Erica’s voice cut into my swirling, toxic mix of emotions. “DROP THE - “ she paused suddenly. I listened hard. She started again, decisively. “Reach down and pat his neck! Right now!”
That did it. That got through to me. I couldn’t drop the reins, not in the heat of the moment. It seemed drastic, insurmountable somehow. But I could pat Harry. That was doable. I put my hand on his neck, rubbing the glossy, sweaty hair, feeling the concrete muscle under my fingers. The reins went slack. Harry’s feet sank into the ground again. His head flopped downward. He was relieved. Exhausted. I knew how he felt.
I set the reins down on his withers, and just sat there, rubbing his neck with both hands. He melted under my caress, and I realized how I had condemned him. He was crazy, he was a jerk, he had no work ethic. I had done what everyone else does. I had blamed him so I could be blameless. I had only thought about the behavior, not the why. Harry had no words. He had to communicate without them. He had been screaming things at me, and I had been deaf and stupid.
I felt a deep, aching remorse. Shame. Harry deserved better. “I will do better,” I promised him.
I slipped my feet from the stirrups and slid off him. I knew what to do now. We didn’t have to do it right then. We could start fresh another day. I had some damage to repair.
I went to Erica. I needed to see her. Harry followed me. He was content. Almost contemplative.
She had that shiny, happy look on. I smiled, finally. “I’m sorry,” I began sheepishly.
She shook her head, stopping me. “Don’t be. You did it.”
“I was wrong about him,” I said sadly.
“You weren’t wrong on the surface. You just needed to look deeper. And now you have.” She was looking at me directly again, and it made me happy. “You’re like Harry. You’re not perfect. But you’re trying.”
The way she said it made me want to be closer to her. I held myself back. I didn’t comprehend what I was feeling. It wasn’t the typical physical response. It was more vague and deep inside and way more intimidating.
“You can go from here,” she said.
I nodded. Held in her gaze, I promised myself I would keep trying.
Erica
The day was starting out cool; the morning dew shimmered on the grass as I made my way to the barn. The show would already be starting at this early hour, but 4’ Open Jumping was far down on the class list and wouldn’t be starting until the afternoon. That was fortunate, because my parents were both out of town – my dad was at a horse sale, and my mother had gone off to some kind of spa with a van-load of her friends. I had more than my usual workload in their absence, which would surely complicate my show day. At least I’ll have less time to get nervous. I didn’t really mind the extra work. It was good practice; after all, I planned to oversee my own training barn sooner or later.
As I stepped inside the barn, the horses welcomed me by demanding their morning meals. All of their rations were pre-measured, ready and waiting in the feed room. I stacked all of the little buckets in a wheelbarrow and headed down the aisle, sliding open each stall door and dumping each horse’s breakfast into their feed tub. The longtime residents of the farm knew to stay back and wait for me to retreat before plowing into their grain. Those who were still learning manners pawed impatiently by the door and tried to barge into me as I entered the stall. They got an arm waving in their face and a harsh verbal correction, and they didn’t get their grain until they backed out of my personal space.
The worst offender was usually a gelding aptly named Assault. His former owner had spoiled him with treats and let him drag her around, nip at her and even strike at her. His disrespectful and dangerous behavior had escalated until he was impossible to control under saddle. I had bought him for a tiny fraction of his initial purchase price, hoping to repair the damage. I took a deep breath and slid the stall door open, preparing for battle.
To my intense surprise and relief, Assault stayed back and let me enter the stall. “What a…good boy you are today…” I said cautiously, still expecting him to come at me on his hind legs. He waited for me to pour his breakfast into the feed tub before walking up to it and starting to eat. I patted him and backed out of the stall. I didn’t trust his newfound goodness enough to turn my back on him just yet.
As the horses finished up their grain, the morning stall-cleaning crew arrived. I said hello to them as I began leading horses out to their various pastures and paddocks. The show horses, retirees and sale horses all added up to anywhere from 20 to 35 stalls to clean every morning, in addition to a lot of other chores. We employed a few stable hands so my dad and I could concentrate more on the training aspect of the business.
When I got to Assault’s stall, I braced for a fight once again. But he was standing quietly by the door, and I clipped a lead shank to his halter and led him to a turnout paddock with no trouble at all. He didn’t wheel around and kick at me as I turned him out. He just wandered over to a patch of lush grass and nibbled on it. I shook my head, dumbfounded but pleased by his sudden change of heart, and walked away.
It took quite a while, but I got everyone turned out for the day, starting with the most impatient or nervous horses and working my way down to those I could trust not to kick their stalls (or their legs) to pieces or have a panic attack. D.M. waited until everyone else had gone out. He was the only horse I could leave alone in the barn. He walked cheerfully at my side as I led him to one of the smaller paddocks closer to the barn (which would make collecting him later that day vastly easier). He never barged ahead of me or pulled at the lead.
I returned to the barn to help finish the stalls, mostly so I could hear about the latest drama. Donna’s college-age son was in town, and he’d already added a public intoxication charge to his record. He still didn’t have a job and she had no idea where he was getting his money from, but she suspected he was dealing. Lexie had a new boyfriend who was taking up most of her time and brain capacity. She was texting him as she cleaned the stalls, but it only slowed her down a little. She was one of those narrow, hyperactive people who burn 8 million calories a day without trying.
After the stalls were clean and re-bedded and I’d measured out all the evening grains and supplements, which took considerable mental focus (there was a different formula for each horse, and they were always being tweaked in some way), I dragged myself to the house. I needed to eat something, or I was going to crash in a dramatic way. Plus, skipping breakfast is a bad idea, everybody says.
I meant to eat something healthy, like barely flavored oatmeal, or at least bacon and eggs. But I could not resist hot, succulent, fresh-baked muffins. At least they have fruit, I consoled myself as I started on my second one. It’s not like I’m eating pizza for breakfast. Or ice cream…
After “breakfast”, I had a sufficient sugar-buzz to clean and polish my tack, which was looking a bit dull after a last-minute schooling session the night before. I knew I was a little OCD about turnout, but it was the only thing I could control. Showing was so unpredictable. At the very least, I wanted to look like a professional as I destroyed jumps and nearly killed myself. Stop it. That’s not going to happen again. It was a freak accident, and it’s not going to happen again. Seriously, it just can’t happen again, okay?! Even my slow, calming inner voice was a little hysterical today.
I got my tack to the point where I could use it as a mirror, and loaded it into my trailer. Everything else I needed was already in there, except for DM. I checked my watch. Tons of time. Well, not quite tons, but enough time.
That’s when I glanced over at the paddocks by the barn. D.M. was grazing happily, not appearing to miss his usual field friends. My eyes skipped over to the next paddock, where Assault stood still. Not eating, not menacing D.M. over the fence line, not swishing his tail. He was perfectly, ominously still. I mobilized immediately. I went right over to his paddock and looked at him closely. He had a closed-off, preoccupied look on his face. His belly was tightening periodically. Shit. I sn
atched his lead shank off the gate and let myself into the paddock. His eyes followed me as I went to his head and clipped the lead to his halter. He started walking beside me when I asked. I led him to the barn. Shit. I can’t believe I missed this. How long has it been? It was after ten. It had been more than four hours. He had undoubtedly been colicky earlier in the morning. That was why he hadn’t been himself. My face was burning, and my stomach twisted up. A sudden change in attitude was a classic, early sign that something wasn’t right. By now Assault’s condition had clearly progressed, and it could easily get bad.
I quickly relayed the timeline and Assault’s symptoms to the answering veterinarian. She assured me she would be out here in half an hour. I hung up the phone and began leading Assault around the yard. Some people thought it was okay for a colicky horse to stand around if they were calm and nonviolent, but I maintained that walking was a better idea. Standing around did nothing to stimulate an already compromised gut, and there was no way of knowing if the horse’s pain would increase, prompting them to go down and start thrashing. And as I walked Assault, I felt as though I was doing something rather than nothing for the poor gelding.
It seemed like my chaotic thoughts were moving so much faster than the time was. I wished I had a watch. Finally the vet’s truck rolled in the drive. I met her up at the barn with Assault, who looked a bit wilted but not drastically worse than he had been.
I recognized the vet as Martha Leming, one of the vets who came out here so frequently she was Martha rather than Dr. Leming to us. I knew she was competent. At least Assault was in good hands now.
She quickly assessed him, taking his temperature, pulse and respiration. Everything was a bit elevated. Wordlessly, she brought out the nasogastric tube. Assault began mincing backward at the mere sight of it. I dug in my heels, managing to stop him. Martha stepped toward him, wisely staying to one side. Trapped and in pain, Assault struck at her. She narrowly dodged his hoof. “I guess he’s had this done before,” she said. She returned to her dark, looming bag and brought out a twitch.
Pain wasn’t making Assault any easier to deal with. He dragged me around, slamming into me with bruising force as I shanked him mercilessly with the chain, trying to get his attention. His focus was on the vet and her equipment. He clearly knew what a twitch was, and he didn’t want it anywhere near his nose. The minutes slipped away as we battled with him, trying to stay out of range of his flying hooves and immobilize him long enough to treat him. “I don’t want to tranq him when he’s already compromised,” Martha panted. “But I will if I have to.” I nodded. I didn’t even know how much effect the tranq would have on him. He was so worked up.
Suddenly Assault paused, probably preparing to strike or bolt. Martha lunged for his upper lip and clamped the twitch onto it. I grabbed the handle and held on as hard as I could, bringing his head down. Assault stood, rooted to the spot by surprise and pain. Smoothly and efficiently, Martha inserted the tube down his nostril, letting some acid come up and splatter onto the concrete. Then she poured mineral oil down the tube into his stomach until Assault began to fight the twitch. She pulled out the tube quickly and threw it to the side. I released the twitch. Assault stood, his sides heaving. His eyes and mouth were tight. I felt his open hostility. I watched him very carefully.
Martha was staring at him somewhat grimly. “That’s all we can do for now. He’s not a good patient, and more stress isn’t going to help him at all. It looks like a mild colic, but of course, we don’t entirely know. He could develop complications.” She sighed. “Put him somewhere where he can move but not graze, and give him access to water but no hay. And watch him.”
I nodded, and led him to the indoor arena, where I let him go after ensuring all the gates were secured. He walked off, seemingly glad to be free of me and my accomplice with her bag of torture devices. He did look better. Maybe he’ll be okay. I knew I wasn’t authorized to take him in for surgery. There was still considerable doubt as to whether he could be salvaged. Colic surgery was an expensive gamble reserved for valuable or irreplaceable horses. If he got worse, not better, the likely course would be to euthanize him. I really hoped it didn’t come to that. I didn’t like Assault, especially as I stood there, weary and bruised right down to the bone. But I felt responsible for not catching his colic earlier. I didn’t like to see any horse in pain. He was a fine horse, and I thought he could be a good horse, too. He only needed a chance and some boundaries.
I’m supposed to show today, I realized. Like that’s happening. I left Assault and trudged back to the clock hung outside the office. It was after 1. I had planned to leave around 2 in the afternoon. I couldn’t leave Assault, though. There was no one else here to look after him. By the time I got back from the show, he would’ve had ample time to die a long, agonizing death. D.M. needed to show again, but he was just going to have to wait. I had already screwed up once today. Assault needed me here.
But D.M. and I really need to get back in the ring, said a nagging, selfish voice in my head. Especially after last week.
I stood there, torn. I grabbed a bucket, filled it and went back to the arena to observe Assault for a few minutes. He was standing, but he seemed more relaxed. I set down the bucket I’d filled for him, making sure he could see it. After I retreated, he walked over the bucket, suspicious at first, but he finally dropped his head and swallowed some water. That’s good. That will help.
I realized there was something I could do. Someone I could call. For a moment, I rejected the idea. I couldn’t just ask him for help. But why not? You’ve helped him enough. Just ask him.
I found my phone on the passenger seat in my truck (no missed calls) and hit his name in speed dial. I had almost chickened out entirely and decided to hang up when he answered. “Erica. Hi.”
“Hi, Lawrence.” I sounded shaky. I felt shaky. “Um….I hate to ask you this, but I kind of need a favor. If it’s not too much.” I winced.
“Sure,” he said without hesitation. “What’s going on?”
“I had a horse colic this morning. And it’s just my hands on deck.” I laughed nervously at my own stupid joke. “And I have a show. It’s not that important. But it kind of is.”
“I’ll be right over,” he said gallantly. I just about started weeping. What is wrong with you? Must be the stress.
“Thanks,” I said, but when I heard nothing and looked at my phone, I saw he’d already hung up. “I love you,” I said into the empty phone, and then I did cry a little bit.
I pulled myself relatively together, and went to get D.M. ready. I’d just gotten him on the trailer when Lawrence’s maroon pickup came roaring in. It seemed he’d just gotten out of the shower before I called. His hair was wet. His T-shirt clung to him a bit. Oh, my. I shook myself. “Thanks,” I said as he walked up to me. I tried to look in his eyes, instead of lower, but there was nowhere I could look that didn’t make me think of dirty things.
I took him to the barn, and showed him where the emergency numbers and Assault were. “Be careful around him,” I said before I left. “He’s never been good or safe, and he’s really angry after what happened today.”
“I’ll be alright,” he said to me. “Good luck at your show.”
“Thanks.” I snorted. “It’s gotta go better than last time, right?”
“You’ll kill it,” he said confidently.
Remember that, I told myself as I left. I didn’t have to wonder how I was going to get through today now.
I drove sensibly to the show grounds. No sense in getting into an accident or slamming D.M. around just to get there faster. The minute I parked my truck, though, I was thrust into immediate panic mode.
The only place I could park was laughably, cruelly far from everything I needed to get to. The first thing I did was race to the office to get my number and find out where they were on the class list. That was when I found out I was in trouble.
I asked them to please put me last in the class, then sprinted back to my trailer
. D.M. looked alarmed as I dragged him out of the trailer and began ripping off his shipping boots and throwing on his tack, cursing the sliders and keepers and his trendy, complicated leg protection. When he was dressed, I haphazardly dressed myself and then took off for the warm-up ring, pulling D.M. behind me.
I had no time to walk the course, as I had feared. It was going to be nearly impossible to fit in a proper warm-up. I was going to have to try to watch a couple of rounds and then pretty much just fuck my way through the course. This is insane. I can’t ride a course like this. Nobody can.
You’ll kill it, I heard in my head.
Shut up, I thought back. The only thing I’m killing here is myself. Either accidentally or on purpose. We’ll see.
I climbed onto D.M.’s back and started our warm-up. I did the short version, just enough to loosen him up and get him thinking properly, no jumping. Then I rode him over to the ring, hoping there were still a couple people before me.
Crofton Miller, Ben Miller’s up and coming son, rode in on his new jumper, recently shipped from Wellington. The horse was class. Crofton wasn’t a bad rider, but he was a bit sloppy, letting his horse cover for him. They went clear, and the bell dinged, allowing them to jump the assigned fences for the jump-off. I managed to register the order of the fences. The course wasn’t as brutal as the one I’d faced at my last show. But I still hadn’t walked it.
Crofton’s time came up when they passed the finish line. Whoa. It was a very competitive time. I shot Crofton a thumbs-up as he left the ring. He glared at me sourly. Um, I’m sorry? What’s with you? I glanced around, confused. Then I heard Ben admonishing his son. “I didn’t spend fifty grand on a Grand Prix prospect for you so you could come in sixth,” he snapped.
My eyebrows shut up. That time came in sixth? Is everyone shooting up their horses with bottled adrenaline today, or something?
Training Harry Page 23
