I'd found him a home with Angie Wellman, a pleasant, middle-aged novice who was afraid to jump. It was a perfect match, if I did say so myself - Trucker trucked Angie around the dressage ring, absorbed her mistakes, and increased her confidence with his steadfast, quiet demeanor. In return, Angie groomed him lovingly, took him on trail rides, and shelled out over $600 every month for board at a facility that was essentially the horse Hilton.
"He's doing so well!" Angie exclaimed. "He's getting all ready for show season, and he looks better than ever."
That's a surprise. Angie hadn't seemed like the competitive type. "Are you still boarding him at Grand View Stables?"
"No, I moved him to Greta Stein's barn a couple months ago. I figured I needed some expert help to get him ready for the shows, and she's one of the leading dressage trainers in the area!" Angie paused to take a breath. "Actually, she's schooling Trucker right now. He looks amazing when she rides him."
A negative feeling was settling in my stomach, but I wasn't sure why. Still, I felt the need to investigate. "Where is Greta's barn located?"
Five minutes later I turned onto a paved driveway. The fences were blindingly white, the grass manicured. A weeping willow stood near the barn, adding to the calendar-worthy scene. I parked my truck and stepped out into the cool morning air. After a quick look around I saw no sign of Angie or Trucker, so I headed into the barn.
Lovely sport horses gazed at me from inside their stalls. A huge bay with a wide blaze who looked like a much better bred version of D.M. was eyeing me, and I stepped closer to him for a better look. Suddenly he bared his enormous teeth and lunged forward, rattling the three latches on his stall door. Instinctively, I popped him on the nose with my elbow, and the gelding's eyes took on a glazed, panicked look. His massive body trembled as he retreated to the back of his stall, keeping a wary eye on me. I walked away, the vague worried feeling inside me turning to palpable anxiety and dread.
A door swung open at the end of the aisle. "Erica! Hi!" Angie chirped. "The arena's this way. Be careful, though," she cautioned. "Some of these horses are mean."
I walked down the aisle in a sort of trance. This isn't good. There's something not right about this place. Several horses greeted me with pinned ears and snapping teeth. But most of them just hid in their stalls.
Angie opened the arena door, and I followed her inside. The footing was sand mixed with shredded rubber; it was soft, springy, and newly dragged. Then my eyes focused on a dark bay trotting a 20 meter circle at the far end of the arena. "Doesn't he look great?" Angie asked excitedly.
I didn't answer. My eyes were drilling holes in Trucker's body, scrutinizing his motions. The gelding did look pretty good. He was trotting forward and engaging behind. His trot looked light and springy. I felt myself relax. I shoved the image of the cowering Warmblood to the back of my mind.
"Greta's been working on his canter," Angie whispered as horse and rider trotted past. "She says he tends to rush into the canter and go on his forehand."
I nodded. This wasn't news to me. It was common for ex-racehorses to be unbalanced, which led to rushing. They needed trot work, both on the longe and under saddle, before they could learn to balance properly. And the task was harder with a horse like Trucker, who wasn't particularly athletic in the first place.
Trucker trotted down the long side of the arena. At the corner, he struck off into a nice, relaxed canter. He wasn't especially "uphill", but his balance was level. It was probably the best canter Trucker was capable of producing at this stage of his training. I smiled, filled with pride. And then everything started to unravel.
After cantering a few lovely strides, Trucker began to speed up as he hit the long side. His hind end came up, and his front feet pounded the arena footing. Greta gave him a sharp spur and checked him with the reins. Trucker's head shot up, and his gait deteriorated further. I winced. It's not his fault that he can't maintain it. He's not strong enough yet. I had always been taught to reward a horse when they offered me something beautiful, even if it only lasted for one stride. It was bad training to punish Trucker for losing the quality of his canter, especially since it had been Greta's fault. She had kept him in the gait for too long. I bit my lip hard. Trucker's worried expression cut through my heart. He always tried so hard to please his rider. Couldn't Greta see that?
The gelding broke into a trot, unable to keep his balance at the faster gait. Greta booted him with her spurred heels, and Trucker leapt forward into a messy canter. "He can't be allowed to dictate the pace," Greta said harshly. "He must canter until I tell him otherwise."
Sounds like race training, not dressage. My stomach felt knotted and twisted. Imagine how Trucker must feel! My conscience screamed at me.
After she made him canter many times around the arena, the gelding no longer looked anywhere close to good. He looked wretched. His ears were back, his muzzle tight and pinched. Nervous foam dripped from his mouth onto his sweat-drenched chest, and his eyes were blank and starey in his head. And Greta wasn't through yet. "I want to get a better canter from him," she said, looking dissatisfied. "He can do better."
How? He's exhausted! I ground my teeth together. I couldn't say anything. It was Greta's barn, Angie's horse. But I sold him. It was my responsibility to find him a good home. And I failed.
I watched helplessly as Greta pushed the gelding into a trot. Trucker's movement was flat and front-heavy. Getting a good canter from this horse, at this moment in time, would be impossible. But Greta began to sit the trot anyway. She sat heavily in the saddle, I noticed. That kind of "driving" seat caused horses to drop their backs and invert. Sure enough, Trucker raised his head. Her grip on the reins tightened. "He's got to come onto the bit," she barked, her voice strained from the effort of trying to hold an exhausted horse in a false frame.
She asked for the canter. Trucker decided that cantering was not a good idea based on recent experience, and slowed to a walk instead as Greta spurred him repeatedly. He started trotting again, but Greta had to kick him every stride to keep him there. Trucker was the kind of horse who'd shut down completely and just take the abuse before he'd blow up and hurt anyone. Watching helplessly, and listening to the sound of Greta's spurs hitting Trucker's sides, I fervently wished he weren't such a good horse.
My wishing was worthless. Trucker found the strength to respond to his rider's unreasonable demands and dragged himself into a canter. The gait was disjointed, hesitant, awful. But Greta apparently possessed the modicum of intelligence necessary for her to realize she would not get another canter from Trucker that day. She halted him in the center of the arena and dismounted without patting him. Of course. The sweat might ruin her gloves. I stood, frozen, my emotions ricocheting all over the place. I wanted to rip Greta's spurs off her custom Cavallo boots and make her eat them. I wanted to shake Angie, and make her realize that there is a clear difference between a horse trainer and a horse abuser. Perhaps most of all, I wanted to lie down in the sand and crushed rubber and cry.
I chose the only reasonable option. "Angie, can I speak with you privately?" My voice didn't sound like me; it sounded weak and timid.
"Sure." Angie nodded. Two grooms had materialized. One deftly stripped off Trucker's tack, and the other haltered the gelding and began to walk him.
I waited until Greta had disappeared and taken the sound of her footsteps with her. "Angie," I said urgently, "You have to take your horse away from that woman."
Angie's freshly-plucked brows arched in surprise. "But...lots of people recommended her to me. She's one of the top dressage trainers in the area."
"I don't care who recommended her. Obviously they never saw what goes on in this arena. Because if they had, they would be horrified. You know those horses standing in their stalls who'll try to take your arm off if you get too close? Mean horses aren't born, Angie. They're made."
Angie sighed and made a face, as if I was bringing up issues that she'd rather not be bothered with. "But she gets results.'"<
br />
I stared at her, this woman who had seemed so nice. So perfect. "At what cost?"
Angie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I appreciate you coming out here, Erica. I really do. But I think you're overstepping your boundaries a bit, telling me what to do with my horse."
"I see," I said heavily. "Okay, Angie. I get it. You don't want to hear what I have to say. That's fine. But hear this. Your horse is going to lose every bit of his desire to please. He's going to refuse to move forward. Greta will strap on sharper spurs, thinner spurs, rowel spurs, and your horse will get duller and duller. A few months of this, and you'll need a cattle prod to get him to walk. And when Greta tells you that your horse is useless, and will never be able to go in a show and win you a nice, shiny ribbon, please call me. Because I'd like to buy him back."
I turned on my heel and walked away. The fire inside me lasted until I reached my truck. Then a sudden rainstorm put it right out.
I cried for a long time. All my emotions flowed down my cheeks: rage, sadness, guilt - oh, I cried out a lot of that. Somehow, during all of this, I started my engine and slowly drove away. The tears were still flowing, but I was starting to numb out. I hated myself for feeling relieved about this. Torturing myself didn't feel good, but at least it felt just.
Then I started thinking. I thought about how many people search for a kind, honest horse. Not a talented, explosive show horse, but a gentle horse that is about as safe as a half-ton prey animal can be. Trucker was one of these rare horses. His kind nature was worth more than a flashy canter. That was what Angie failed to see.
Suddenly I realized that I was hopelessly late for my morning appointment. I dialed my client's number, hoping she would understand.
"Erica," her voice answered after one ring. "I was worried when you didn't show up. Is everything all right?"
"Um...I had a...family crisis." Horses are family, right? Of course they are.
"I'm so sorry to hear that! I guess we'll just re-schedule for another day, huh?"
I was about to tell her no, I was on my way, when I realized that my mental exhaustion would make teaching fairly impossible. "Sure. I'll call you later today. Thanks for being so understanding."
"No problem. You take care, Erica."
I drove aimlessly for a while. I couldn't just go home and jump on my current batch of sale horses. Training horses had been my life since I was ten years old, but I suddenly didn't know if I could do it anymore. I'd just been hit in the face with a very ugly realization. I can't be certain that this will never happen again. If it happened to Trucker, it could happen to any horse I sell. I couldn't stand the thought of even one of my horses suffering through life. And there could be others. Good people can get competitive and lose sight of what's best for the horse. Good people can lose their jobs and be forced to sell their horses to anyone who shows up at their farm with a blank check and a trailer. It happens all the time.
All this thinking was painful. I had to stop. I saw a familiar, comforting farm road and turned onto it. I had to see someone who would do anything for his horses. It was a knee-jerk reaction, sure, but it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing I felt certain of anymore.
I turned onto his driveway, hit the brake and stepped out of my truck. Then I came to my senses and looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My face and eyes were red and puffy, and I was wearing breeches that were way too tight. God, I'm a mess. And I thought this was a good idea because....why?
I considered leaving, but decided against it. His truck was parked near mine, so I knew he was home, and the geldings were in their paddock. I was about to knock on his door when I heard his voice. It came from behind the house. I followed the sound of his quiet murmurs until I spotted him. For once, he didn't fill my field of vision and blind me to everything else. But his horse did.
I had never seen Eloise outside of her stall before. She was regal. It seemed as if she was crafted from sterling silver and snow, the kind that glitters on cold mornings. And beneath that, steel. Then I remembered her story. Saw the cast, lumpy and dirty on her fractured leg. It was shocking, wrong, that she was made of flesh and bone, a mortal, the same as everyone else.
Eloise saw me first. She lifted her strong, exquisite head from the long grass she had been grazing and X-rayed me with her stare. I was both relieved and somewhat disappointed when she dropped her head and resumed feasting.
"You passed," Lawrence said. He smiled, but I knew he wasn't kidding around.
"She's...." I couldn't find a word that would even come close to doing her justice. "She's....."
"She's Eloise." He studied my face. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes." It was amazing that a single spoken word could bring my world down again. "I'm sorry I came here. I don't want to bother you, but...I don't know who else to talk to. I don't know who else would really understand." I looked at him and silently pleaded.
He didn't seem mad, just concerned. "Sure. Of course. Up, Elle," he said to Eloise, who lifted her head from the knee-deep grass at his spoken word.
We walked slowly to the barn. Once Eloise was back in her stall (which she looked none too pleased about), Lawrence turned to me. I saw no annoyance in his gorgeous face, but I still felt incredibly stupid and embarrassed. "So," he said to me. "What happened?"
I sighed. It came out ragged. "I just found out that one of the horses I sold is in a bad situation."
His eyes darkened. "Did you get pictures?"
I shook my head. "It's not the sort of thing you can call Animal Control about."
Now he looked furious. "I understand completely."
The floodgates were open now, and I didn't have the strength to shut them. "I feel so awful. This horse is a good soul, and he has a lot of things going for him. I thought I found him a good home, but the lady got this idea in her head that she was going to show him. He's not a show horse. I told her that when I sold him."
I was talking too much, but it was better than crying. "She's taken him to this trainer who's trying to turn him into an upper-level horse overnight. And he's starting to shut down. I know this horse. He's a saint. He won't get mean or fight, he'll just take it. And when he can't take it anymore, he'll go inside himself. It just kills me to see him treated like this. He'll never trust again." I did start crying then. To his credit, Lawrence didn't run or even back away slowly. He actually put his arm around me. That should've been a thrill, but I was too far gone. I barely noticed.
He was talking. I tried to listen. "I know you must hate yourself right now, but you shouldn't. You found the horse a good home. Yes, you did," he said as I shook my head fervently. "People change. It's not your fault. It's not anything you can predict or fix. Horses go through a lot at the hands of people. It sickens me. But they are so incredible." His voice became thick with emotion. "Horses have given me so much. I don't deserve it, but I'll probably spend the rest of my life trying." He paused, collected himself. "And the most amazing thing about horses is that they can and do trust again, even when they have every right not to." He squeezed my arm. "Can I show you something?"
I nodded. I followed him to Eloise's stall. He let himself inside, and pried her mouth open. She clearly wasn't thrilled with this turn of events, but she let him do it. "Look inside," he said.
I leaned forward, and felt a spasm of nausea as I peered into Eloise's mouth. There was a deep scar running across the soft, pink tissue of her tongue and the bars of her mouth. Lawrence released the mare and spoke softly to her. She rested her head on his chest and sighed.
"That scar is from a twisted wire gag bit," Lawrence said. "When I met her, she was so violent that being killed was a real possibility for anyone who went near her. She got to the point where she couldn't stand being hurt anymore, and running away didn't work. Flipping over backwards didn't work. So she started to fight, and it escalated. Elle should have been ruined by what was done to her. But she wasn't." He looked me straight in the eye. "And that's what I want you to rememb
er."
I was still crying, but for a very different reason. "I will."
Part Two
Lawrence
Vegas stepped off the trailer and surveyed his manicured surroundings. Seen it all before, his unimpressed stare conveyed. I clucked to him, and we headed up the pristine blacktop, toward the stable. Vegas' hooves clip-clopped onto the concrete aisle, and he perked up visibly as toned, spit-shined polo ponies peered out of their stalls at us. I pulled a sugar cube from my pocket and fed it to Cricket, the sweet, ancient mare I'd learned to ride on, as I passed her stall. She closed her eyes in rapture and worked it back and forth with her tongue. Vegas was jealous, I knew, but he made a valiant effort not to show it.
I put Vegas in an empty stall so I could take care of some business. He sniffed around, looking extremely offended to be stuck in a stall with no hay or water. "I'll be back in a minute," I promised him. He still looked put-upon as I walked away.
I found Wilson in his office, surrounded by stacks of overdue paperwork. He looked up from the little TV he was watching, clearly startled. "You're early, Cavanaugh. That's never a good sign."
I shrugged. "I figured I could get some stick and balling in before Barbara shows up."
A flicker of exasperation crossed Wilson 's face. "And I'm supposed to provide a pony for you, I suppose."
"No need. I brought my own." I flashed him a cheeky grin, and he glowered at me. Still smiling to myself, I turned to leave.
"Wait just a minute, Cavanaugh," Wilson growled from his desk chair.
I pivoted to face him again. "Yes?"
"Your club membership lapsed a long time ago," Wilson informed me. "What makes you think you can just haul in and ride out?"
"I've left blood and sweat on the floor of every stall in this barn, and several of your best polo ponies would've ended up in someone's sandwich if it weren't for my willingness to put my life on the line. Does that answer your question?"
Training Harry Page 12
