Monday, April 12, 2010
5:45am
I last checked on Maggie sometime around Midnight. I iced her legs one more time, then poulticed and bandaged them for the night. I considered spending the night in the barn with her, but was worried she might be more stressed and less likely to relax with me there.
I'm anxious to get to the barn, but I'm also afraid. All kind of scenarios have invaded my head: Maggie always lays down at night, but what if she did, and couldn't get back up because of the pain in her legs, or abdomen? What if she has punctured a bowel and has been shivering and thrashing in extreme pain for the last few hours? What if, what if?
The blackness of the night is just beginning to ease as I shakily make my way to the barn. I step through the door, into the feedroom. There are no noises from the stalls beyond. Normally in the morning, the horses are banging on their doors, demanding to be fed. Not this morning-- then again, I'm about 2 hours ahead of schedule. I walk into the isle way and flick the light switch. The bulb takes a few seconds to reach its full intensity, but I can make out the outline of Maggie's hind end in her stall, so I know she's on her feet. Blinking, she swings her head toward me then slowly shuffles around until she's facing the door. She looks ok, groggy, but no signs of extreme distress.
Her hind legs have that swollen, stove-pipe look to them-- right from stifle to hoof. I palpate her belly. There's definite bruising, but nothing that leads me to believe there's internal damage (not that I'm 100 percent sure what to look for). I move onto her gums. They're back to their normal colour (they were quite pale last night), and there are no signs of the "muddy purple" that would mean she's heading for septic shock. She didn't drink much overnight, but then she rarely does.
I take off her bandages, re-wrap her legs with ice packs, and give her a light breakfast. She's still scarfing down her hay. That's a good sign. When she's finished, I take her outside to cold hose her legs. Leaving the stall is a slow process. She takes tiny, hesitant, painful steps, but the more she walks, the easier it seems to get. Murray whinnies to her from his stall. She doesn't answer. I let ice-cold water splash over her legs for 5-10 minutes. With her legs numbed by the cold, I lead her for a short walk down the gravel path behind the house. She balks a bit as we pass by the twisted metal gate, it's top wrung still smeared with her blood.
I give Maggie more bute, and turn her out alone in a small, sunlit paddock behind the barn. A worried Murray is close at hand on the other side of the fence. He reaches out to her and they nuzzle briefly before Maggie shuffles stiffly toward to a patch of grass. I call the vet and wait to hear back so we can arrange a tetanus shot and some antibiotics.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Not a Good Day
I just experienced the most frightening, traumatic event of my life.
I always expect Murray to find a way to do something stupid. But never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be Maggie who would send me running with weak knees to phone the vet...or anyone, anyone who might be able to help.
It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd headed for the wooden fence rails, but I have no idea what compelled my sweet, sensible Maggie to try and jump the five foot high metal gate to her paddock. No idea at all.
Sunday, April 11, 6:30 pm
I don't normally bring the horses in until between 7 and 7:30pm, but despite the bright sunshine beaming down on our hilltop stable, there's a sharp cold wind that chills to the bone, so I decide to tuck the horses in a bit early.
On my way to the barn, I see the horses standing contentedly in the pasture, leisurely tugging at fresh stalks of green grass.
Before I bring them in, I head to Maggie's stall to sweep up her bedding, and toss in a flake of hay. A movement outside her stall window catches my eye. I look out. I see Maggie galloping across the paddock, and Murray dancing sideways in his nervous, spooky way. The rest still seems surreal. Maggie is flying flat-out, toward the gate. She has, in the past, galloped to the gate and come to a sliding stop, but this time, she's not slowing down, she's speeding up. She launches herself awkwardly over the gate.
Maggie's over-weight, un-athletic body can't keep up with her enthusiastic spirit. Her front legs mostly clear the gate, but she doesn't have enough power to lift her hind-end up and over. There's a heart-stopping crash, then the sound of splintering wood as the fence rails beside the gate shatter like glass. Unfortunately, the gate itself, while slightly askew, holds fast. I run. I swear at the top of my lungs and I run.
It seems like ages, but I know it's only seconds until I make it to her side at the paddock. I'm horrified by what I see. Maggie is like a teeter totter balancing on the metal gate. Her head is down, nostrils flared, gasping for air. Her front toes just, and only just, touch the ground. Her entire hind end is suspended in the air, held in place by the metal gate which has wedged itself firmly at the back of her belly, in front of her stifles. One hind leg is dangling loose, the other is caught in the fence boards that meet the gate at a 90 degree angle.
I try and unhook the chain on the gate, but Maggie is directly on top of it. All her weight is pressing down on the gate, making it difficult for her to breathe, and making it impossible for me to loosen the chain. To make things worse, she starts thrashing around whenever I try and reach for it. I put my hand on her side, try telling her to whoa, to stay still, but she turns her head and punches me violently in my side with her muzzle. She does this again and again, trying to prod me into action, but I'm helpless. I'm home alone. I have no close neighbours, and there's nothing, nothing I can do.
I always think of myself as someone who stays calm under pressure, the kind of person who can take over in an emergency. I've held tourniquets against horses' blood-spurting arteries while waiting for the vet. I've stroked horses necks as they were given their final lethal injections. But these were never my horses, and I was never in a situation like this.
I try to lift the gate off its hinges, but it's bent, and with Maggie's 1250 lbs on top of it, I know it's impossible anyway. I kick at the fence post, but it's firmly planted in the ground. Helpless, I leave her. I turn my back on her and I run away. I look in Dave's workshop for something heavy, something I can use to bash at the post until the whole thing tumbles down. All I can find is a metal shovel and a pick-axe. I know they're not going to work. Not in time.
I remember that our one neighbour, the dairy farming family living 400 metres down the road gave me their phone number the other day. I run inside my house, I desperately dial their number, hoping that the men will have some kind of equipment, or at least enough brute strength to knock down the gate. Their phone rings. There's no answer, and I remember that they were going to a church supper tonight. I glance out the window. Maggie's still hanging, struggling, gasping. I'm truly panicking now. My legs are weak, my arms are shaking. The tears are rolling down my cheeks. I'm convinced I'm going to watch my sweet girl slowly die a painful death.
Dave is an hour away, about to pilot a plane into the air with his instructor in toe. I call him anyway, even though I know there's nothing he can do. I get his voicemail. Desperate, I grab the pick-axe and the shovel and run, trembling and still swearing back to where Maggie is dangling. I try the gate again, it's no use. I try shaking and pushing the post. It won't budge. Maggie starts flailing frantically. Her right hind leg splinters what's left of the wooden rail running perpendicular to the fence. Somehow in her desperation (perhaps it's that last kick at the fence rail), she manages to get a bit of leverage. Her front feet are fully on the ground now, and using her own brute strength, she kicks, wiggles, flails and heaves her body until she's up, over and off the gate.
I'm overcome with relief; but I'm still incredibly worried. Maggie sways and wobbles her way into the open gate of the neighbouring pasture. The one that leads to her stall door (which is closed). Her eyes are glassy, her head is down, her breathing laboured. She's clearly in shock. I run and grab her halter. I put it over her head, but I can't take her inside.
Murray is still in the paddock. Poor Murray-- who turns 22 today-- has been dancing, spinning, nickering, and fretting this whole time. His eyes are wide, his tail is up, and he's clearly frightened. The further away Maggie wanders, the more stressed he becomes. He wants to be out of the paddock. He wants to be close to Maggie, but he's too spooked to let me near him. I can't leave him. The fence is broken, the gate is twisted and bent. In his adrenalin-hyped state, he's likely to do exactly what Maggie did. He's far more likely to succeed, but I'm not about to take that chance.
I plead with him, "please, please let me catch you. I need to help Maggie". But it does no good. I try to calm myself and talk with him casually, but he can sense my panic too, and he dodges me and tries to shove his way through the slightly open gate. I yell at him and he backs off. I need to get to Maggie, so I take a chance. I wrestle the mangled gate open wide enough to allow him to go through, and I run to grab Maggie. Murray blasts through the gate and heads to the front of the barn. He prances nervously until I bring Maggie through the door, then he follows us in, and runs to his stall. Thank you Murray. I'm not sure what I would have done if he'd decided to head for the road or the woods instead.
I give Maggie a quick look-over--there is no spurting blood, no severed arteries, many scrapes and cuts though, and they're already starting to swell. I cover her with a cooler to help control her shock, and I call the vet. The trouble with this is that I haven't yet found a vet. Several names have been suggested to me though, so I scroll through the phone book (still in a panic), and call the first name I come to that I actually recognize.
The vet on-call is in Truro. I tell him what happened, I tell him I'm most worried about possible internal damage. He kindly tells me that if she's ruptured her spleen or kidney or bowel, there's nothing that can be done for her, so there's not much point in him coming out to check on her. He suggests I give her bute (anti-inflammatory), hose and ice her legs, keep a very good eye on her, and get a tetanus shot and some antibiotics for her in the morning. I would have liked to have a vet look at her, just to make me feel better, but he's right, I can handle the external damage to her legs, and the internal, well, we just have to hope there isn't any.
11:57 pm
I've hosed Maggie's stifles twice. I've iced her lower legs twice. There's so much heat and swelling that the ice melts, and the packs turn warm within minutes. Happily though, Maggie hasn't lost her appetite. She's not too keen on the bran mash (which is laced with bute), but she's eating her hay with her usual gusto. Now I just wish she'd drink some water.
I always expect Murray to find a way to do something stupid. But never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be Maggie who would send me running with weak knees to phone the vet...or anyone, anyone who might be able to help.
It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd headed for the wooden fence rails, but I have no idea what compelled my sweet, sensible Maggie to try and jump the five foot high metal gate to her paddock. No idea at all.
Sunday, April 11, 6:30 pm
I don't normally bring the horses in until between 7 and 7:30pm, but despite the bright sunshine beaming down on our hilltop stable, there's a sharp cold wind that chills to the bone, so I decide to tuck the horses in a bit early.
On my way to the barn, I see the horses standing contentedly in the pasture, leisurely tugging at fresh stalks of green grass.
Before I bring them in, I head to Maggie's stall to sweep up her bedding, and toss in a flake of hay. A movement outside her stall window catches my eye. I look out. I see Maggie galloping across the paddock, and Murray dancing sideways in his nervous, spooky way. The rest still seems surreal. Maggie is flying flat-out, toward the gate. She has, in the past, galloped to the gate and come to a sliding stop, but this time, she's not slowing down, she's speeding up. She launches herself awkwardly over the gate.
Maggie's over-weight, un-athletic body can't keep up with her enthusiastic spirit. Her front legs mostly clear the gate, but she doesn't have enough power to lift her hind-end up and over. There's a heart-stopping crash, then the sound of splintering wood as the fence rails beside the gate shatter like glass. Unfortunately, the gate itself, while slightly askew, holds fast. I run. I swear at the top of my lungs and I run.
It seems like ages, but I know it's only seconds until I make it to her side at the paddock. I'm horrified by what I see. Maggie is like a teeter totter balancing on the metal gate. Her head is down, nostrils flared, gasping for air. Her front toes just, and only just, touch the ground. Her entire hind end is suspended in the air, held in place by the metal gate which has wedged itself firmly at the back of her belly, in front of her stifles. One hind leg is dangling loose, the other is caught in the fence boards that meet the gate at a 90 degree angle.
I try and unhook the chain on the gate, but Maggie is directly on top of it. All her weight is pressing down on the gate, making it difficult for her to breathe, and making it impossible for me to loosen the chain. To make things worse, she starts thrashing around whenever I try and reach for it. I put my hand on her side, try telling her to whoa, to stay still, but she turns her head and punches me violently in my side with her muzzle. She does this again and again, trying to prod me into action, but I'm helpless. I'm home alone. I have no close neighbours, and there's nothing, nothing I can do.
I always think of myself as someone who stays calm under pressure, the kind of person who can take over in an emergency. I've held tourniquets against horses' blood-spurting arteries while waiting for the vet. I've stroked horses necks as they were given their final lethal injections. But these were never my horses, and I was never in a situation like this.
I try to lift the gate off its hinges, but it's bent, and with Maggie's 1250 lbs on top of it, I know it's impossible anyway. I kick at the fence post, but it's firmly planted in the ground. Helpless, I leave her. I turn my back on her and I run away. I look in Dave's workshop for something heavy, something I can use to bash at the post until the whole thing tumbles down. All I can find is a metal shovel and a pick-axe. I know they're not going to work. Not in time.
I remember that our one neighbour, the dairy farming family living 400 metres down the road gave me their phone number the other day. I run inside my house, I desperately dial their number, hoping that the men will have some kind of equipment, or at least enough brute strength to knock down the gate. Their phone rings. There's no answer, and I remember that they were going to a church supper tonight. I glance out the window. Maggie's still hanging, struggling, gasping. I'm truly panicking now. My legs are weak, my arms are shaking. The tears are rolling down my cheeks. I'm convinced I'm going to watch my sweet girl slowly die a painful death.
Dave is an hour away, about to pilot a plane into the air with his instructor in toe. I call him anyway, even though I know there's nothing he can do. I get his voicemail. Desperate, I grab the pick-axe and the shovel and run, trembling and still swearing back to where Maggie is dangling. I try the gate again, it's no use. I try shaking and pushing the post. It won't budge. Maggie starts flailing frantically. Her right hind leg splinters what's left of the wooden rail running perpendicular to the fence. Somehow in her desperation (perhaps it's that last kick at the fence rail), she manages to get a bit of leverage. Her front feet are fully on the ground now, and using her own brute strength, she kicks, wiggles, flails and heaves her body until she's up, over and off the gate.
I'm overcome with relief; but I'm still incredibly worried. Maggie sways and wobbles her way into the open gate of the neighbouring pasture. The one that leads to her stall door (which is closed). Her eyes are glassy, her head is down, her breathing laboured. She's clearly in shock. I run and grab her halter. I put it over her head, but I can't take her inside.
Murray is still in the paddock. Poor Murray-- who turns 22 today-- has been dancing, spinning, nickering, and fretting this whole time. His eyes are wide, his tail is up, and he's clearly frightened. The further away Maggie wanders, the more stressed he becomes. He wants to be out of the paddock. He wants to be close to Maggie, but he's too spooked to let me near him. I can't leave him. The fence is broken, the gate is twisted and bent. In his adrenalin-hyped state, he's likely to do exactly what Maggie did. He's far more likely to succeed, but I'm not about to take that chance.
I plead with him, "please, please let me catch you. I need to help Maggie". But it does no good. I try to calm myself and talk with him casually, but he can sense my panic too, and he dodges me and tries to shove his way through the slightly open gate. I yell at him and he backs off. I need to get to Maggie, so I take a chance. I wrestle the mangled gate open wide enough to allow him to go through, and I run to grab Maggie. Murray blasts through the gate and heads to the front of the barn. He prances nervously until I bring Maggie through the door, then he follows us in, and runs to his stall. Thank you Murray. I'm not sure what I would have done if he'd decided to head for the road or the woods instead.
I give Maggie a quick look-over--there is no spurting blood, no severed arteries, many scrapes and cuts though, and they're already starting to swell. I cover her with a cooler to help control her shock, and I call the vet. The trouble with this is that I haven't yet found a vet. Several names have been suggested to me though, so I scroll through the phone book (still in a panic), and call the first name I come to that I actually recognize.
The vet on-call is in Truro. I tell him what happened, I tell him I'm most worried about possible internal damage. He kindly tells me that if she's ruptured her spleen or kidney or bowel, there's nothing that can be done for her, so there's not much point in him coming out to check on her. He suggests I give her bute (anti-inflammatory), hose and ice her legs, keep a very good eye on her, and get a tetanus shot and some antibiotics for her in the morning. I would have liked to have a vet look at her, just to make me feel better, but he's right, I can handle the external damage to her legs, and the internal, well, we just have to hope there isn't any.
11:57 pm
I've hosed Maggie's stifles twice. I've iced her lower legs twice. There's so much heat and swelling that the ice melts, and the packs turn warm within minutes. Happily though, Maggie hasn't lost her appetite. She's not too keen on the bran mash (which is laced with bute), but she's eating her hay with her usual gusto. Now I just wish she'd drink some water.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
A Fool's Choice
Thursday, April 1st, 2010
Thirteen years ago today, I got my first horse. Perhaps the fact that it was April Fool's should have given me some inkling as to what I was in for.
I'd been searching for a horse for months. Here and there, I found horses I was interested in, but none that I really liked. The one horse I adored and truly wanted to buy was not for sale. I had pretty much given up hope, when one Sunday evening, I received an unexpected phone call.
The voice on the other end of the line was that of Stuart Appt. A local farrier, he'd been hammering shoes onto the hooves of the horses at the Fredericton Pony Club for years. As kids we were frightened of his gruff, no-nonsense manner. But as teens, we learned that behind his rough exterior, there was a weathered horseman with a dry, witty sense of humour.
On top of being a farrier, Stuart was also a horse trader. He regularly hauled his six-horse trailer to Ontario, bought horses cheap at auction, then came back to New Brunswick to sell them. Stuart was a born salesman, and we often teased him that he'd sell his grandmother if she were still alive. He never put much effort into denying our claims.
My conversation with Stuart that night was pretty short:
Stuart: "I'm on my way back from Ontario. I've got a horse here I think you'll like. It's a 16.1 hand bay thoroughbred. Interested?"
Me: (too shocked to know what to say) "Yes. Definitely."
Stuart: "I'll drop it off at the club when I pull into town in the morning. You can try him out for a few days."
Me: "Um, Ok."
I don't think I slept at all that night. When I got the call the next morning that Stuart had arrived at the barn, I dashed over there as quickly as I could. When I got there, Stuart was leaning against the rails of the indoor ring, a ball cap pulled low over his bald head, a piece of timothy dangling from his mouth. A tall, thin, chestnut gelding was wandering the indoor ring, suspiciously sniffing the walls and dirt.
Me: "I thought you said he was bay?"
Stuart: "A bay? No, he's a chestnut. He's got a really nice long stride on him."
I tried to hide my disappointment. I'd always dreamed of showing a bay-- a horse with a reddish brown coat and striking black legs, mane and tail. In my fantasy, the horse also had flashy patches of white on its face and legs. Now, here I was, looking at a plain, copper coloured chestnut horse without a single white hair on his body. But buying a horse on the basis of colour is foolish, so I shrugged off my disappointment and tried to find out more about the skeletal pile-of-bones standing warily in front of me.
Me: "What's his name?"
Stuart: "Murray."
Me: (quizzical look on my face) "Murray? Really? Did you make that up on the way here or is that really his name?"
Stuart: (with a definite gleam in his eye) "Sure that's his name. Would I lie to you?"
Oh well, his name's even less important than his colour.
Me: "What's his story? Where did he come from?"
Stuart: "He's about eight years old. I bought him yesterday afternoon from a trader who bought him yesterday morning. Don't know where he's been or what he's been doing. He's got a nice big stride though."
At that, Stuart left, with me promising to call him once I made a decision-- and him claiming to have another buyer in the works if I wasn't interestd.
I walked into the arena to take a closer look at the gawking, gangly, skeletal creature in front of me. I could count his ribs. His hip and shoulder bones poked out like those of a jersey cow. His legs were crooked, his back long, his neck sunken. He could have been a poster boy for poor conformation. I clapped my hands and jumped toward him, chasing him into a tired trot around the ring. He was loathe to move too fast or too far, he looked exhausted, and he was coughing (no doubt a bit of shipping fever), but he did have a lovely, long, smooth stride.
I tried lunging him. He cowered against the arena wall the moment I picked up the whip. I also tried leading him over a few small jumps. He stopped and refused to jump at all. Hmm...and I was hoping to compete in jumper classes and on cross-country courses.
"Murray" was shy and nervous. Anytime anyone came in the ring, he kept one eye and one ear sharply focoused on them, always acutely aware of the tiniest movement. It was clear he wasn't a trusting horse. The "common-sense" side of me kept voicing concerns about what I was seeing, but something about his worried, pleading eyes had captured my attention, and I made excuses for his less-desirable qualities. Then, something happened that endeared him to me forever.
It's mid-afternoon. Our coach is getting ready to give a riding lesson to an enthusiastic four-year-old, pudgy little girl. The little girl, in her excitement, runs through the barn, arms flailing, out to the indoor arena...the arena where a tall, shy, under-the-weather thoroughbred is loose in a strange, new environment.
It takes me a moment to process what's happening, and then I start to sprint after the young girl. But it's too late, she's already crossed the arena, and flung herself at this towering animal. She expresses her joy at seeing this new horse by squealing jubilantly, wrapping her arms AND legs tightly around his front leg, and pressing her face into the lean muscle just above his knee. At any moment I expect to see Murray spin and bolt in fright-- many horses, even quiet old school horses would. I have visions of the child being trampled and crushed beneath his scrambling, panicky legs.
But that doesn't happen. Instead, Murray stands stock-still. He turns his worried, anxious eyes downwards. He lowers his head and presses his muzzle warmly into the girl's soft, curly hair. I approach slowly, cautiously. I pry the child's clinging body from Murray's wobbly leg. Murray tentatively looks at me, and I look back at him, truly grateful for his patience.
The next day, April Fool's, I call Stuart and give him my answer.
Thirteen years later, Murray has proven to be the most challenging horse I've ever ridden or worked around. He's frustrated me to the point of tears, and he's amused me to the point of belly-aching laughter. And I have never, not for one single moment, regretted the choice of my April Fool's horse-- not even when I watch other riders floating by on their calm, quiet, beautiful bay horses with their flashy white markings.
Thirteen years ago today, I got my first horse. Perhaps the fact that it was April Fool's should have given me some inkling as to what I was in for.
I'd been searching for a horse for months. Here and there, I found horses I was interested in, but none that I really liked. The one horse I adored and truly wanted to buy was not for sale. I had pretty much given up hope, when one Sunday evening, I received an unexpected phone call.
The voice on the other end of the line was that of Stuart Appt. A local farrier, he'd been hammering shoes onto the hooves of the horses at the Fredericton Pony Club for years. As kids we were frightened of his gruff, no-nonsense manner. But as teens, we learned that behind his rough exterior, there was a weathered horseman with a dry, witty sense of humour.
On top of being a farrier, Stuart was also a horse trader. He regularly hauled his six-horse trailer to Ontario, bought horses cheap at auction, then came back to New Brunswick to sell them. Stuart was a born salesman, and we often teased him that he'd sell his grandmother if she were still alive. He never put much effort into denying our claims.
My conversation with Stuart that night was pretty short:
Stuart: "I'm on my way back from Ontario. I've got a horse here I think you'll like. It's a 16.1 hand bay thoroughbred. Interested?"
Me: (too shocked to know what to say) "Yes. Definitely."
Stuart: "I'll drop it off at the club when I pull into town in the morning. You can try him out for a few days."
Me: "Um, Ok."
I don't think I slept at all that night. When I got the call the next morning that Stuart had arrived at the barn, I dashed over there as quickly as I could. When I got there, Stuart was leaning against the rails of the indoor ring, a ball cap pulled low over his bald head, a piece of timothy dangling from his mouth. A tall, thin, chestnut gelding was wandering the indoor ring, suspiciously sniffing the walls and dirt.
Me: "I thought you said he was bay?"
Stuart: "A bay? No, he's a chestnut. He's got a really nice long stride on him."
I tried to hide my disappointment. I'd always dreamed of showing a bay-- a horse with a reddish brown coat and striking black legs, mane and tail. In my fantasy, the horse also had flashy patches of white on its face and legs. Now, here I was, looking at a plain, copper coloured chestnut horse without a single white hair on his body. But buying a horse on the basis of colour is foolish, so I shrugged off my disappointment and tried to find out more about the skeletal pile-of-bones standing warily in front of me.
Me: "What's his name?"
Stuart: "Murray."
Me: (quizzical look on my face) "Murray? Really? Did you make that up on the way here or is that really his name?"
Stuart: (with a definite gleam in his eye) "Sure that's his name. Would I lie to you?"
Oh well, his name's even less important than his colour.
Me: "What's his story? Where did he come from?"
Stuart: "He's about eight years old. I bought him yesterday afternoon from a trader who bought him yesterday morning. Don't know where he's been or what he's been doing. He's got a nice big stride though."
At that, Stuart left, with me promising to call him once I made a decision-- and him claiming to have another buyer in the works if I wasn't interestd.
I walked into the arena to take a closer look at the gawking, gangly, skeletal creature in front of me. I could count his ribs. His hip and shoulder bones poked out like those of a jersey cow. His legs were crooked, his back long, his neck sunken. He could have been a poster boy for poor conformation. I clapped my hands and jumped toward him, chasing him into a tired trot around the ring. He was loathe to move too fast or too far, he looked exhausted, and he was coughing (no doubt a bit of shipping fever), but he did have a lovely, long, smooth stride.
I tried lunging him. He cowered against the arena wall the moment I picked up the whip. I also tried leading him over a few small jumps. He stopped and refused to jump at all. Hmm...and I was hoping to compete in jumper classes and on cross-country courses.
"Murray" was shy and nervous. Anytime anyone came in the ring, he kept one eye and one ear sharply focoused on them, always acutely aware of the tiniest movement. It was clear he wasn't a trusting horse. The "common-sense" side of me kept voicing concerns about what I was seeing, but something about his worried, pleading eyes had captured my attention, and I made excuses for his less-desirable qualities. Then, something happened that endeared him to me forever.
It's mid-afternoon. Our coach is getting ready to give a riding lesson to an enthusiastic four-year-old, pudgy little girl. The little girl, in her excitement, runs through the barn, arms flailing, out to the indoor arena...the arena where a tall, shy, under-the-weather thoroughbred is loose in a strange, new environment.
It takes me a moment to process what's happening, and then I start to sprint after the young girl. But it's too late, she's already crossed the arena, and flung herself at this towering animal. She expresses her joy at seeing this new horse by squealing jubilantly, wrapping her arms AND legs tightly around his front leg, and pressing her face into the lean muscle just above his knee. At any moment I expect to see Murray spin and bolt in fright-- many horses, even quiet old school horses would. I have visions of the child being trampled and crushed beneath his scrambling, panicky legs.
But that doesn't happen. Instead, Murray stands stock-still. He turns his worried, anxious eyes downwards. He lowers his head and presses his muzzle warmly into the girl's soft, curly hair. I approach slowly, cautiously. I pry the child's clinging body from Murray's wobbly leg. Murray tentatively looks at me, and I look back at him, truly grateful for his patience.
The next day, April Fool's, I call Stuart and give him my answer.
Thirteen years later, Murray has proven to be the most challenging horse I've ever ridden or worked around. He's frustrated me to the point of tears, and he's amused me to the point of belly-aching laughter. And I have never, not for one single moment, regretted the choice of my April Fool's horse-- not even when I watch other riders floating by on their calm, quiet, beautiful bay horses with their flashy white markings.
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