by Gigi Amateau
Claire patted my neck. “You’re doing a good job, pony. Stu says you’re one of the best.”
Claire, Gwen, and Mac, between them, kept me motivated during my training. Without them, I would have easily become discouraged.
Mac predicted that my training would soon extend beyond the Maury River Stables onto adjacent properties. As ever, Mac was correct. Our lessons were no longer stationary, which Mac assured me was indicative of great progress in my training. Stu intended to introduce me to companions immensely more annoying than Tommy and the other beagles. In Rockbridge County, many people keep horses, and as they all ride and love the countryside, a strong tradition of courtesy use exists for the purposes of pleasure riding nearly every day of the year, except for those days when hunters are allowed in the woods.
For our first morning ride, Stu tacked me up quickly with only a bareback pad and a lead rope tied into reins. I am always overjoyed to ride without the bit in my mouth. I don’t mind the bit so much in the hands of a rider as knowledgeable and kind as Stu or Claire. Claire and I often ride without a bit or saddle and I can say, with certainty, we both enjoy that very much. In the case of Stu, unlike some of my younger and more diminutive riders, his instructions to me through his legs and seat are straightforward and easy enough to follow that the additional aid of the bit is unnecessary. Stu is not a big man, by comparison to John the Farrier or Doctor Russ; Stu’s weight, because it is well balanced and evenly distributed, actually gave me much confidence and security as we rode.
Stu led me away from Maury River Stables with great purpose. My nemesis from the cross-country field, Tommy, accompanied us. To my surprise, the puppy behaved more respectfully to me after I had kicked him. He stopped relieving himself on my feet, an outcome that was well worth the mild kick I had previously delivered. Having learned his lesson, Tommy ran beside me, always on the left and well away from my feet. His panting and yelping kept me aware of his position and served to mark the left edge of the trail. I found that by keeping an ear turned toward Tommy, I was able to use him as a guide on the trail. The willing pup kept alongside me; his presence kept me from stumbling into ditches or holes. I began to warm to his personality and could see why Stu was so fond of him.
We rode away from the Maury River. Our destination was Mrs. Pickett’s farm, some distance from our barn, past a neighboring cattle pasture, through an overplanted pine farm, and across the paved street.
As we approached Mrs. Pickett’s farm, we moved straight along the fence line at a nice working trot. Before I could see my distraction, I heard him. His coarse voice grated my ears so badly that Tommy’s yelping would have soothed me. I wanted to bolt, not from fear, but to get some relief. The honking was not altogether unlike a horse, but not nearly as refined. It was not quite a neigh and definitely not a whinny. I wasn’t frightened, just annoyed.
Stu kept me trotting, again keeping the fence on my right, which I greatly appreciated. The beast, upon seeing me, acted quite as if we were long-lost brothers. He magnified his horrendous noise tenfold, alternately begging me to break him out of the fence and pleading with me to jump over the fence to live with him. He professed to be a lonely soul, certain that I had been sent by our Creator in answer to his prayers.
I did not laugh when I saw him, for I know well the feeling of being laughed at and would not wish that feeling on any fellow being. He stood on four disproportionately short legs with a barrel almost as wide as mine. He very nearly appeared to be a horse, but a most uncommonly exaggerated one. Besides his torturous voice, his astoundingly elongated ears were his most defining characteristic; they towered above his head straight up at attention. As I moved closer to him, I observed that his nose was nearly twice as long as my own. Indeed, I had to suppress my deep urge to laugh, for he was comical in every way.
As Stu had orchestrated this gathering, he introduced us formally.
“Chancey, my friend, meet Joey. This is Mrs. Pickett’s new donkey, also known as Equus asinus. Y’all are kinda cousins, I guess, since you’re both Equus.”
Joey seized upon the mention of a familial connection. He turned his ears rapidly to and fro, then rolled his eyes down to Tommy. He squeezed his oversize nose under the fence and said to the puppy, “Yes! Yes! We’re cousins, you and I. Yes, we are.”
Offended as I was at Stu’s ludicrous suggestion of a genetic resemblance between Joey and myself, I was even more offended that Joey would feel elation at being related to a beagle, when an Appaloosa stood right in front of his eyes. I did not flatten my ears, though I most certainly wanted to do so.
Tommy furiously wagged his tail in circles at the donkey, eager to be adopted. Taking no notice of me, Joey invited Tommy into the family. “Hello there, little wagger. Hey, I have a tail, too. Look at my tail; look at mine!” Joey flicked his tail around for Tommy to see. Tommy barked and yelped to encourage his new cousin, Equus asinus.
I could take no more of their foolishness; I pinned my ears, showed the whites of my eyes, and whinnied sharply into the donkey’s ear. Joey looked up from sniffing Tommy.
“Are you my cousin, too?” Joey asked me.
I then set the matter straight. “I’m Chancey, not him. He’s not our cousin. He’s Canis. We’re Equus.” Joey practically threw himself over the fence toward me.
“Oh, cousin! Oh, Cousin Chancey! I’ve been waiting for you to come. Please, don’t ever leave again,” pleaded Joey.
I had learned by then that the longer I held my curiosity on any new object in our lesson, the longer Stu would require me to spend on that lesson. Eager to be far away from my new cousin Joey, I feigned boredom by dropping my head to graze and passing gas. This technique proved itself as Stu picked up my head and with a squeeze of legs we set off again.
Joey begged us not to leave him. I promised we would return in the morning. Even as we cantered out of sight, Joey still called to me, “Come back! Hey, come back! There’s nothing down that way but a mean, spiteful llama. Come back, cousin! Come back!”
Before we could move into a gallop, an ugly, shaggy animal with a neck longer than any I’ve ever seen, and even longer eyelashes, came running up beside us. I guessed this was the llama of Joey’s warning. He did not appear to be mean, or spiteful, as Joey had suggested, just odd. I was most curious. As the fence line was still at my right, I was able to observe this striking animal more closely. Stu never changed his directions to me, so, lacking any perceptible shift in leg or hand, I continued to canter the fence line, with the long-necked animal and Tommy cantering along beside me. I felt the llama sizing me up with his eyes and nose. Had Stu given me room, I would like to have shown that llama the impressive speed that Appaloosas are capable of reaching. Though the llama spoke not a word, the air between us smelled of tension.
I hadn’t the chance to become too agitated, for Stu pulled me to halt. The llama halted as well. I was pleased when, at the end of the fence, Stu gave me my head to investigate. I am ashamed to say that after the long canter, I was shorter of breath than the llama, Stu, or Tommy.
Stu introduced us. “That’s a llama, Chancey. I don’t know his name. I don’t know his Latin name either. He belongs to Mrs. Pickett, too. We’ll give him another race tomorrow.”
I nodded to the llama. We stood face-to-face, yet the llama would not exchange breaths with me. I studied him carefully for some clue as to his rancid demeanor toward me.
This bushy fellow had no fine tail like mine, and really had practically no tail at all. Nor did he have any sort of mane. It struck me as especially odd that his ears stuck straight out to the sides horizontally, not elegantly tall, like mine. He was covered in a short, furry coat that made me so itchy my tail involuntarily flicked in a rhythm reserved only for the most persistent flies. Though he stood almost to my height, most of the llama’s height was in his neck. I deduced that he weighed considerably less than I. In response to my greeting, the llama batted his long lashes, then proceeded to spit in my face. Then he turned his full atte
ntion to Tommy. I decided that Joey was the more tolerable creature of the two.
In the barn that evening, as I recounted the day’s lesson to Gwen and Mac, I could see they were impressed with my advancement. Mac nodded toward the mares across from us. “See Princess?” Mac threw his head in her direction. “She came unglued at the llama on a trail ride last week. She nearly threw her rider and wouldn’t go a step farther. The entire riding party had to turn around and come home.”
Gwen leaned close to me and whispered through the bars separating our two rooms. “You won’t believe this, but Dante is scared of the donkey.”
I laughed. “He’s frightened of our cousin Joey?”
“Shhh, he might hear you,” warned Gwen. Then she continued, “It’s Joey’s voice that frightens Dante. He rears and bucks over there by Mrs. Pickett’s. He won’t go anywhere near Joey.”
I cut a glance at Dante, our boss, who was too busy kicking his room door to bother with listening to us. Gwen nudged me with her nose. “And don’t look at him either. Here, look at me.”
I was encouraged by our conversation that evening that my formal training was coming to an end, and soon I would begin to work with students in the therapeutic school. I confessed that I was nervous. My training had gone well, but had it really prepared me for the dynamic, real-life world of being a school horse again — and in such a highly specialized school?
My mentors assured me that I would never be alone; I would work with my students in partnership with many people and other horses. Mac or Gwen would always be in the ring with me. Not only would one of my two good friends be there, but Mrs. Maiden or Stu would handle me directly for the duration of each lesson, and for added comfort and protection of the students, specially trained volunteers called sidewalkers would join me as well.
Macadoo explained that sidewalkers were required to complete a training program just as the horses were. While Stu handled the training of horse partners, Mrs. Maiden coordinated the training of sidewalkers. Each therapeutic student would be assigned two sidewalkers per lesson. The sidewalkers would attend to my students’ equipment, teach them about grooming, and monitor things such as correct seat position and foot placement. Some students might require sidewalkers to hold them in the saddle and walk along the left and right side of me. Other students might need nothing more than praise and motivation. If I happened to spook — a highly unlikely scenario because therapeutic horses are dependable and unspookable — the sidewalkers would remove the rider, if necessary. If my student needed help steering, the sidewalkers would help steer. The sidewalkers would be there for whatever was needed during the lesson.
This was the first I had been told that I would work so closely with sidewalkers. My stomach rumbled. I wondered how well my sidewalkers would manage with my blind side, or if they would even welcome getting to know an old horse such as myself. My nervous stomach erupted into a very loose stool. I ignored my symptoms of anxiety; I did not share my concerns with Mac or Gwen, for I was determined to prove to myself and Mrs. Maiden that I was worthy of the therapeutic school. More than anything else, however, I wanted Claire to be proud of me. I wanted Claire, and Mother, too, to see that though I could not give Claire the championships she deserved, I was still a good, sound horse.
“Old App,” Mac said one night after my last training session with Stu, “we’ve saved some very special news until now. We’ve all been saving a surprise for you. I didn’t want to tell you until you had made it this far in your training program.” Mac moved from his window to the wall between our rooms. Gwen came closer, too.
It was difficult to speak privately in the barn, for we had to speak in whispers. We had much freer conversations when we were turned out in the field; we all looked forward to the springtime, when we would be outdoors more. I put my ear to the bars between us to hear Mac’s news.
“Your sidewalkers will be Claire and Mother.” I wasn’t sure I understood what Mac meant. Did he mean that I would not have to work with strangers? My family would be joining me in service to the therapeutic school? I leaned as close in to Mac as I could.
“What? Would you say it again, Mac?”
Gwen repeated Mac’s news. “It’s true, Chancey. Claire and her mother have been training with Mrs. Maiden while you’ve been training with Stu. I heard Claire say you weren’t getting away from her so easily. They’re going to volunteer with the therapeutic program, too. You three will be a new team. How do you like that?”
I nickered softly to Mac, then exchanged breaths with Gwen. Mac walked over to his window; I walked to mine and pushed it open with my nose. At that time, I was blessed that the vision in my right eye still allowed me a clear and fine view of the moon hanging full between Saddle Mountain’s pommel and cantle, throwing off rays nearly equal to early morning sun. Mac and I did not speak; we stood in our stalls, both looking up at Saddle Mountain. I had worried about the sidewalkers for nothing.
By spring, Claire, Mother, and I were prepared to teach in the therapeutic riding school, together.
By the first day of spring, Claire, Mother, and I were working in the Maury River Stables Therapeutic Riding School. Three times weekly after Claire’s school day had ended she, Mother, and I taught a lesson as a team. Though Claire was at that time only eleven, she had completed the required training and was considered a junior volunteer able to serve alongside Mother.
Our charges in the therapeutic school ranged in age from the very young, of perhaps five years of age, to much older, closer to the age of Mother. I found satisfaction and purpose in this work and felt that my entire life had prepared me to teach in this way.
My therapeutic students always greeted me with affection and treated me with the greatest respect. They often brought me drawings and paintings for my room; some gave me cookies and treats. Others, I was told, included me in their bedtime prayers, and it was for this that I was most thankful. To be so loved at such an advanced age as mine was a great motivator. Their devotion humbled me.
I returned their love fully and generously. Whether I was hot or cold, whether I was in pain or enjoying a respite free from pain, I welcomed every therapeutic student, every time.
Why some students attended the therapeutic school and others did not was not always immediately evident to me. True, for many of my therapeutic students, a physical impediment blocked their technical mastery, but that was truly the case with all my students, whether in the therapeutic school or not. Take Mother, for example: a deformity in her back impeded her technical mastery, and an unexamined fear in her mind kept her from pushing herself further. Yet Mother was not enrolled in therapeutic school as a student but as a sidewalker volunteer with Claire.
I gathered from Gwen and Mac that the therapeutic riding school served people of all ages who were in some manner wounded. Perhaps they had no use of their legs, which was easy enough to discern since in those situations, a chair with wheels carried them up a special ramp built to the height of a horse’s back so that all transfers were made laterally. This removed the danger that could be caused by lifting a student up and over onto my back. Other students brought wounds that were more difficult to detect because there was no outward evidence.
I quickly observed that the most noticeable difference in most of my therapeutic students was that they possessed an uncommon openness and willingness in their hearts. I will take heart and loving-kindness over technical ability any day of the week — for a rider with an open heart allows the fullest possible joining up, whether galloping over the Maury River, slowly walking a figure eight, or merely standing in my room watching the blue mountains.
Before I started this work, Mac told me we could not play favorites in this job. I suspected Mac spoke from having learned from experience that such strong attachments eventually cause a degree of brokenness in the heart. I, however, am not ashamed to disclose that there were a couple of students to whom I was particularly partial.
One student, a girl named Kenzie, I learned after thre
e lessons together, could not see out of either eye. At first, I had thought perhaps Mrs. Maiden had mistakenly placed Kenzie in the wrong program. She moved with such confidence and grace in the saddle and on the ground and with a heart as open and kind as any girl, save my Claire. I adored Kenzie; she was like a blast of spring, arrived in the dead of winter. Her blindness did not prevent her from placing her full trust in me or Claire and Mother, her sidewalkers.
Claire and Mother kept us moving as a team by acting as Kenzie’s eyes and, of course, compensating for my own left eye. They guided us around the ring and over poles, or around a spiral of cones set up for bending practice. Truthfully, Kenzie had little need of sidewalkers in a traditional sense. Claire and Mother gave Kenzie no physical support. Nor did they make actual contact with Kenzie or me. They jogged or walked alongside me and used their voices more than anything — Claire instructing us and Mother encouraging us.
“A little more leg, Kenzie. Now close your hands around the reins, but don’t pull back on them. Sit down and relax,” Claire would say.
After trotting circles in our corners without breaking, Mother would applaud us both. “Beautiful, Kenzie! Beautiful, Chancey! Now enjoy this straightaway — you’re doing great!”
Mrs. Maiden always kept the therapeutic horses on a lead line, for precautionary measures. After only a few lessons, Kenzie became such a proficient rider that Mrs. Maiden hardly worked at all. I listened for Kenzie’s directions, and Mrs. Maiden kept the lead line slack. I certainly would have indulged Kenzie a bit more than my other students if she had squeezed her hands too tightly around the reins. Yet she held the reins with a light touch as if they were robin eggs in her palms. If, because of her blindness, Kenzie had fallen on my neck a bit more than my sighted students, I would gladly have tolerated her weight. But she kept her center of gravity fully aligned with mine.