Chancey of the Maury River

by Gigi Amateau

  I felt it a great honor to have been recruited to serve alongside Mac. Although less than half my age, Mac agreed to act as mentor to me as I prepared to enter service in the therapeutic school.

  Mac had worked in therapeutic service since he was purchased at auction by Mrs. Maiden for that very purpose. To Mac this was not a menial position; it was his life’s work. He spoke lovingly of his students and cautioned that should I accept the opportunity offered to me, I could no longer save the best of myself only for Claire. If I were to become a therapeutic school horse, I must withhold nothing and give myself to every student as if each one were, in fact, Claire. “There must be no favorites, my friend. To succeed in this work, each must become your favorite,” he advised me.

  According to Mac, each of my students would need something different from me. While one student might desire to gain muscle tone in her back, which had been ravaged by a disease of the muscles, another might wish to increase concentration in order to find a moment of peace from acute misfires in his brain. Still another student might work on improving his gross motor skills, which had been slow to develop. Mac impressed upon me that I must be ready to love each of my new students as deeply as I had come to love Claire. I vowed to welcome each student just exactly as I had been welcomed and nurtured.

  When I arrived at the Maury River Stables, I too was in desperate need of restoration. Mrs. Maiden devised a plan specific to my needs. We worked to manage the pain from my arthritis. We salvaged what we could of my eyesight and used a variety of techniques to help me find new ways to see. Most of all, I finally found purpose and joy in my life. It was no accident that Claire was assigned to oversee my nourishment back to health. Mrs. Maiden gave me Claire because Claire was the person I needed in order to become whole.

  It would be the same in return with my new students. Mrs. Maiden, together with each of my students, or their families, would create a plan for healing and strengthening. Through barn skills and riding, we would work in the therapeutic program to nourish body and soul, just as Claire had nourished me. I gathered that for therapeutic riders, horsemanship was a means to restoration. Whether to body or soul, my job would be to help restore each of them. I was eager to get started.

  Mac assured me that proper training would equip me with the skills that I needed. He warned that therapeutic service, while rewarding, was also challenging. The training program on which I was about to embark posed the first challenge for me to overcome.

  Mrs. Maiden had recruited me into my new position fully aware of my age and my conditions. It was Mrs. Maiden who had first observed the tumors in my eyes. Of course, Mrs. Maiden had also witnessed my refusal to jump with Claire because of my increasing blindness. These facts did not diminish Mrs. Maiden’s faith in me, but I believe these were cause enough to put me through an intensive training with Stu.

  Stu’s charge was to increase my capacity to remain brave and calm under any and all circumstances. Courage has never been lacking in my spirit, thanks to my exceptional breeding. My dam was not only the most striking Appaloosa I have ever known; she was also the bravest, most serene being that I have yet to encounter. Dam was my first teacher in matters of courage.

  I am not frightened to hear the wind tearing through our forest, even when there are few leaves to soften its howl. I am not afraid of other horses, be they moody mares or scowling, hot Thoroughbreds. I don’t spook or dash away at the sight of a red umbrella, as do some others. A chair that was upright yesterday does not shatter my confidence if it is upside down when I encounter it today. Nor do I bolt when an engine backfires. I dare say neither friend nor foe can detect fear in me, ever. This courage was the trait admired so by Mrs. Maiden on the day the hunters fired upon our field.

  Tolerance was to be my lesson. I quickly deduced, from listening to Stu and Mrs. Maiden plan my course of study, that increased tolerance was to be the primary aim of my training. By eavesdropping, I learned that Mrs. Maiden doubted not at all my bravery or my ability. She wanted to increase my tolerance to be able to accept the often unpredictable, erratic actions of some therapeutic students. I further overheard that I would not be immediately placed into service as a teacher. I would spend the rest of the fall and all of the winter learning to welcome intolerable and unexpected stimuli. Stu was to be my teacher, Mac and Gwen my mentors.

  In addition to being the barn manager and a trainer at Maury River Stables, I am of the opinion that Stu was Mrs. Maiden’s special companion. On a number of occasions, how many I cannot accurately state, I witnessed with my own eye a physical closeness between the two, the likes of which I have yet to see between other people. Their intimacy rivaled that of Claire and Mother, but at the same time was very different indeed. Having observed Stu’s capacity for tenderness, I placed my complete trust in him and, in fact, welcomed him as my teacher. I felt certain that Stu would allow no harm to come to me, if for no other reason than his profound devotion to Mrs. Maiden.

  Like me, Stu also battled arthritis. The disease had rendered his hands so twisted that the act of buckling the girth around me was very nearly impossible for him to complete without assistance. Yet he never winced or cried out. I saw how he rubbed his hands when the task was done. In this way, too, Stu trained me, through his example, to better tolerate that which aimed to distract me.

  I was not surprised to find that Gwen, the old Hanoverian, along with Mac, was a star in the therapeutic school. There was no gentler mare in all of Rockbridge County. More than once, hearing Claire singing in the mare field, I had trotted over and found Claire sitting in the grass with Gwen’s big, warmblood head resting in her lap. Claire held no fear of Gwen, who at seventeen hands high is a great deal larger than I am. I never disturbed the two of them at such moments, nor did I allow them to detect me as I watched from behind the cedar clump in the gelding field. Gwen’s gentle spirit was well suited for teaching, particularly in the therapeutic school.

  Before we started our training, Stu tied my lead rope to the door of my room so that I was facing the indoor riding ring. He proceeded to bring Gwen into the middle. She wore no bridle or halter and could have bolted from him at the moment of her choosing; she did not bolt. She appeared bored. Her breath warmed the air and formed a cloud around her face as she blew toward Stu with her standard greeting of exchanging breath.

  With no warning or verbal cue, Stu reached back to his belt loop, then threw open an umbrella directly into the old mare’s face. She blinked at him once, but made no sound or movement. She did not spook. She stood square in the same bored way as she had started out.

  “See that, Chancey, my friend? That’s you when we’re done,” Stu told me. Then he reached in his pocket for a treat, which Gwen gladly received. Ultimately, I was to achieve this same level of tolerance.

  My formal training consisted of repeated conditioning to every unusual, unexpected sight, sound, or feeling that Stu could imagine. Stu started our work together by crumpling paper bags near my ears and face. He popped balloons next to my ears. Had Mac not opened my heart to the higher purpose of this most irritating training period, I may well have been put off and refused to accept these distractions. Stu dragged ropes and twine across my withers and barrel. He waved the rope around my face and rear. I did not react.

  With no evidence that I understood his words, Stu explained to me that each lesson was necessary to simulate sensations that I might encounter with my new students. Stu’s goal was to condition me to expect anything. When I had passed each test, Stu always made his satisfaction known to me with the same three words: “That’s right, Chance.” I came to expect that hearing the phrase signaled that we were ready to move on to the next challenge.

  Throughout the winter, we trained everywhere. Our lessons were held in my room, the indoor ring, the outdoor ring, the cross-country field, and, if Stu desired maximum distraction on any given morning, in the mare field. I may be gelded, but the mares still distract me like no other living beings. All over the grounds of Maury R
iver Stables we worked for two sessions daily, in the morning after breakfast and again at midday.

  Claire came most every day after school. Gradually, we all but stopped our own equitation training in exchange for taking quiet afternoon trails together. The winter ground was hard and crunched beneath my feet; I did my best to keep Claire warm, though I did not mind the cold as much as she did. Some days we had no need to talk at all and would only walk through the many miles of hills or alongside the river. Other days, Claire gave me detailed reconnaissance from Stu and Mrs. Maiden about my progress as a therapeutic horse.

  “I’m so proud of you, Chancey. Everyone is proud of you, especially Mother. She gets all choked up whenever Stu tells her about how well you’re doing.”

  In time for my evening meal, Claire would walk me back to my room. “I love you, pony,” she’d say. Often Claire would return more than once with an extra carrot or apple to place in my grain box.

  Mealtimes and after dark were the only hours I spent in my room while I was training. I can’t say that I missed my room during my training as a therapeutic school horse, for I did not. I desired to pass as many hours as possible outdoors while I could still see. I knew that blindness would one day close the mountains to my eyes for good, for cancer knows not compassion. I knew there would be enough time for standing in my room, one day.

  In order to build camaraderie, Mrs. Maiden had relocated Dante to the other side of the barn and now cradled me between my two mentors, Gwen and Mac. To further cultivate an esprit de corps among us, she had sectioned off a new field in order that we could establish an unbreakable bond that would carry over to our work with the students. As Gwen was the oldest and most experienced in the therapeutic school, she easily and without fight became the lead horse in our paddock. There were occasions when, because of the shared fence line, Princess still assaulted Gwen. At those times, Mac or I were only too happy to race to Gwen’s aid and slam our back hooves into the fence with such force and reverberation that Princess would not only scamper away, but squeal, too, as if she herself were the injured party.

  At night in our bordering rooms, we three would whisper until early into the morning. Gwen and Mac made me repeat to them each exercise and aspect of my training progress; they then explained to me its purpose and described what I might expect the next day. I had easily passed the first phase of my training; still, Mac said even more was necessary before I could begin my work with students. Gwen rightly foretold that Stu would introduce me to more unpredictable stimuli than simple bags or colorful balloons. Thus, I was not at all alarmed when Stu showed up for my lesson with a pack of beagles.

  Though I had exhibited great courage, enough to be recruited by Mrs. Maiden, it would be another month or more before Mrs. Maiden actually allowed me to teach in the therapeutic school. This next phase of my training would test me to the limits and ultimately desensitize me to loud noises and erratic movements. All of my senses would be reconditioned for extreme tolerance. I would have to learn that I could not bolt or squat, rear or buck, in retaliation of any stimuli. I would learn to accept, as had Mac and Gwen, that neither fight nor flight could ever be an acceptable response for a horse in therapeutic service.

  Stu arrived at my room with all of his hunting beagles at his side. He hoped that using his dogs in my training would speed my progress. During the deer-shooting season, I had seen the dogs out on several occasions. As was customary, Stu began our lesson by greeting me in my room and offering me a peppermint from his pocket. A young beagle, whom I had not seen before, showed great interest in the candy and snatched it out of Stu’s hand before I could take it myself. Stu lowered his voice. “Tommy!” he scolded. “Tommmmmy, that’s not nice.”

  The puppy dropped his head apologetically, leaving the candy on the ground. I quickly scarfed it up for myself. I sniffed Stu’s jacket, certain that I detected at least one more candy piece. Stu reached in his pocket and then handed it to me.

  “Chancey, meet the new pup. His name is Tommy. His Latin name is Canis familiaris. He’s going to help us today. If you like him, I’ll bring him with us every day.” I lowered my head to see the young dog, whose only interest was how much horse dung he could eat. Tommy took no notice of me whatsoever.

  “Tommy, meet Chancey,” Stu continued. “His Latin name is Equus caballus. Chancey’s studying to be a therapeutic school horse,” Stu told the dog. He patted me on the neck and added, “You didn’t realize that I know Latin, did you, Chance? It’s always good to learn something new. Keeps you alive.”

  I blew on Stu, for even though I had no interest in Latin or beagles, Stu had won a secure place in my heart precisely because he credited me for having such interests. Tommy remained obsessed with the ground.

  In the cross-country field, Stu and his unrelenting hunting dogs set to work on me. It must be noted that I was never in any danger or under a threat of physical harm from the beagles. The dogs did not bite or nip at me, and I returned the favor by neither biting nor nipping at them. They did annoy. The beagles jumped and yelped. They crawled under me and used my rear and chest to prop themselves on two legs. Stu seemed to find their behavior endearing. I did not.

  To keep myself focused, I played a concentration game with myself during these arduous sessions. I set about documenting and remembering my home so that even long after I had completely lost my sight I would still remember the Maury River Stables. I tried to completely tune out the dogs by imprinting the details of my surroundings onto my heart. I stood in our field, with hunting dogs bounding all around me. I could just see the tops of the sycamore trees lining the left bank of the river. While the dogs set about distracting me, I turned my mind toward the Maury River, and Saddle Mountain just beyond.

  I recalled how when I first arrived at the Maury River Stables, I visited the Maury River often and cantered alongside it searching for some clue as to where the river had been or what it was rushing to find. After a rowdy storm, the Maury might flow muddy and fast, pulling downstream an entire chestnut tree, or some such debris, which it had ripped from the banks upstream.

  While the beagles lunged at me and pestered one another, I listened for the river. I confess that a part of me desired to break from Stu’s dogs and gallop toward the sloping river birch that in the dead of winter marked the Maury definitively with its bright white bark. I knew the beagles would stay right on my heels if I attempted such a break.

  Only once during this daily practice did the beagles successfully break my concentration. We had enjoyed an unusually high occurrence of rain; I knew the river ran high and fast, for I had no trouble at all hearing it rush by us, beyond the gelding field. I judged the electric fence to be approximately three feet high. As a young horse, I had successfully cleared more than three feet, but only a handful of times, if that, since coming to the Maury River Stables. Both the cancer and the arthritis had by then contributed to the demise of my jumping career, but logic had no such hold on me that morning.

  Tommy began jumping at my left side, and I could not ascertain his intent. Though he stood no higher than the top of my cannon bone, his vertical range reached much nearer to my cheek than I had expected. I felt Tommy there, bouncing up well past my forearm, but could not see him. I could hear the pup; it would have been impossible not to hear him. I could smell him, too, for this young beagle had no bladder control whatsoever and in his excitement, he covered my feet in the contents of his bladder more than once. Though it had been almost a year since my first tumor was removed in Albemarle, and I had by then grown accustomed to complete blindness in my left eye, I panicked that I could not see but only feel Tommy there at my side. I tried to ground myself with my remaining good eye.

  Tommy then launched himself above my head. I cast about for the sound of the river. I was sure I could clear the electric fence. I flicked my tail at Tommy and began to dance. I pinned my ears back, a fair notice of warning. The young beagle continued, aware, no doubt, that he had gotten a reaction from me and from Stu
as well. I lifted my front left foot and poised it there, giving Tommy one last opportunity to leave me alone. “Chance, you can do this,” Stu urged. But it was too late; I kicked the little beagle away from me, not hurting him badly, mind you. Without question, if my intent had been to injure the pup, I would have done so with such might that little fellow would not have been able to run crying to his mother, as he did.

  I knew my error straightaway and regretted it. I did not bolt to the river. I stood square in front of Stu, who just laughed. “Whoo, Chancey, he got to you. Tommy got to you.”

  Stu sent the dogs to the front of the field, where they obediently waited for him. He moved to my left out of my vision, and patted me on the neck. “It’s your left side, I know. You’ve done a fine job compensating until now. Don’t worry, Chance, don’t worry.” Stu did not sound disappointed but rather satisfied with what he had discovered about me. I hoped that my outburst toward Tommy had not eroded Stu’s confidence in me.

  I was comforted to walk with Claire that afternoon and relieved that she already knew about the incident with Tommy. Claire did not tack me up but walked me bareback up an old logging trail around the base of Saddle Mountain. Few leaves remained on the mountain and those that did swirled around behind us for the entire five-mile trail. We stayed inside the mountain, for neither Claire nor I dared to take on the frigid, unrelenting mountain air at the unprotected peak. On our return to the barn, Claire finally told me.

  “I heard about that annoying puppy this morning. I don’t blame you for kicking him. Don’t worry; he’s not hurt. Stu’s not mad, either. He said every therapeutic horse he’s ever trained has cracked with the beagles . . . except Gwen.”