by Gigi Amateau
I was just a colt when my dam sustained a fatal injury; she had been defending me. A new mare had been introduced to our field and had challenged my presence there. Dam suffered greatly from a break in her shoulder. She could not have recovered. I know this now. Though I have lately heard of a horse that recovered from such a break, after surgery, it was not even a consideration those many years ago. I was a colt and I could not save Dam. Nothing could have saved Dam. My dam was resting in the field, stoically accepting her pain, waiting until they could come to take her away, as she knew they would. I stood vigil, protecting her as she had done for me so many times.
Dam knew that Monique would soon come to put an end to her suffering, and my dam was accepting — I think, grateful. The other mares visited Dam. One by one, each of them closed their eyes and whispered a final blessing across Dam’s face. Even as the last mountain breeze she would feel waltzed around us, I begged Dam not to leave me. I was just a colt.
My dam did not turn back once Monique arrived to take her from the field.
“Come on, Starry; let’s go now.” Monique spoke tenderly to Dam. I whinnied and paced the fence line, urging Dam to turn around. I stood at the gate calling for her to look at me once more, for I knew if she did, she would come back to me. Though in grave pain, Dam walked on with Monique as if she were only going to be shod and then return.
I cried out for Dam morning and night, all the while fasting from food and water, so badly did I wish her with me. I was presently seized with a pain tangled deeply in my bowels. The knot clenched its grip on me forcefully and repeatedly, until I too lay down, ready to accept the consequence. I was just a colt.
I yearned for my dam; I lay down in the spot where she had lain. The grass was still matted from her weight, and something of her smell lingered there, too. I closed my eyes and wished for Saddle Mountain to bend over me and swaddle me so tightly that I would disappear into it forever. But mountains do not bend.
I writhed in the wet grass until finally I heard, “Get up.” The mares had come to me, but they did not whisper their last blessings.
“Get up, Chancey. Get up and walk,” they ordered me.
By turns, the mares pushed me up to my feet and, in pairs, boxed me between them. The mares tended to me by forcing me to stand up and move about until the tangled knots passed through me. I soon drank and ate again. But I was not the same. I was just a colt when my dam left and I colicked. I had not expected to ever love or depend on another as I had my dam. But I had not yet met Claire.
Returning from Tamworth Springs, I fought against colic for the second time in my life. I badly needed relief from what had ahold of me, just as badly as I had needed relief as a colt. I told myself that I would roll just once, just once for a second of peace. I dropped to my forearms. No sooner had I given my mind over to this urge than did the sky open up with such a forceful rain and wind that I instinctively rose to seek shelter in the run-in. Finding it crowded with the other geldings, I moved on, for upon seeing me, Dante pinned back his ears and would not allow me to enter the shelter.
There was one spot in my field, from which if I stood just so with my head held rather up, I could see the entire line of Saddle Mountain. Being that the spot is high on a hill in the far corner of my field, it took some effort to reach during the storm. It was there that I gave up. For the second time in my life, I then gave in to colic. Its grip was too tight; I could do nothing but roll and seek relief. Either the tangles would pass and I would live through the pain, or the tangles would win and I would die alone in the storm. I dropped to the ground and opened my belly to the sky. This time, there were no mares to tend to me. There was only the wind and the rain. Just as before, Saddle Mountain waited for the colic to run its course in me.
My mind began to create nonsense out of the wind. “Get up,” I heard. Certain that my mind had now joined my eyes in a state of decline, and this voice was mere evidence of a new impairment, I whinnied to drown out the voice.
“Get up! Get up!” I heard the demand again, only in a much louder and firmer tone than either the mares of my youth or than I supposed my own confused mind might urge.
Softer now, more like a whisper in my ear, it was the Belgian, Macadoo, who called to me. “Get up and walk, friend.” He pushed me up with his big head, and together we paced the hill in the pouring rain. Stu tried calling us in from the storm with grain buckets; Mac refused to leave my side, saying only, “I have been where you are, afraid and unsure of tomorrow. We will walk through the night together.”
Through the storm we walked; I fought off the urge to fall to the ground and roll. We could not see Saddle Mountain through the sheets of rain. The wind threw branches and sticks to our feet, but I did not drop. The rain quickly filled the dry ruts in the field, and new rivers rushed down all around us. At times, the field turned so thick with mud that we sank down to our fetlocks. Still, we kept moving. Mac would not let the colic win.
When the danger of colic had passed, Mac and I stood together under the row of cedars at the fence line, waiting for the morning. I felt thirsty; I grazed on the wet grass and it caused no cramping or pain. Mac detected that some anxiety still lingered.
“What is it, friend? Why are you afraid?” he asked.
“I am not afraid. I am not afraid of hunger or cold or being beaten. I am not afraid anything. I am an Appaloosa; have you forgotten?”
Mac nuzzled me as a mother would do. “Chancey, it’s me.” He asked the question again, “Why are you afraid?”
I considered resisting Mac, but thought the better of it, for the Belgian had saved my life. As surely as the mares had saved me when I colicked at Dam’s death, Mac had saved me when I colicked at the thought of losing Claire.
I decided to speak the truth. “I am old, Macadoo. I am old and have been called dangerous for all to hear by Claire’s father. He has even publicly called for my sale. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid to go back to that barn. I am afraid of Lynchville. I fear going blind; I fear I will forget the blue mountains.”
Mac tossed his head back and forth. “My friend, you are carrying a great burden. Why don’t you set it down now? There’s no need to clutch it any longer. Have you not noticed? You live among friends now. You are loved.”
I dropped my head to the ground, for the weight of these worries did, indeed, feel heavy. We grazed in silence under the stars. The force of the storm had moved farther south. From our hilltop we could appreciate its beauty as we watched it circle around the valley.
“Did you mean to hurt Claire?” Mac asked me.
“I am bound to Claire forever,” I answered. “I would never hurt Claire.”
“Do you enjoy jumping? Is that your purpose in life?”
I had never considered such a question. I ate some more grass; I was hungry. I knew not to eat too much until I could drink water and pass a normal stool.
I answered, “I love Claire, and Claire loves to jump. I’m not a jumper; it hurts me to jump. I love the open field. I can see better there, and my other senses can more easily help out. I love to teach. When a student is open, like Claire, I do love to teach. I love these blue mountains more than anything, besides Claire. Claire wants to be a teacher, you know.”
Mac tossed his head, then touched my neck. “Well, there you are, Old App. You must stop jumping right away. Do not spend another moment jumping, for every moment jumping takes you further away from your purpose of teaching and showing students the joys of riding in these mountains.”
I will admit that the burdens that had locked my stomach so tightly and forced me to the ground now vanished. I passed a very satisfying round of gas. Mac grazed beside me as if all had been happily resolved.
“Mac, what if the father is right? What if they sell me?” Mac looked up at me with a mouthful of grass. Our field was so wet from the storm that a foam of grassy residue had formed around his entire muzzle.
“Chancey, I have gone to auction twice in my life, yet I stand here before
you a horse fulfilled. Both times, I endured and witnessed beatings by ignorant men. The first time, I was a yearling and had no one to protect me. Hundreds of others were lost to kill buyers in an instant. Despite their fine breeding, many finer than I, they were sold at a price measured per pound. Do you know what that means?”
I did not respond for I knew well the answer. I walked away from Mac to the other side of the hill, following the track of the storm below us. Mac followed me.
“They were eaten, Chancey. When the value of a horse is measured in his weight, Chancey, by the pound, it means he will be eaten. I was sold to a gentleman farmer, a gruff old man with a kind heart and a bad leg, for one thousand dollars flat. I survived. I am blessed and haunted by it daily. I had only a vision, placed on my heart by my mother, of a greater purpose for my life. Had I fought them at auction, I would not be here. Had I given myself over to them completely at auction, I would not be here. Acceptance is not the same as giving up. You seem to be giving up.”
“But I am old. At auction, I would surely be sold for meat.” I quivered at having finally named that which frightened me the most. Mac lost his patience with me. He reared up slightly.
“You must lead Claire and her mother to a new vision, Chancey. What is it that you want? Jumping is but one way to be a girl’s horse. Has the father the final say in this matter? At the show, what did Claire’s mother say about all of this?”
I thought back to Tamworth Springs. Mother was so quiet and lost in Claire’s injury that I had lost her in my own recollection of the day. Claire’s unconsciousness and her father’s condemnation of me as a dangerous horse had overshadowed Mother, who in her grief, I now recalled, had spoken to me as the judge led me out. I tried to remember.
“Yes,” I finally told Mac. “Mother did speak to me. She told me something very important. She whispered to me, ‘You belong with us; don’t ever forget that.’” Mac whinnied at me. “And I seem to have forgotten right away.”
“Take heart, Chancey. Your work here is not completed. Only now are you ready to begin.”
I stood with Mac in the gelding field that night and did not sleep at all. Claire did not come the next day, or the next, or the next, for her recovery took some time. While I waited, I forced myself to return to Mother’s words —“you belong with us”— each and every time I became anxious.
Though neither Claire nor I realized it, the calamitous jump at the Tamworth Springs show would be our last jump together for some time. While our love for each other would grow deeper and stronger, this aspect of our working — training together as a hunter team — had come to an end.
A week or more had passed, yet Claire still had not returned to the barn, nor had I any word of her condition. One afternoon, Mrs. Maiden came to me. She related to me that Claire had suffered a concussion, and though Claire was expected to make a full recovery, she would not be fully well for several more weeks. Mrs. Maiden’s voice cracked when she spoke, and thus I could tell that she had been worried, too.
Though still under her doctor’s care, Claire successfully prevailed upon Mother to bring her to the Maury River Stables just to see me. Claire insisted that the doctor’s order of no riding did not mean no visiting. Tenderhearted Mother not only allowed Claire this occasion, but she believed that a visit would hasten Claire’s recovery. This was reported directly to me by Mrs. Maiden, who not only informed me of Claire’s impending visit, but showed me a great kindness by taking the time to groom me in preparation.
I appreciated this kindness very much, not only because it helped me to feel my very best for Claire, but also because it was the first time that Mrs. Maiden had expressed a true fondness for me. Make no mistake: the care that I had received, and receive to this day, was expression enough of Mrs. Maiden’s deep love of all horses. But our grooming time, as we both waited for Claire and Mother, was Mrs. Maiden’s first real display of personal affection for me, Chancey.
Mrs. Maiden set my brush box beside my front feet; it will come as no surprise to those familiar with the habits of girls that the brush box Claire had chosen for me was also purple. Starting on my left side, Mrs. Maiden began to brush my coat, talking to me the entire time. I enjoyed the sound of her voice, not just for what she told me, but for the fact that even though I could not see her, I could feel her at my left side and so never felt surprised at any action that she took. Mrs. Maiden is a kind woman, but she does not always feel as relaxed as she did on this morning. Understandably, with her great responsibilities of providing safety and protection to children and horses, as well as a few barn mothers like Mother who ride, she is often too preoccupied to relax.
With the same warmth that she uses only for the very youngest of her pupils, Mrs. Maiden said to me, “Claire’s on her way, handsome boy. I know you’ve missed her. Claire’s mother thinks a short visit will help her feel better.”
Mrs. Maiden used a soft brush to clean my face; I closed my eyes and let the dirt fall from them to the floor. She lowered her voice and, touching my cheek, spoke again. “You know, sometimes little girls are hurt more inside than outside after a fall like Claire’s. I bet her mother’s right: a visit with you is probably just what she needs.”
Mrs. Maiden fluffed my forelock and tucked our third-place Walk-Trot ribbon into my halter. Standing there in my room with the late afternoon sun streaming in the window and resting on my crest, I gave thanks for Claire’s health and the many days we would have together.
Claire appeared at the door to my room just as Mrs. Maiden finished up. “You’re gorgeous, Chancey! Did you get dressed up just for me?” Claire asked me.
Before I could manage any kind of an answer, Mrs. Maiden blurted, “Claire! You sure didn’t get dressed up for Chancey. You’re in your pajamas!”
Claire seemed not to hear Mrs. Maiden, for she did not answer her but threw her arms around me. “Oh, Chancey. I missed you so much. I don’t even remember what happened the entire day. Mother said we got third place in the Walk-Trot class.”
Noticing the ribbon, Claire observed, “The yellow ribbon looks pretty on you.” She took the ribbon in her hands and confided in me, “I don’t remember anything about the show. I only know I fell because Mother says so. I’m sure it was all my fault. Don’t worry, boy, we’ll be riding again soon. Mother and the doctor won’t let me jump for a while. But we’ll be together soon, I promise.”
Daisy was right; Claire harbored no blame or resentment about the accident. Had my Creator given me tears to cry, I would have shed them all at that moment, so relieved was I that Claire did not intend to give up on us. Mother, I was also relieved to observe, seemed to share happiness at our reunion.
I listened closely to Claire’s voice, as she told me how we would win our next show. She continued planning and dreaming of how high we would be jumping by the end of the year. I listened, but did not allow myself to dream with her. Claire rested her head on my shoulder and told me, “Chancey, you are everything I’ve ever wanted in a pony. Thank you for trying so hard, and for always being here for me.”
Mother interrupted Claire’s dreamy plans. “Claire, when you do return to jumping, we can’t ask Chancey to jump with you again.” Claire stopped breathing.
“Wh-what? But he’s my pony. I don’t want to ride anybody else, just Chancey.” I moved closer to Claire, for I felt this same wave of sickness myself.
“I know, sweetheart. We have to honor Chancey and recognize his strengths and talents. It hurts him to jump. He tries so hard because he loves you so much, but it’s not easy for him. To ask Chancey to jump higher and higher because you want to jump higher and higher is very unfair and very unkind. And one day, it could be very dangerous for both of you.”
“Oh.” Claire leaned into me. She rested her head on my shoulder and smelled me. “Oh.” Claire nuzzled her face in my coat.
She began to cry. “D-D-D-D-Dad said we’re selling him. I’ll run, run, run away if we sell Ch-Chancey.”
Claire clung to me and
cried, hiding herself in my neck. “Please, Mother. Let me keep him. We don’t have to j-jump. I love him so much. We can trail ride. I can practice my dressage. I can take him on a hunter pace. Please, he can do so many things.”
Mother wiped Claire’s face. “Claire, we will never sell Chancey. He is our family.”
Claire laughed out loud and began crying again. I pressed my head close to my girl’s heart and at the same time, flicked Mother with my tail.
Mrs. Maiden laughed, too. “Chancey is an amazing horse, Claire. He’s just not a jumper, that’s all. But he has so many other talents. When you’re all better, you and I will find the perfect job for Chancey. In the meantime, let me take care of him and let your mother take care of you. Is that a deal?”
Claire hugged Mrs. Maiden, then Mother. “Deal.” She nodded.
“Claire,” Mrs. Maiden said, “let’s turn Chancey out for the night. Would you like to lead him?”
Claire nodded furiously. “Could I?”
Then, as if it had almost slipped her mind, Claire asked permission to do something quite different. “Mrs. Maiden, I brought my violin to play Chancey a song. I’ve been practicing. Will that be okay?”
“What a nice idea, Claire — horses love music. In fact, why don’t you go on and take him out to the gelding field and play there so Chancey and all of his friends can enjoy it?” Mrs. Maiden smiled.
Claire led me out to the field, with Mother following behind us. I noticed then that Mother held in her hands a black bag of sorts. As the three of us approached the gate, Dante, Napoleon, and Mac crowded the fence to greet Claire. Daisy, Princess, and Gwen all cantered along our adjoining fence line to greet her. I was not the only one who had missed Claire.
Dressed in her pajamas, Claire looked very much smaller than I had remembered. As is often the case after a storm, the entrance to our field was a mud pit, made worse by Dante’s incessant pacing back and forth, guarding the gate, presumably against some unseen enemy. Claire and Mother seemed oblivious to the condition of the field and to their own ill-suited attire.