I sat on the sofa beside my father one Sunday afternoon. He was ecstatic. ‘She came up to me and kissed me! Did you see it? Just here, three little kisses on my cheek. Oh, Iris!’ We had all seen it and knew how much it meant. Then he tickled her and she moved away: a step too far that made me laugh.
Our lunches were traditional in one way, mostly roasts, but they were different in another. My parents had learnt not to pressure Iris to sit at the table, and I fed her at home before we arrived. A little routine would commence. We would arrive always at the same time, about twelve thirty.
‘Hello, darling,’ my mother would call out from the kitchen. ‘I’ve put some things out for Iris, taken the wool blanket off and her water is there.’
I would then lay out Iris’s books and encourage her to explore the toys her grandmother had put out for her, grateful that the wool blanket wasn’t on the back of the sofa. Iris’s skin was sensitive and materials like that might cause an upset. While we ate our lunch in the dining room Iris would stay in the playroom with Indy, who was probably eating her snacks. Then she would dart in and out of the dining room, inspecting the ornaments on the table. There would be moments of interaction with each family member and then off she would go to the playroom again. No matter how much we tried no one could take their eyes off her while she carefully rotated the china or silver in her hands. There was something intriguing about the way she handled objects. The way she appreciated and looked after things was so alluring; you wanted to touch it too to appreciate what had caught her attention. When Iris needed space and went to sit on the sofa my mother would remind my father ‘Just leave her for now. She is busy looking at her books’ or ‘Turn the volume down’ as he watched sport on television next to her in the playroom. If my parents had friends for lunch or more of the extended family were there, we would make sure we arrived beforehand so Iris could settle and it was always a balancing act with Iris dipping in and out of the party so she could manage the additional people in the house. Having a quiet space just for her was essential on these occasions. But it didn’t always work. Sometimes she would get distressed about the noise and movement of others and I would take her for a drive in the car, which always helped: some time out and peace, looking out on to the countryside from her seat in the back of the car.
Although she was still not saying anything verbally beyond a few sounds, she was able to make herself understood by guiding us to what she wanted and showing us. Best of all, she was now able to do that not just with me, but with everyone in our family, so I had high hopes that it would eventually extend to teachers at the preschool.
In June, with only a summer to go until Iris turned three, I was starting to feel the pressure of what was to come. Her time at preschool would be the perfect way to prepare Iris for school, but I also wanted her to be prepared for preschool itself, which would be a massive change for Iris as her social skills were still so basic. She didn’t follow verbal instructions, still found other children very confusing, and really her only way of communicating was through body language. Was there something I was missing, something I hadn’t thought of to help Iris, another type of therapy perhaps?
I revisited an idea that I had looked into in the past, but to make this one work I would need to persuade P-J. Since Iris had been diagnosed I had made enquiries for her to be on the waiting list for an assistance dog. I had read how they had helped children in many situations and after the loss of Meoska I was missing having an animal in the house. I believed wholeheartedly that only good could come from having a pet and wanted Iris to experience the pleasures of having a faithful friend. The idea that a dog could be trained to help Iris, that it could provide support for her and help with her social skills was so special. Unfortunately my research and enquiries were not going well. Most of the waiting lists had been closed due to high demand. A lovely lady from one charity suggested I contacted a friend of hers who ran courses about how to train your own dog to be an assistance dog. A plan formed in my mind, to find a dog for Iris that we could train with some help from a professional. To my surprise P-J wasn’t averse to the idea. He didn’t want to walk the dog, but I loved going for walks so that was easy enough to negotiate. The obvious choice was to find a golden retriever and there happened to be one that was a year old being advertised for sale locally. A gamekeeper was cutting down on the amount of dogs he had on his farm and wanted to sell his youngest, Willow. I was so excited about meeting her; she sounded perfect for us. I kept in mind all those times I had seen Indy be kind to Iris and I began to visualize all the ways in which Willow might be able to help Iris when she was anxious or upset: giving her confidence and helping with her social skills, perhaps even coming in the car as we took Iris for her first day at preschool and all the other firsts that were yet to come.
‘She’s the one, I can feel it,’ P-J said, as he came back to the car on our first visit to see her. I was waiting with Iris just in case the dogs were too noisy. As I approached Willow I could see what he meant: she was gentle, loving and very attentive. Her lovely face was so graceful and she had long blonde eyelashes and beautiful brown eyes. We took her back home that day with the agreement that we could have her on a two-week trial but we were both thinking this would be her forever home. I adored her already and hoped Iris would too.
But the trial didn’t go well. As I heard P-J’s voice through Iris’s cries I knew that this hadn’t been my greatest plan.
‘Look, this isn’t working at all.’ P-J held Iris screaming in his arms and I did my best to get Willow to sit in the kitchen while I shut the door.
I turned round and took Iris in my arms and hugged her tight. ‘I know, I’m so sorry. Iris is fine with Indy and she is so bouncy. I just don’t understand why this is going so wrong.’
‘Maybe it’s because it’s all the time. Iris doesn’t get a break.’
It was true: Willow would get so excited and didn’t know when to leave Iris alone. And she loved water so she would roll in the wet grass and make herself smelly, which Iris hated.
‘And the licking! It never stops. She just licks Iris as soon as she sees her and doesn’t take any notice when she gets pushed away. And you said you would do the walking. That was the deal.’
‘Oh, come on! Iris hasn’t been sleeping at all since Willow came and it’s been so hard during the day. You said you would rather go out. It’s been me dealing with all the meltdowns.’
I settled Iris with her favourite alphabet book and went through into the kitchen to talk more to P-J alone. I didn’t want Iris to feel this was her fault. I stroked Willow, who rested her chin on my knee looking angelic. I wanted so much for it to work, but I had to admit P-J was right. Our lives had become much more complicated and difficult with her around. Iris seemed upset all the time; she wasn’t sleeping and now avoided any room that Willow was in. Willow would seek her out wherever she could. It was a completely one-sided relationship and Iris was sick of the relentless attention and being covered with licks. So we rang the gamekeeper and took her back that afternoon. As I shut the boot of the car and looked at Willow through the window, her eager happy face and those gorgeous eyes, I felt terrible. I was sad to see her leave. It felt like I had failed at yet another part of life and I felt guilty for what I had put Iris through. How had I got this so wrong? The only upside was that I think Willow thought she had been on a holiday and bounced happily over to the other dogs at the farm while P-J apologized to the gamekeeper and explained why it hadn’t worked out.
I hated it when my plans didn’t work, but I was getting used to the feeling. I would create elaborate activities and feel so disheartened when they were completely ignored. Then we would have a success and it felt glorious, spurring me on to try again. The ups and downs were draining at times, to the point that I just wanted to give up, but when P-J told me that he thought that we should leave the animals idea for now, the stubborn streak in me couldn’t let this idea go. ‘It will happen when it’s meant to happen. Remember how Meosk
a came into our lives, and the horses in Venezuela?’ That expression irritated me. I didn’t believe that any more. I believed you had to work at creating opportunities.
Over the summer before Iris’s third birthday, I had read many stories about children on the spectrum, some more powerful than others, and The Horse Boy moved me to tears. A boy called Rowan, who sounded very much like Iris, had been transformed by his affinity with horses and then by an epic journey on horseback in Mongolia. His parents, Rupert and Kristin, took him to see shamans and they saw a reversal in their boy’s autistic tendencies. His connection with horses, and his father’s open mind, his ability to be able to see life through his son’s eyes and adapt, made me wonder if horses would once more play an important role in our lives. I found an equine therapy yard not far from where we lived where people who had trained with Rupert worked and I felt certain this would help Iris. They didn’t have any availability for a few weeks so we put some dates in the calendar and I couldn’t wait to take her.
Looking through my photograph albums of our adventures on horseback in Venezuela I remembered how incredibly loyal our horses were. These creatures were highly sensitive, and I felt sure that they would work well with Iris, and that like me she would feel a deep connection to them. Horses might well be the key for getting Iris more used to social situations, maybe even a key to her communicating more verbally. I looked up to the wooden beams in the garden room where our Venezuelan saddles now lived. The brightly coloured pads and leather saddlebags transported me right back there. It was a fascinating country, and the malevolent murmurs from the unrest in the cities had been silenced for us by a land filled with majestic wonder. I trusted and admired Cantenero, a little horse that had totally changed the way I interacted with animals, shifting my approach towards gentler methods. It was he who had taught me never to underestimate what horses are capable of.
We had bought our horses from a hotel owner who had won the pair of stallions in a card game. He had no equine knowledge, and they were very badly neglected: thin, riddled with worms and both of them so broken in spirit that I made him an offer. I knew when we bought the horses that it was going to be a challenge but I couldn’t just let them die. I didn’t know how I was going to look after them in this beautiful but strange land but I knew about horses and they understood me; the rest I could learn along the way. A month later and they were already looking so much better. I had managed to find a vet that supplied us with wormers, and had travelled for miles to towns further south to find a store that sold shoes and learnt how to shoe them ourselves. We explored the tropical valleys and mountains, going for long treks each day, finding new routes and tracks. Cantenero was loyal, my best friend. He was fierce, a black beauty, but so badly treated in the past it took a while to gain his trust. Most days while P-J was trying to get some work done I would take Cantenero out and we would go on adventures together, my camera in the saddlebag on one side and map and snacks on the other. We climbed steep mountain sides and waded through rivers when the tracks were blocked by fallen trees. Like a mountain goat he always nimbly found a way. To my surprise on many occasions he would enter our home, just walking in as if to say, ‘How’s it going? Tea ready yet?’ It wasn’t a party trick: he genuinely thought he belonged with humans.
But then Cantenero started fighting with our other horse, Bonito, and since we hadn’t been able to find a suitable field for them yet the young man who had been helping us learn how to shoe them said that he would take him for a while until we got everything sorted. I trusted him and he assured me that everything would be fine.
After about a week we went over on a surprise visit since we had heard nothing about how it was going. As I clambered out of the Toyota Land Cruiser I saw P-J glance over and he couldn’t help but laugh – the sight of me trying to get out of this ginormous vehicle always made him smile. Although it was a monster I had become very attached to its overpowering presence, with its pumped-up suspension, huge metal bumper guard, tinted windows, snorkel exhaust and pull-up tent on the roof rack. It was as if we were surrounded by a fortress, a welcome feeling in this South American country on the edge of civil war.
I heard Cantenero whinny, and saw him tied up tightly to a fence. He pawed his hoof and tried to make his way over to us. There was no shade, food or water that I could see and I started to feel upset.
It turned out he had been fighting with their stallions too, so they had separated him, but had cruelly not looked after him properly. My heart was racing. This animal was my responsibility and I loved him as if we had been friends for years.
‘Don’t get angry with the guy,’ P-J whispered to me. ‘It’s not worth it. Let’s just get Cantenero and go.’ He knew how quick-tempered the men here were. The atmosphere had changed since we had first arrived in the Andes. Life was becoming increasingly difficult with fuel strikes and shops closing, and food was becoming hard to come by as the supermarket shelves emptied. The laid-back, jovial manner of the locals was gradually turning, while the students protested, burning tyres and blocking streets, and the miles between the city and our safe haven seemed to be shrinking. Looking at my horse tied up, dusty, hungry and standing in the sun, my mind was made up: I would ride him back to our house that afternoon and P-J would drive back, meeting us along the route to make sure that we were safe. Luckily I had his saddle and bridle in the Toyota from when we had dropped him off, so we told them we would take him back with us. It would be a long ride back and we would have to go quickly to make it back before dark. We could keep Cantenero in our garden until I found another field.
‘Take it steady and be careful. Don’t talk to anyone and keep going. I will meet you at the top road just here.’ P-J pointed at a wiggly line on the map.
I had never known Cantenero move so fast. His short rather uncomfortable stride was extended, and we were flying through the tropical valleys and there was a joyful bounce in his every step.
As we climbed in altitude the air got cooler and we took a break in the forest by a stream among the banana plants. Cantenero drank the fresh water, and black butterflies with turquoise patterns took flight in the commotion caused by his long slurps. Just beside me, perfectly camouflaged, I saw an insect in the shape of a leaf and I could hear the familiar buzz of hummingbirds swooping by in search of their favourite flowers, fuelling up and then on to the next. The noises in the forest were changing and everything was becoming louder as the light faded. Strange sounds that I hadn’t heard before echoed around me. We cantered up the valley towards the road where I met P-J.
Row your Boat, acrylic, April 2013
‘You will be back in no time. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of light left.’ His unfailing optimism could be rather unrealistic at times, so I took a shortcut through a more cultivated area filled with small farms. With very little light left and knowing how dark it got there with no light pollution I raised my reins in a little short upward motion so that Cantenero knew we had to pick up the pace again. The familiar smell of the grapefruit orchard near our house told me we were getting closer.
Suddenly I was aware I was not alone on the track. I could hear voices approaching and the smell of tobacco. Figures appeared round the corner with little burning lights from their cigarettes. Cantenero felt my legs tighten round him, and he raised his head high, arched his neck, trotting in a menacing fashion, snorting, plunging his hooves hard on the ground. We were on this adventure together and he was now taking his place as the protector. He had learnt to be careful of men: some you could trust and others were cruel. His hooves pounded the ground, the noise reverberating across the valley, and the men that we passed were intimidated by the stallion’s presence and gave me a wide berth. I didn’t hear a word from them: none of the usual jeering I had become accustomed to.
I was so relieved as the distance between us and them increased. Tensions were running high all over the country and there was no telling what you could expect from the locals. I knew that they were confused by the outside
rs who loved horses and above all I was a young blonde English girl, just twenty years old in a foreign land. I was a potential target so always tried to be as careful as possible but the realization of my actions hit home: riding alone at dusk seemed ridiculous. I felt like I could breathe again once I saw my favourite tree covered in Spanish moss that was gently blowing in the breeze. For some the silhouettes of these trees would be a haunting sight, but for me they meant I was safely back home. P-J was there to meet me and as I slid the enormous metal gates shut I realized how dark it now was. Cantenero was tired but very happy to be with us and settled in immediately, grazing in the garden.
On a trek down the valley some time later I was approached by a student who was studying in the nearby city of Merida and had been visiting his parents in the country for the holidays. He was so excited that at first it was hard for me to understand his Spanish and broken English, but I understood enough of his story to learn how our faithful Cantenero had come to be. He had been raised by this young man’s family in the hills, and from being a foal he lived in their humble home with earth floors and a tin roof. He was surrounded by the family and dogs so began to act just like them, protecting his owners. They trained him with gentle techniques and in turn Cantenero was kind. Sadly they had to sell him years before as one year their crops had failed but they all hoped he would still be safe and well.
Thinking about all our adventures with horses and how they helped me it felt like a natural progression to introduce Iris to horses and I felt confident this would bring much happiness into her life. At first our sessions at the Equine Assisted Therapy stables that were set within woodland were successful. Iris liked riding in front of me on the western saddle. She would look up at the canopy above and felt relaxed in my arms as we were led through the trees. We were only out for short rides and my back seemed to be OK – a little painful but worth it to see Iris happy. There was a large trampoline at the stables that she also liked.
Iris Grace Page 9
