The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell

by Bruce R. Coston

  First, there was a sea change in my professional outlook. During my junior year in veterinary school, I was surprised to discover how much I enjoyed small-animal medicine. It provided me the opportunity to pursue what is most fun for me in veterinary medicine—the detective work of diagnosing diseases in patients that cannot tell you verbally where it hurts; the relative ease of working with animals that do not require a padded recovery room and a truck-size anesthesia machine; and the intensely sentimental aspects of companion-animal medicine, where decisions turn more on emotion than on economics.

  These reasons were important in my decision, but to be honest, there was another dimension of horse practice that worried me. Please don’t tell this to any horse people you may know; but at the time, I also realized that if I was to work on horses my whole life, I would have to deal with horse people. There is something unique about horse people that I am seldom confronted with in companion-animal practice. Every horse person knows everything about horses! Not only are all of them veritable horse whisperers, but they all want you to be fully aware of their equine genius. I know this to be true because when horses were my primary passion, it was with exactly this degree of respect that I regarded my own horse knowledge. I think this is coded on the same genes as a passion for horses.

  To be fair, there are a few clients in small-animal practice that bring the same amount of self-taught knowledge to their interactions with their vet. Such people, though, account for only a small percentage of my clients. While typical pet owners do not come with this pride in their animal knowledge as standard equipment, horse people generally do, and it’s a trait that I found tedious.

  Add to that the fact that much in the horse world revolves around horse culture. This is true whether your equine focus is western pleasure, three-day eventing, dressage, hunter/jumper events, conformation showing, or racing. Around each of these subspecialties has developed a world in which the participants speak a language and follow a set of rules to which the rest of the world is simply not privy. Immersion in one of these cultures provides a certain translatable advantage in another. But lacking exposure, as I did, to all of these cultural climates was a handicap that made horse practice virtually unassailable for me—a handicap that I would have eventually tired of accommodating. Medicine is hard enough as it is.

  That explains why I am a fulfilled companion-animal practitioner. But it does not explain why, at fifty, I still have no horses of my own. Simply stated, it’s my kids’ fault! I did try very hard to develop in Jace and Tucker a love for horses similar to that shared by Cynthia and me. We extolled the wonderful virtues of horses and regaled our sons with horse stories. I related with suitable embellishments the countless tales of my nine summers as a camper in Florida and the six summers I spent as a staff member in a horse barn. Cynthia added her memories of Mike and Ike, Tangerine, and the other horses she had growing up as a child in Tennessee. When they were old enough, we enrolled Jace and Tucker in summer horse camp, where they spent hours circling a ring at a somnolent walk on horses that wanted to go no faster. All our efforts, though, were to no avail. If the horse-loving genes are not present at birth, the passion apparently cannot be evoked by even the most creative of parental tactics.

  The final nail was driven into the coffin of my horse-owning hopes on Jace’s seventh birthday. We were camping at Camp Roosevelt in Fort Valley, the historic first of many Civilian Conservation Corps work camps in the 1930s where unemployed men were put to work planting trees, building roads, and keeping at bay the ravages of the Great Depression. You get to Camp Roosevelt by taking the Edinburg Gap Road east off Highway 11 on the north end of Edinburg and cresting the mountain at Tasker Ridge. As you descend into Fort Valley, you can stop partway down if you wish and fill a gallon jug or two with the fresh mountain rainwater that issues from springs and is dispensed through pipes by the roadway. You would think such water might carry a high risk of contamination when you look at the rudimentary delivery system that has been in place for generations. But you would be wrong; many families have used this free springwater as their main water supply for decades. If you turn south on Fort Valley Road at King’s Crossing and follow the road to the apex of the valley, it eventually heads east and ascends over Edith Gap and down into the Page Valley, where Luray spreads out sleepily on the valley floor along the banks of the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. Just before you reach the top of Edith Gap, Camp Roosevelt is nestled into a couple of acres of sheltered woods and boasts ten camping spots that are claimed on a first-come, first-served basis and paid for on the honor system. Those campsites are filled with families in tents most summer weekends from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

  On that beautiful April day, I had the brilliant idea of taking the family on a trail ride. There is a wonderful little stable in the Fort that has a warren of trails in the surrounding woods and a barn full of suitably calm trail horses. I had called a few days earlier and reserved four spots on the eleven o’clock ride on Jace’s birthday. I thought this would be another chance to reinforce the ongoing horse indoctrination of the boys, and I was looking forward to it. During my six summers at camp, I had taken thousands of such rides, and even though I knew this one would be an hour of slow trudging, it would at least provide Jace and Tucker with another opportunity to feel the thrill of having the control of a thousand-pound beast in your hands, which had for me been intoxicating.

  We arrived a half hour before our scheduled ride to let the boys walk up and down the line of tethered horses, whose tails lazily chased away the inevitable flies that pestered their sides and legs. Tucker was drawn to the big bay horse with the four white socks and the blaze of white streaking his forehead. The wrangler told us his name was Blaze and let Tucker stroke his nose and offer the carrots we had brought with us. Jace had difficulty choosing between a palomino mare named Queen and a buckskin gelding, creatively named Bucky, with a black mane and tail. His decision was made for him when the wrangler told us that the buckskin liked to trot on the trail rides. After that, Jace was all about Queen, offering stirring summaries of the exceptional virtues of mares and the many advantages that palominos offered over buckskins. Besides, he told us, Queen reminded him of the toy horse he had loved in kindergarten, which he had called King Horse.

  When the time came to mount our horses, Jace was assisted onto the saddle of the palomino, where he immediately grasped the saddle horn and pasted an anxious look of concern on his now seven-year-old face. Tucker sat astride Blaze and surveyed the saddle and reins as a NASCAR fan would the dashboard of a race car, no doubt searching for the accelerator. This is Tucker’s typical bring-it-on approach to a new activity. (I learned recently, as we were discussing the horse camp that we had placed such high hopes in, that Tucker had spent the entire two-week period wanting to, as he put it, “get the dang horse to run. How long can one person be expected to circle the ring at a walk anyway?” he asked.) It was with this same full-speed-ahead determination that Tucker turned his horse into the queue, his little legs barely reaching the stirrups, which were raised as high as possible.

  Cynthia was put on Cheyenne, a staid and dependable black mare with a Roman nose and an apparent disregard for any cues a rider might give her. Cheyenne was committed to one simple goal—getting back to the stable after having expended as little energy as possible. That meant, apparently, following the horse ahead of her by matching each of its steps with a plodding one of her own, head down and eyes partially closed. Reins, stirrups, voice and weight commands, even the firm clumping of Cynthia’s heels on Cheyenne’s sides were all so many unnecessary and extraneous annoyances to the single-minded mare. All that she needed for navigational purposes was provided by the rump of the horse ahead of her.

  Having been sure to make the wrangler well aware of my prodigious skills and limitless experience with horses of this sort, I was placed on a horse that required more in the way of direction than did Cheyenne. Bingo was a six-year-old paint gelding with, as I was assured by t
he wrangler, a little bit of “spirit” in him. I expected this meant I would need to be constantly vigilant to avoid losing control of a headstrong horse with a big heart and a will to run. To the wrangler, though, “spirit” apparently had a more biblical meaning: that Bingo possessed the “breath of life.” In actual fact, it meant that the wrangler expected Bingo to remain awake for the duration of the ride. At least that’s what seemed to be occurring as we left the paddock, where the horses had been loosely tied to the top rail of the fence.

  Still, with Cynthia just ahead of Jace’s horse and me just ahead of Tucker’s, we headed out with high spirits, both Cynthia and I barking instructions at the boys and keeping up a steady stream of verbal encouragement. There were, as I recall, six or eight other guests whom the sole wrangler leading the trail ride was responsible for. I remembered from my years leading trail rides how it felt to have the safety of novices in my hands, and I felt good that Cynthia’s valuable horse experience and mine could so drastically reduce his stress level, freeing him to concentrate on the other riders in the group, who, no doubt, needed more supervision. The line of horses headed into the woods, following a trail that the horses had taken hundreds of times before.

  As the ride progressed, I could see that the lines of stress on Jace’s face were easing as Cynthia’s dialogue continued. His confidence was growing, and his mastery of his mount was having the desired effect as we wound through the trees and up the gentle hills. From my conversation with Tucker, I could tell that he was having fun, too. Both were, I was sure, beginning to experience the wonder and majesty of horsemanship. I began to picture in my mind the time when, as a family, we would head out on trail rides on horses of our own, perhaps packing camping gear behind our saddles for weekend pack trips in the mountains. Cynthia kept turning in her saddle to give me an encouraging look and a furtive thumbs-up. We were doing well!

  It was at about the halfway point, where the trail turned into a particularly thick section of woods, that my horse-owning visions came to an abrupt and unexpected end. The four of us were at the tail end of the line of horses that entered that wood. It was the first horse or two in the line that initially disturbed the underground nest of hornets. Upon the initial equine invasion, two or three hornet scouts were dispatched to assess the enemy. They circled the line of horses and returned to the nest to alert the awaiting battalions that an attack on the invaders was necessary. By the time the full brunt of the assault was mounted by the indignant hornets, only the last four horses in the line were still in disputed territory. It was at these horses that the ten or twelve thousand buzzing fighters directed their fury—those and the hapless people who were riding them, unaware of the catastrophe that was about to be unleashed.

  My first indication that something was amiss was when Cheyenne veered sharply from the trail and picked up speed, attempting to brush the stinging hornets off on the underbrush that whisked past with ever-increasing velocity. This, unfortunately, did not stop the onslaught, so she lunged, headlong and bucking, and circled back around. I looked up to see Cynthia and Cheyenne bearing down on us at full speed from the right of the path. Still at a full canter, she crossed in front of me and headed into the woods to my left. Just as Cynthia’s cues to Cheyenne when she wanted her to speed up were ignored, so were her frantic attempts at slowing the horse now as it blazed new and exciting trails through the thick undergrowth. Finally, through superhuman effort and sheer force of will, Cynthia brought Cheyenne to a halt in the middle of the thick woods, the mare standing stock-still with feet planted, sweating and quivering in utter fear and confusion.

  The sudden disappearance of Cheyenne from the line left an unexpected gap in front of Queen, who clearly felt it a mistake in need of immediate correction. Her impetus to do so was increased exponentially by the sudden and simultaneous attachment of two angry hornets: one to the soft skin on her muzzle and the other to a spot just above her tail. This so surprised her that she ran to the unwitting horse in front of her and immediately plunged her hurting nose into its unsuspecting fanny, then commenced rubbing her nose vigorously on the horse’s rump. Apparently, this is considered among horses to be an incredibly rude gesture requiring a firm response. The horse immediately lashed out at Queen, landing a poorly aimed kick squarely on Jace’s shin.

  I watched with horror as the look on Jace’s face turned from engaged and eager to sheer terror in less time than it takes to tell. Time slowed to stop-motion as with dread I watched three or four more hornets begin to hone in on Queen’s neck, sides, and legs. I knew that within just a few seconds, she would erupt like a barrel of Prohibition moonshine. This would be more than Jace could tolerate. An intervention was obviously necessary, so I spurred Bingo firmly in the ribs with my heels, trying to close the distance between our horses. My plan was to reach down, grab the leather reins that Jace had let slip to the ground, and lead Queen to safety. Unfortunately, I had not adequately prepared Bingo for such an act of heroism. Just as I leaned down and reached for her reins, Bingo fell victim to a cowardly but effective hornet attack on his fanny. He wheeled around in the opposite direction from where I was heading and neatly deposited me in a pile at Queen’s feet. Instinctively, and quite bravely, I might add, I reached up and grabbed the end of the reins that still dangled from her bit. In the same instant, Queen recoiled from the writhing human that had suddenly materialized at her feet, rearing back and flailing with her front feet, striking fear into my core. I looked up to see Jace huddled over the saddle horn, hanging on gamely with both hands, his face white and streaked with fear. I realized that continuing to hold on to the reins would be good for neither Jace nor me, and I let go just in time for a hornet to plunge his stinger into my wrist with malevolent vengeance.

  It was at about this time that Cheyenne’s temporary paralysis disappeared, most likely cured by another hornet sting, and she erupted again into a headlong rush, Cynthia clinging to her as she ran under branches too low to be ducked, leaving long scratches that oozed parallel stripes of blood on Cynthia’s cheeks and arms. As Cheyenne ran by me, I stood and spread my arms in an attempt to snag her bridle. This caused her to shy sharply to her right, a move for which Cynthia was unprepared. It was only by an amazing feat of horsemanship that she was able to remain in place on her saddle and once again gain control of Cheyenne just in time to avoid a wild race to the barn.

  Despite all the excitement, Blaze plodded along the trail with Tucker on board, completely unperturbed by either the rodeos breaking out around him or the threat of the hornets that buzzed by his ears. When he reached the line of horses that had stopped on the trail, their riders watching the scene play out like rubberneckers at a highway pileup, Blaze simply stopped, chocked a rear toe up on the ground, and hung his head in boredom.

  Cheyenne’s second outbreak forced Queen back toward the end of the line of waiting horses, where I was now standing. I grabbed her bridle and she calmed noticeably and started rubbing her nose on my arm. Strangely, at this point some signal was sent to the squadrons of hornets to abandon the attack, and they disappeared as quickly as they had come. When it was over, I had been stung a total of four times: once on the wrist, once on the neck, and once on each knee.

  The wrangler finally made his way around the waiting line of horses to where the Coston family had gathered at the end of the line. He found me on the ground, holding the bridle of Jace’s mount. Cynthia was gamely steadying Cheyenne’s nerves. The mare was lathered and frantic, fairly cantering in place. Tucker was surveying with envy the excitement of the rest of the family, seated astride Blaze, whom I’m sure I heard snoring. And Bingo was grazing luxuriously on the grass that grew some forty yards away from the trail, his saddle askew, one stirrup squarely on his back and the other hanging from his belly like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. The wrangler stopped, took in the scene, and then turned a stony gaze on me as I stood before him, rubbing the places on my wrist that had begun to swell and turn red.

  “Hornets,” I stam
mered by way of explanation.

  But I don’t think he believed me. I doubt he even heard me, since he had already turned his horse to retrieve Bingo. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time, with me standing self-consciously in front of the group, for him to readjust Bingo’s saddle so I could once again mount up. The other riders seemed put out that their ride had been interrupted. I think it was just coincidence that made the wrangler position me directly behind his horse for the return trip to the barn. From there, I could barely see Jace or Tucker or Cynthia at the end of the line.

  By the time we made it back to the barn, the pain from my hornet stings had begun to ease, though the agony of my throbbing ego still smarted. To add insult to injury, it was many days before my fanny had recovered enough so that sitting on it was bearable again. I’m quite sure that was the last time I rode a horse. Since that day, there have been no forces in heaven or on earth that have ever been able to dredge up in Tucker or Jace even the slightest shred of equine interest. Their fancies have turned to water skiing and snow skiing, sports that, as a consequence, have taken on much more importance for Cynthia and me.

  It’s really not fair, I suppose, to place the blame for my lost dream on the boys. After all, both of them are away at college now. Cynthia and I could certainly take up our old hobbies once again if we chose to. It’s funny, though, how time alters childhood dreams, how what was a joy to me when I was young now seems simply another chore that would take me away from the familiar comforts of routine. Perhaps it’s the creeping advance of age and the betrayal of youthful priorities. But I don’t think so. That would diminish the value of experience and the accumulated wisdom of maturity and would ignore the evolution of personal development.

  The truth is, I am not the same person I was when I was twenty. Life has changed me. Marriage, fatherhood, and a career devoted to significant effort have ennobled, not eroded, me. I have not turned my back on previous passions. I have had new passions open before me. Is this not the stuff of life? Isn’t this evolving self the spice that keeps life interesting and progressive? So celebrate with me the passions of youth. Relive them with nostalgia; recall them with humor. Then turn and allow new ones to overtake you. At fifty, with shoulders now sore from this season’s first slalom run behind our boat, I have found this to be a wise course of action for me. It’s also much easier on my bum. Come to think of it, I haven’t been stung on the knee by a hornet since Jace’s seventh birthday.