after head-butt, Moony’s signature move announcing he’s in charge. Brian was quickly accepted.

  Victoria retired Luino from the show ring when she became a busy practicing
attorney. Both horses enjoyed retirement at a small family farm in New Jersey.

  At the age of twenty-eight, Moonshine suffered a serious colic at the farm in New Jersey. Due to his advanced age, the vet explained that, even if he did perform the colic surgery, Moony’s chance of survival was only 30%. The vet further warned that even if the surgery were successful and Moony survived it, he needed to overcome the next hurdle of waking from anesthesia. Many horses thrash and break their legs while coming out of anesthesia. Victoria was not ready to say good-bye to Moony, so she told the vet to perform the surgery.

  Moony’s intestine had necrotized and the dead tissue had to be cut and removed. When the surgery was complete, the vet came up and warned that Moony would be coming out of anesthesia. Victoria held her breath. Later, one of the vet’s assistants came up and told Victoria that she sat on him while he woke up and Moony waited until he was fully conscious to even try to get up. The healing process was long and slow but Moony eventually recovered completely.

  The thought of losing Moony shook Victoria to her core. She and her husband had been discussing buying a house, and they decided to look for a house with a barn and some land.

  After a year of house-hunting, Victoria and Brian found their home. The house was nice, although it needed multiple improvements. When Victoria saw the barn, though, she easily envisioned her horses there and realized she had finally found her home. The barn was full of trash, had broken doors, the stalls had uneven ground, there was no hot water, and the windows and stalls were boarded up. But the foundation was solid—it was made of cinderblock with a concrete floor with drainage and a metal roof. Also, each of the large paddocks had run-in sheds. Victoria could picture Moony and Luino running wild and free in the paddocks—larger than they had had in the twenty years she had owned them. So, Victoria and Brian bought their home.