by Gigi Amateau
I find that Welsh cobs, like Daisy, especially the flea-bitten ones, are particularly disdainful of my breed.
A petite Arab, whose name I learned was appropriately Princess, chimed right in with Daisy. “Daisy, you give him much too much credit. He’s not a horse. He’s a pony, and an ugly one at that!”
“What could Claire possibly see in him?” Daisy asked. She threw her head high in the air.
The gentle Hanoverian swiftly came to my defense. Though I suspected, quite accurately I would later discover, that Gwen had lost her high placement in the mare field to Daisy some years ago, she still carried a great deal of influence with all of the mares, including Daisy.
Gwen wasted no time scolding Daisy. “Princess, I would never expect you to understand. But Daisy, I’m surprised at you. Haven’t you been paying attention to Mrs. Maiden? Chancey’s been brought here for a reason. Could it be that you’re a bit jealous because Claire is spending all her time with Chancey and not you? God made a horse for everyone, and mark my words, Chancey and Claire have found each other, and not by accident. Now, both of you go about your business and leave the old App alone.”
Gwen’s rebuke quieted Daisy and Princess, but not before Daisy got in a good air kick at Gwen’s barrel, obviously missing the old mare on purpose. With a soft nicker, I offered my thanks to Gwen and hoped that her intervention in my defense would bring no injury upon her from the mares.
Princess did not let pass the offense that had been directed at her, however. She grabbed Gwen by the neck and bit the Hanoverian with an unbridled wrath; Gwen did not squeal, as most would have. She tore herself away from Princess and tore a slice of her own neck off in the process. Daisy pushed Princess into the corner of the fence. Princess had minutes earlier been Daisy’s sidekick, but she had overstepped by punishing Gwen without Daisy’s authorization. Princess pleaded with the Welsh, “Please, Daisy, no.”
Daisy’s ears lay flat against her head. I could tell, as could Princess I’m sure, that a severe punishment was about to be handed down. Daisy snorted and kicked until Princess walked farther into the corner. Now docile, Princess once more begged Daisy’s forgiveness, for she knew what was coming.
“Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step out.”
Daisy paid her no mind; she was making a point to all of us who were watching about just who exactly remained in charge of the mare field. The transgression was serious. Either Princess would take her punishment or challenge Daisy for the field.
Daisy lined Princess up against the fence and delivered a series of rapid-fire kicks to the Arab’s belly. She did not stop when Princess began squealing. She did not stop when Princess began bleeding and would not have stopped except that Claire ran out into the mare field crying for Daisy to leave Princess alone. Daisy pinned her ears at Princess, showed all of her teeth, and chased Princess away.
I’ll not deceive myself by asserting that geldings are any easier to join with than mares, for they are not. The rules have been much the same in whatever pasture I have ever been placed, though, granted, the new situations that I’ve found myself in have been few. Regardless, all horses know the rules well.
In the gelding field, I assumed my proper position and challenged no one for a higher spot. Mealtimes presented an excellent opportunity for me to establish that I posed no threat to the status quo. At first, I did not approach the hay ring at all, but waited for the others to finish eating, then gleaned what I could. Under normal circumstances, I would have expected to lose weight right away by forgoing hay, but as I had arrived at the Maury River Stables several hundred pounds underweight, the small amount of hay I was denied did not contribute to further weight loss. In fact, I began gaining weight straightaway due to the reintroduction of grain to my daily intake. I stayed away from the hay ring for as many days as necessary to establish my deference to all in the field. I was particularly mindful of the homage due to Dante, the black Thoroughbred in charge of my field.
Many benefits are afforded to the top horse. The field is yours, so you have first choice as to where you will stand, graze, and sleep as well as who you will run with. The boss is the first to be fed, can eat as much as he wants, is the first to come into the barn, and so on. I knew I did not have the strength or desire to challenge Dante or even the short, fat Shetland pony, Napoleon, for a higher field placement. Thus I stayed back at feeding time, allowing Dante to have first rights to hay placed in the ring for all of us. After a good period of showing deference and respect in our field, I finally made a friend in Macadoo.
Despite his intimidating size, Mac is the most trusted and beloved of all the horses at the Maury River Stables. Mac is a purebred Belgian draft, a blond sorrel to be exact. Except for a missing piece of his right ear, a slight flaw to be sure, Mac is a near-perfect example of a Belgian. The Belgians are prized for their considerable height and girth. Indicative of his gentle nature, Mac, who weighed close to two thousand pounds, allowed Claire, who weighed all of seventy pounds, to effortlessly navigate him. Claire liked to call Mac her “big boy.” At nearly eighteen hands high, Mac more resembled a tractor than a boy.
Mac towered over Dante and could have, if he were of such a mind, brought Dante down with but a series of well-placed kicks, such as Daisy had delivered to Princess. Mac is frightfully intimidating and he sounds so as well, before you come to know him. At the canter, the ground quakes beneath his feet. I have observed his approach to cause people and horses to flee, for fear of getting trampled. Once you have been blessed to know and understand Mac’s nature, the sound of his joyful hooves galloping toward you more likely impels you to greet him with equal delight. Indeed, Mac is generous in spirit and eager to be of service to all in need. So gentle and calm is Mac that he is the lead horse in Mrs. Maiden’s therapeutic riding school. Mac’s friendship eased my transition into the Maury River Stables.
I came to enjoy my breakfast in the field each morning alongside Mac. Mac took his grain beside me, and usually by the time we had finished our grain, fresh hay had been set out in the hay ring by either Mrs. Maiden or her barn manager, Stu. My friend Mac saw to it each day to kick out more than enough hay for me.
In fact, Mac’s gesture of friendship was the only reason I was able to eat in peace. Without Mac distracting Dante in the field each morning, I might never have been allowed any hay at all. Just by puffing out his chest and pinning back his ears, Mac would signal to Dante that his throne was in jeopardy. The two would race around the field while I, unnoticed, ate hay to my fill. Once I had wandered off to the back of the field, Mac would retreat, and Dante would claim victory over yet another plot to overthrow him. Such generosity typifies the Belgian Macadoo. He eased the hazing I received from the mares and geldings.
Mrs. Maiden and Stu would bring us in each night. In our rooms, we would not sleep, but remained awake and listening to Dante kick the walls until even he could not stand his own company. I was happy that my room was next to Mac’s, though I would have preferred not to be also next to Dante. Thankfully, Dante did not kick our shared wall for very long before I deployed one of my finest strategies to deflect his obnoxious habit. Though being the lowliest member of the Maury River Band did not carry many benefits, I had by that time learned a thing or two from my many years on the bottom at Monique’s farm.
At Monique’s there had been a malevolent top horse — a chestnut Thoroughbred — who earned all chestnuts the right to be called trouble. He tortured me day and night. I sustained kicks all over my body; he gashed me with his shoes and bit me on the neck. At every opportunity the horse terrorized me. More than once, I found myself cornered by him, unable to do anything but wait for the impact as he landed kick after kick to my barrel, all for the offense of eating from the hay ring before he had finished.
At first, I ran from him anytime I saw him coming. I hid behind trees so he would not see me. Nothing worked; the chestnut boss was determined to put me down and keep me there. I decided to try something different. I began le
aving a nice trail of grain along the top rail of the adjoining wall between our rooms every night. Soon, the chestnut stopped attacking me so violently, and he made sure the other geldings didn’t hurt me. Predictably this technique worked even better with Dante, and he soon stopped kicking my wall, which made it more comfortable for me at night.
Nighttime at the Maury River Stables was the hardest for me during the remaining cold nights of spring. In the blue mountains, waking to a snow cover as winter gives up to spring is not at all uncommon. Mrs. Maiden kept the barn completely closed during the coldest nights, and though I appreciated the shelter and protection offered me there, I would have preferred to stay outside. In the barn, even my window was barred shut, obstructing my view of the stars resting above Saddle Mountain. Unlike those horses with thin coats, like the Hanoverian Gwen, I thicken right up in the winter and have no need of a blanket. An indoor room is not a necessity for the Appaloosa breed. I enjoy the night very much, and if it weren’t for the pain in my haunches, I should prefer staying turned out in my field on all but the very coldest nights. Even then, I would rather my window remain open for me to see the moon, the stars, and my mountains.
Since my arrival, I had hoped that the Maury River Stables would become more than a stopover for me. As my stay extended into the spring, I believed it would unfold that the Maury River Stables would in fact become my new home. Exactly how this would come to pass, I had not imagined. I knew that Mrs. Maiden and Monique had agreed that Mrs. Maiden would serve as the agent of my sale to a new owner, when the time came. I saw no sign of any effort, on Mrs. Maiden’s part, to bring prospective buyers to observe me. I assumed that the campaign to find me a new home would begin when I was again in good health and back under saddle.
Almost every day, Claire tended to me, and I could feel all my wounds healing up nicely. Claire reported aloud on my progress during her daily examination. “Chancey,” she would confirm, “I can barely see the cuts on your front legs now. And your coat has nearly grown over the chafing on your face.” She continued brushing me, as was our usual routine. Though we had not yet worked together in the ring, I felt it would not be too much longer before I was ready.
Claire was ready, too.
On the first warm day of spring, she arrived to greet me wearing brand-new jodhpurs instead of her usual torn overalls. She also brought a brand-new halter and lead rope to my room. I was quite pleased to hear her say that she had picked out these new accessories especially for me. “Purple is going to be your color, Chancey. Purple is the color of kings and queens, you know. You’ll be the most beautiful pony at the Maury River Stables,” she bragged.
I allowed Claire to slip the halter over my face. She buckled it loosely around my cheek and clipped on the lead rope. Claire remembered to fasten my fly mask over the halter to protect my eyes. I nickered my thanks to her, for it was only while wearing the fly mask that I felt some relief from the burning sensation in my eyes.
With my new halter and lead rope, and a fine companion guiding me, I was paraded all around the Maury River Stables. Claire permitted me to eat grass and clover wherever I liked and did not seem to be in any hurry. I grazed alongside Claire for much of the afternoon. Everywhere around us, people and animals welcomed the sunshine, knowing from years past that the Maury River would soon be calling us for a swim, with Saddle Mountain beckoning us to its peaks.
Our pastures overflowed with birds and insects who arrived all at once from the mountain forest, busy in preparation for the day when springtime would truly settle in, bringing with it more daylight and encouragement to stay outdoors. The juncos had gone, and in their place bluebirds now hopped around, collecting horsehair from the ground, then flying off home with sturdy nesting material. As is so often the case, the first days of spring teased that they intended to stay. We all knew better but gave in just the same.
The sun had warmed us enough that everyone felt frisky. Daisy and Princess raced each other around the mare field. Gwen took advantage of their playtime to eat her fill at the mares’ hay ring. Daisy wised to Gwen eventually and made sure to dash off a few air kicks as she brushed passed the blood bay. Gwen responded as do all of us living at the bottom: she backed away from the hay as Daisy requested.
Claire and I did not enter the mare field or the gelding field, but rather kept outside the fence line, thus giving the mares another opportunity to taunt me. I didn’t mind, for I was with Claire. The new halter and lead rope, and undoubtedly my being accompanied, aroused the mares’ curiosity but not their scorn, this time.
Led by Daisy, they all clamored to inspect me. “Come see the old App!” called Daisy. “Get a look at Chancey in his new halter!” Then, for the first time since my arrival at the Maury River Stables, Daisy turned directly to me.
“Well, you sure have changed since you’ve met Claire. If you’re going to stick around, we might at least introduce ourselves. I’m Daisy, as you must already know; I’m the most adored and respected mare here. If you have any business with any of my mares, you come to me first. That includes Gwen. Understand?”
I marveled at the change in Daisy’s demeanor toward me, no doubt brought on by my new look. I decided that I very much liked my new halter and agreed with Claire that this purple should be my official color. I also decided that having had some experience with bossy mares over the years, I would give Daisy the respect that she had earned as the top mare. I simply replied, “Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.” I tossed my head at Gwen, who had come nearer the fence, though she still hung well behind Daisy.
Daisy had not dismissed me yet. “One more thing, Chancey, just so you’re perfectly clear. Claire’s one of my girls, so don’t do anything foolish.”
Before I could respond, Daisy spun around and kicked her back feet out, stirring up a bit of dust but nothing more bothersome. The mare cantered away.
Claire called out to her, “Daisy, how rude! You must have a crush on Chancey!”
I whinnied across the fence after Daisy, playing along with Claire, who bent backward in a fit of laughter. Again, I whinnied after Daisy, for I liked to see Claire laugh.
Claire’s presence most definitely shifted the balance of power, and so as we walked the outside perimeter of the mare field, Gwen walked with us on her side of the fence. Though neither of us ventured to openly defy Daisy, it was pleasant to graze with the Hanoverian and exchange a breath or two. Claire teased me even more after that. “Chancey, I think purple really is your color; all the ladies are interested in you today.” As Claire and I continued our walk around the paddock, we drew attention not only from horses but from barn mothers, too.
“Claire, I like your new riding pants. I almost didn’t recognize you without your overalls,” someone called to her.
Claire did not shrink away or fall over her words; she instead stood taller and beamed. “Well, look at Chancey. Isn’t he the beautiful one?”
Everyone did notice my new accessories and the purple contrasting against my white coat. “Look at you, Chancey! What a pretty pony you are in purple!” cried a barn mother who had only weeks before pronounced me depressed. In truth, the opinion of only one of the barn mothers, Claire’s, mattered at all to me, and she was not among those passing judgment.
Very early one morning, Mother came out to the barn alone. She did not bring her books, nor her writing tablet. When Mrs. Maiden accompanied Mother to my room, I deduced from their conversation that Claire was spending the day in school. The two women began discussing Mother’s desire to purchase me as Claire’s first horse. I dared not show my excitement for fear that the greatest wish of my heart might evaporate if acknowledged too soon.
Mother sought Mrs. Maiden’s opinion on the wisdom of such a purchase. I detected from the conversation that Claire was unaware of this possibility. I fully understood that Mrs. Maiden was duty bound to help Mother consider all it would mean to bring me into her family. Thus, it did not upset me when the two women inspected me in my room without Claire
present.
They stood at my head, one on each side of my neck. I could see Mother best, for she stood to my right. Mrs. Maiden kept her hand on my left cheek, never lifting it, and thus assuring me of her location at all times. Mrs. Maiden lowered her voice and confided her concern to Mother. “I want you to look at his eyes, because what I see looks like something we’ll be dealing with for a long time to come. If you do buy him, you need to know that because he’s older, and because of his coloring, he comes with more health problems.”
Mother didn’t speak; she listened to Mrs. Maiden with her head lowered. She then placed her hand on my neck with a manner of sensitivity I had not expected from her.
“Look at this. When I move my hand across his left eye, I get almost no response. I think he’s going blind in this eye,” Mrs. Maiden told Mother.
Mother kept contact with me through the entire lecture given by Mrs. Maiden. For it was a lecture — one on my current and future needs should I come now under Mother’s protection.
Mrs. Maiden spoke truthfully. This was the other aspect of my condition that I had tried to keep hidden, even from myself, for so long. My sight had been slowly vanishing from my left eye for some time and, to a much lesser degree, also my right. I did not know why it was so. Nor did I know what, if anything, could be done to stop further loss, or perhaps restore my eyesight.
This loss of vision impeded my work and even my very movement. Over recent years, I had learned to compensate for the low vision by going slowly or even refusing to go at all if I had no trust that the rider on my back was skilled enough to keep us both out of trouble.
It was never a lack of desire that caused me to refuse. Most of the time, with enough leg and a few light taps with a crop, I would walk or trot on if asked. Jumping was another matter. Depending on how my rider had positioned my head, I often could not see the jump at all until I came right upon it. Rather than risk injury to myself or a young, untrained girl, I refused, or, more accurately, I ducked out. I was relieved that Mrs. Maiden observed and named what was happening to me. The fear of losing my eyesight had now been my companion for many years.