The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

by Shade, Victoria;

  I loved being at the barn. The extra bonus was that I got to be Carol’s student. She made everything fun and interesting. There was always a new horse to ride, a new movement to learn. And she was often delightfully unpredictable. True to her fondness for surprises, toward the end of that summer, Carol instructed me to tack up a horse named Moonshine.

  “Moonshine?” I asked, to make sure I understood.

  “Moonshine,” she confirmed.

  15

  I knew nothing about Moonshine other than the location of his stall, which was in one of the boarder barns. He didn’t live in the school barn, so he couldn’t be a school horse. But I also never saw any boarder come to ride Moonshine. I had ridden all of the school horses, so I knew what they were like. As for the boarder horses, I saw most of the horses’ owners when they came to the barn to ride their horses, so I knew something about them and their mounts. But nobody ever came for Moonshine.

  Nevertheless, I gathered his bridle and saddle from the tack room and headed to his stall. He was dozing with his head held low in the dark corner of the stall. He almost blended into the shadow of that corner, as he was a deep brown color, almost black. When I opened the sliding stall door, his head snapped up. He pinned his ears, turned, and lunged at me with gnashing teeth. I pulled the door closed in an instant, watching as his teeth bit at the metal bars of the stall door. I had never been attacked by a horse before.

  What did I do? I wondered.

  I stood, frozen, on the other side of the stall, as Moonshine continued biting at the bars. I looked to my left and then to my right. No one was around to help me, or to explain this crazy behavior. I stood there, alone and confused. I waited a few minutes for the animal’s fury to subside. He eventually tired of attacking the dead metal bars of the stall and moved back to the same corner in which I found him. Succumbing to my curiosity and perpetual urge to overcome challenges (and an apparent death wish), I entered the stall again, approaching the animal with a saddle pad to put on his back. He stood still while I approached.

  Maybe I caught him off guard? Maybe that’s why he freaked out? I wondered as he stood still, now that I was I was about to tack him up.

  But as soon as I drew my arm over my head and flung the saddle pad over his back, I was instantly pinned in a corner of the stall. With unexpected speed and agility, he had twisted his body so that he barricaded me. Now I was in the corner! This was the first time I was afraid of being hurt by a horse. His ears were again pinned flat to his head, revealing his rage. His body squeezed and pushed me as hard as he could to keep me in the corner. I was afraid of him moving slightly forward and having perfect aim at my body with one of his powerful hind legs. I knew that one good kick would be all that it would take to either kill me or put me in a lot of pain for a very long time. That realization turned my fear into anger. I was suddenly fearless.

  “Get OFF me!” I shrieked as I shoved against his heavy body.

  He started whipping his tail from side to side in another sign of irritation, which only antagonized me further. I pushed him off of me and, when I was free, amazingly, he didn’t kick me. He didn’t even lunge at me. He simply went to his feed bucket in another corner of the stall.

  What the hell? I racked my brain to try to understand what was going on. He ignores me when I get mad? That doesn’t make any sense. This horse is totally nuts, I concluded.

  Nonetheless, I went to the stall door to get the saddle on the floor right by the door, always keeping an eye on the beast in the corner. I lifted the saddle onto his back while he stood motionless, ears still pinned. When I put on the girth and tightened it around his belly, however, he turned his menacing face around to bite me. Just when his mouth opened, I raised my hand and lunged slightly back at him, to reciprocate the attack. He jerked back around, ears flat on his head and tail swishing during the entire episode. Then it was time to put on the bridle. I knew this would be a struggle. There was no way this beast would let me strap leather all over his head and slip a metal bit into his mouth. As soon as I got the brow band in front of his nose, he jutted his head out and tossed the entire bridle out of my hand. It landed against the wall, and slid down into the shavings. After I picked it up and tried again, he decided he would lift his head high beyond my reach and nod, almost taunting me. All I could do was sigh. I had a feeling that getting angry wouldn’t expedite the tacking up process.

  Well, you gotta bring your stupid head back down sometime, I thought. I stood there, trying to look disinterested, but waiting for the perfect chance to slip the bridle over his head. As soon as he brought his head down, I grabbed the front of his nose with one hand, jerked the bit into his mouth, and pulled the bridle up past his ears, slipping each ear through as quickly as I could. I was generally careful and gentle when putting bridles on horses, conscious that I was slipping a harsh, cold, tasteless piece of metal into their mouths. But since Moonshine had been such an exceptional pest, I was unyielding and forceful with the bridle. His antics had earned him none of the kindness I showed the other horses.

  My arms were already sore from the fight—he had still pulled me off the ground—but I didn’t care. I had won.

  “Haha, you jackass!” I let out, too overcome by my victory. I didn’t care that I was taunting a horse; this one really deserved it.

  As soon as the tack was all securely on, I marched him out of the stall and toward the mounting block outside. I positioned him near it so that I could slip my foot into the stirrup, throw my free leg over his back and ease into the saddle. But, just when my left foot was in the stirrup, the beast trotted off!

  “Damn it, horse, stop!” I yelled, holding on to the left side of his body with all my strength. I would not let him get away with this! I pulled myself up to the saddle and threw my body over it. Then, I swiftly swung my right leg over his back as I pulled the reins in my left hand and sat back. But the animal kept building speed, and was making his way to the back field, so then I threw my right hand over my left hand on the reins, to pull back with more force.

  Moonshine then came to a grinding halt.

  In my frustration, I whipped his head around to turn him in the direction of the indoor arena, where Carol was waiting for us. Her dog, Max, a sleepy, old Labrador Retriever, lay at the entrance of the arena, his usual spot. When he noticed Moonshine and me approaching, he stood up to get out of the way. Just as he started to shift out of Moonshine’s path, Moonshine flattened his ears and lunged at the dog. I grabbed the reins in just enough time to spare Max.

  What the hell is wrong with this horse? Why is he so vicious? And why do I have to ride him? I wondered as I entered the arena, looking for my trainer.

  As I approached Carol aboard Moonshine, ready for my first lesson on this animal that had just tried to kill both me and her dog, she remarked, “I see you’re still in one piece,” she smiled mischievously. Then, she gave me my first tip on how to ride Moonshine.

  “If you can ride this horse, you can ride any horse.”

  Oh great, I thought, this will go well.

  I squeezed Moonshine with both legs, giving him the cue to go from walk to trot. But he dipped his head down and sped backwards, exactly the opposite of what I wanted. I kicked him to stop the moonwalking, trying to save some face in front of my trainer, and everyone else, but then the jerk bolted forward in a gallop! As I scrambled to collect my reins, I realized that he wasn’t just bolting, he was aiming for a target—another horse and rider in the arena, and he was charging the pair! “Moonshine!” I whispered loudly through my gritted teeth, hoping my voice would snap him out of his sudden rage. But he wasn’t stopping. We were racing to the other horse and rider. At this point I realized there would be no grace or dignity in this lesson, so I resorted to the cowboy maneuvers I had picked up riding crazy horses on trails, and yanked his head hard to the right. I then threw all my weight to the right to at least throw off his balance. Then came the
brakes. Instead of turning to the right, Moonshine grabbed the bit with his teeth, leaving me with no control. However, he did stop—like a cow pony, he dug his hind legs and heels into the ground, lowered his haunches, and bounced three times to a sliding stop.

  I was grateful for the multiple lessons I had at Leslie’s, when other horses tried to pull this on me and I somersaulted over their heads. My body knew to sit down deep in the saddle, my heels knew to pull themselves down for more balance in the stirrups, and my legs knew to hold on tight.

  This horse had just taken me for a ride. My ego was crushed. I would show him not to do it again. My frustration bubbled to the surface, and I scolded him with a tap of the whip on the haunches. His immediate reaction was to simulate a handstand, bucking his hind legs defiantly in the air, almost in a perfect gymnastic handstand.

  I fumingly tapped again, and kicked him to move forward, only to be met by another recalcitrant buck. Then I kicked hard and he bolted forward.

  “It’s OK, Victoria, just keep riding, ignore his antics,” Carol instructed.

  __________

  Just before my second lesson aboard Moonshine, Carol gave me some extra insight into Moonshine’s personality.

  “If Moonshine were a person, he would be the troublemaker smoking a cigarette on the street corner, in the leather jacket, trying to pick up girls,” she said. “Just think of him as a punk,” she concluded.

  Great, I thought cynically.

  Moonshine more than lived up to Carol’s assessment. My second ride on him was also a disaster. If I squeezed with my legs to go forward, he shuffled backward; if I kicked him again to reinforce the squeezing aid, he bolted like a racehorse out of the holding pen; if I tapped him with the whip to reinforce the kicking cue, he bucked. Steering proved just as problematic as going forward—if I pulled the left rein to go left, he grabbed the bit and went to the right. Moonshine would not be told what to do or where to go. No amount of coaching or coaxing from Carol would ease my frayed nerves. This horse was going to do whatever he wanted and I was incapable of persuading him otherwise.

  I walked him back to the barn after the performance, ego bruised and severely humbled.

  I’m obviously not as good I thought, if I can’t even make this stupid, piece of crap horse go forward, I thought to myself, looking down at my feet as I led the horse back to the barn.

  Why the hell does Carol want me to ride this stupid horse? He doesn’t know anything, he hates every living thing, and he’s nuts. What does she want me to learn from him? How to ride in a rodeo? I could do that at Leslie’s, five minutes from home, instead of all the way out here, I thought.

  As I untacked the animal in his stall after my ride, I was swimming in anger, confusion, and defeat. I hated this beast, I didn’t understand why Carol wanted me to ride him, and the ride was a disaster. I cursed him out while doing all the necessary chores after a ride, including cooling him out. I slipped on his halter, and led him outside to the patches of grass around the barn for him to graze.

  As I watched him plucking mouthfuls of grass out of the earth, I fell deep in thought about how much I hated him and wracked my brain, trying to understand why my trainer wanted me to ride him. I was suddenly pulled out of my musings when a rider I had never seen before approached me and exclaimed, “You guys looked really good out there!”

  My mouth dropped. What? Does she realize who we are? I think she’s confused, she can’t possibly mean Moonshine and I looked good. But there was only one other horse and rider pair in the indoor and they looked like our polar opposites—the rider had long blond hair and her horse was white. My horse was dark brown, as was my hair.

  “Ummm . . . thanks,” I muttered and looked down. I didn’t want to make eye contact and witness her realization that she was paying a compliment to the wrong person. It was nice, though. I let myself play along with the mistake and gave Moonshine a carrot when I put him back in the stall.

  That fall, I transitioned from riding any available school horse, to riding Moonshine exclusively.

  16

  It wasn’t until months after I started riding Moonshine regularly that I started to understand his ceaseless hostility.

  Some of the other boarders and trainers were huddled in conversation around Moonshine’s stall when I got to the barn one day. I exchanged the usual hellos with all of them as I made my way to Moonshine’s stall. Moonshine had trained me in the type of greeting he deemed acceptable in order for me to avoid an attack. First, I had to announce myself before I reached his stall, so that I wouldn’t surprise him.

  “Hi Moony,” I called as I approached the stall.

  Then, carrots in hand, I opened the stall door and let him crunch off a carrot top as I held the bottom of it. As long as his teeth were occupied, he couldn’t bite me.

  Then I petted his neck, quickly scanning his body for any cuts or scrapes that hostile horses like him were prone to acquiring. Since Moonshine shared his turnout paddock with another horse, checking for cuts and scrapes was part of our routine.

  After our greeting, I headed to the tack room to get my stuff—saddle, saddle pad, bridle, and grooming box. When I came back, I noticed the same group I had passed earlier, still in conversation. On my return, however, I noticed a few stolen glances thrown my way, plus hushed voices. I was too preoccupied with preparing for my lesson—physically and mentally—to wonder if I had become their new topic of conversation. However, once I was again in Moonshine’s stall, grooming him for the lesson, I noticed all five of them lined up against the other side of the stall door.

  “So, uh, Vic, how much do you know about Moonshine?” Nora, one of the dressage instructors, inquired.

  Nora was a lower-level dressage instructor, who also trained with Carol. We didn’t interact much, other than passing each other when riding together in the indoor arena.

  “Well, just that he’s owned by this guy, George Beck, who doesn’t come here anymore, and he’s a First Level horse,” I answered robotically. I knew Moonshine knew the basics of equitation and dressage, but he didn’t know any of the cool upper level tricks and movements.

  “No, I mean do you know what happened to him before George got him?”

  “No.”

  “OK, well, Moony’s an off-the-track racehorse from Iowa,” she started. “Want to see his tattoo?”

  “Tattoo?” I asked.

  “Sure, every racehorse gets the inside of his upper lip tattooed,” Nora informed.

  I pressed my lips together, cringing at the thought of tattooing the inside of my mouth. Poor Moonshine.

  “Here, I’ll show you,” she said, stepping up to Moonshine and grabbing hold of his head. He immediately objected, thrashing his head around, trying to get her off his face.

  “Hold still, man!” she let out, struggling to curl his upper lip inside out.

  “It’s OK, Nora, I believe you,” I said, wanted her to stop antagonizing Moonshine.

  “No, no, I almost got it!” she persisted.

  “OK, I saw it!” I let out, having seen some numbers on one of the outside corners of his lip.

  “So there ya go, proof that he really raced,” she beamed, proudly having proven her point.

  “Anyway, he never won anything because he’s so small and stiff. The people on the track there really beat him to win but he just couldn’t. See how short his back is and how close together his front and hind legs are? I don’t even think it’s physically possible for a horse with such a short back to win any races. But anyway, he never won and so they sent him to auction,” she explained.

  I remember from my experience riding auction horses at Leslie’s that those horses either lived or died after the bidding ended. If someone bought them, they lived on with their new owners. If they were not purchased, they were sent to slaughterhouses and killed.

  “Richard was at an auction and bought Moony
to make him a school horse when he was three or four years old,” she continued. “I heard he bought Moony for only a hundred and fifty bucks.”

  Richard Snider owned the farm with his wife, dressage diva, Gunilla, who was training with world class coaches in Europe when I started riding at Oakwood Farm. Even though she was gone, she still had a strong presence at this barn, as she was often the topic of conversation amongst the riders and trainers.

  “Well, then Richard tried a couple of working students on Moony to see how he would do with different riders on his back,” Nora explained. “Moony hospitalized the first three people who tried to ride him—one broken arm, another concussion, and another bruised his back and we never saw him again.” Her gray-blue eyes scrutinized my own, waiting for my reaction. But I had none. I wasn’t really surprised that young Moony had hospitalized three people, so she continued telling the story.

  “After Richard realized no one here could ride him, he sent Moony to a ‘correctional’ training facility,” she said, throwing her fingers into air quotes.

  “What’s that?” I asked, and heard snickers, scoffs, and sneers from the rest of the group. My question prompted them to prattle off stories they heard about correctional training facilities.

  “They chain horses’ legs together!” one voice let out.

  “I heard they beat them with whips until they bleed and have welts!” another revealed.

  “Me too. I heard that too,” another one chimed in.

  “Well, I heard they starve the hyper ones,” yet another one shared.

  “I heard they keep them in the dark all the time and put weights on their heads and legs,” another voice expressed.