Horsekeeping

IT IS ALWAYS SOMETHING WITH HORSES, usually something that costs money. Just when I thought I had purchased all possible accoutrements, more treasures tempted me. The basic must-haves—bridle, saddle, stirrups, a pad and a spare whet my appetite for the irresistible and just plain fun—that fifth saddle pad in mint green with diamond quilting, duotone piping and micro-tricot lining that wicks away moisture, or the baby blue anti-pilling, breathable polar fleece cooler designed with a tapered chest and hook and loop closures for a close fit that matched my riding vest. A sucker for all the cleverly advertised “necessities,” that I coordinated my clothing to that of my horse was vaguely disconcerting. But who could argue for trapped sweat, a poor fit, weak fabrics or careless color combinations?

I figured I had Bandi pretty completely outfitted, but then he changed shape. His expanded girth shouldn’t have surprised us: all summer his head inclined toward the grass, unlike his comrades who occasionally came up for air, and as a result my gently used Pessoa jumping saddle “bridged” Bandi’s shoulders causing him to shudder these weird spasms when I tacked him up. Bobbi consulted “Wolf,” a robust German saddle expert to determine whether we could “reflock” my old saddle, but the verdict was a thick “Nein!”

I had discovered the comforts of a dressage saddle during my Angel ride, so I shopped for two new saddles—at several thousand dollars a pop. Either I ante up or put Bandi on a more restricted diet. But we had already cut him to a cup of grain a day, slender rations for my poor boy who lived for his chow. It broke my heart. They term such horses “easy keepers” but I would prefer a metabolic machine able to put away the groceries without portliness, one I could lovingly over-feed with the best of Jewish mothers. To certify that Bandi’s pudginess did indeed derive from gluttony, we tested for Lyme disease and a thyroid problem.

So my education continued. Bandi and I settled into a compatible relationship, and our trust deepened. I began to physically manage, not just intellectually understand, that he calmed when I calmed, and I aimed to maintain this virtuous circle. Sensing my budding confidence, Bobbi lobbied me hard to join her on an upcoming hunter pace. While I felt more inclined than before, I still chickened out. This horse business is a marathon, not a sprint. As with Yoga, there really is no there, there, and it takes “many lifetimes” to attain “expert.” Almost every trainer I meet still works with one more experienced. It is nice not be in a hurry for once; so much of my daily existence is taken at a gallop. Elliot however, thrilled at the idea of a pace, so he and Cleo ran wild with Bobbi and Bandi, taking a very respectable team sixth. All four love to canter, and I consoled my ego with the facts that Elliot made a more sporting companion and Bandi had more fun under Bobbi. I envied Elliot’s spirit of adventure and did not want him to leave me behind, but was proud of his courage and his growing passion for horses.

Janie forged ahead as well. Bobbi rescued a “free” pony—an oxymoron if ever there was one—named Peaches. Bobbi just can’t help herself when it comes to sad-sack cases, and I thought that Peaches looked the wrong side of useful. At eleven hands, our new pony fit in between Hawk, whom she outgrew, and the nearly horse-size Cleo. Although ribbed and mangy, Bobbi espied an inner-Peaches, a sandy blonde dappled cutie with a long mane and matching tail the peroxide color and texture of Barbie hair, an attribute that endeared her to my daughter and set me wondering whether the dolls were manufactured with real horsehair. To seal the deal, Bobbi outfitted Peachy with a pink halter and Jane with a matching riding crop in the shape of a glittered hand that sparkled in the sun.

Peaches needed serious TLC, but she was sturdy, had a promising trot, and was supposedly good with kids. Elliot and Jane immediately adopted her into our Weatogue fold, so I hoped for the best. Our family grew—we added ponies in between our ponies.

Petite Meghan was just slightly big for the job so Elliot first cantered and jumped the rehabilitated Peaches to test her fitness and safety for Jane. How exciting that Elliot’s broadening skills enabled him to play the trainer. We joked that Peaches “breezed” (track-speak for a short speed test) the same day as our resident Thoroughbred racer Humble Bee breezed in her return to Belmont. Both performed admirably. Soon Elliot and Jane were regularly playing tag on horseback, a strategic game that Meghan introduced to develop balance, steering, speed and brakes. The ponies undertook all with equanimity.

Bobbi kept life interesting at the barn. Jane and I looked forward to our first “bling” party, right up my material girl’s alley. Barn friends were invited to arrange beads and jewels into patterns that Bobbi’s crafty friend Cynthia would encrust into leather brow bands for our horses’ bridles and into matching belts for us. Who thinks this stuff up, I wondered?

So I brought a chocolate mousse cake from The White Hart, and Bobbi cooked up her famous chili, and while Scott and Elliot kicked off the first ice-hockey practice of the season, Jane and I ran back and forth to test out variations of color and style across the brows of our dozing, unimpressed horses, creating equine jewelry in the company of new friends in the cozy tack room.

As she started to withdraw into the warmth of her truck, disappointed yet again, a meowing Smudge emerged from the tall grass and into her arms. Bobbi returned to the barn cottage and surprised a pajama-clad Meghan with a joyous, midnight reunion. Thin and hungry enough to scarf down a can of food and look for more, Bobbi warned an effusive Meghan to go easy. The next morning Bobbi called our house bright and early.

I am not sure what mortality lesson this taught us, when the dead resurrected. But we willingly took the boon. Smudge moved in with Meghan, a cottage cat now much to her chagrin, since we could not convince Scott to add her to our house family. If Smudge couldn’t meld with Boomer and Meghan’s eclectic gang, we would find her another good home.

Speaking of home, our neighbor Ursula finally rebuilt her house and returned Thanksgiving of ’06, fifteen months after the fire. Rumor had it she wasn’t happy, but how can a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old school house and forty years of living in it ever be recreated? She and George had a falling out, and he relocated, but continued to keep up our yard work. In late January ’07, I heard Ursula was in a nursing home battling cancer. I bet against the disease.

Also in January, Weatogue Stables suffered two, this time irreversible, good-byes. Katie, an out-to-pasture thirty-year-old mare, lay down in her paddock for several hours the day before our first real cold snap of the winter. The girls pulled, slapped and pushed to get her up, but she reclined again in the barn, in and out of mild distress throughout the night. Meghan spent the first night with her, and Bobbi the second, walking her around the indoor ring in the wee hours to give her a fighting chance. By 5 a.m. she died peacefully in her stall. Katie’s next door neighbor, Meghan’s Q, uncharacteristically dumped all his manure close to their common wall as if, by keeping his back to Katie, he afforded her privacy. Bobbi warned off all the two-legged boarders, borrowed a truck and recruited Big Jane’s husband and three more guys for muscle to remove Katie for burial along a picturesque, wooded border of our farm.

It is neither a pleasant spectacle nor an easy task to move such bulk, but they managed with all possible dignity. As much as my family would mourn Katie, I remembered that Bobbi’s daily, loving care had spanned fifteen years. And Barbara had owned her for twenty-eight, longer than many marriages I know. Purchased as a two year old, Katie went consistently lame at sixteen, and Barbara secured her a top retirement, first with Bobbi and then with us. We appreciated her gentle spirit and often acknowledged that she would have made a perfect mother. Peaches, her most recent paddock mate, thought so too: she ran the fence line for two days looking for her.

Two weeks later, in the midst of the bitterest of cold spells, Bobbi had to put down old Theo, her one-eyed rescued Thoroughbred. Young Theo’s first act of gratitude upon moving in with Bobbi was to repeatedly buck her off, so she quickly retired him. Despite his failure as a riding companion, she lovingly maintained him for over fifteen years. Theo coughed persistently all winter with Robitussin getting him through, but soon after Katie’s death he stopped eating. Hand feeding him carrots and grain did not tempt, and his nose oozed green gunk. Disoriented and increasingly miserable, Theo convinced Bobbi he was done with living. She led him in his last walk across the pasture, telling him he was a good boy, stroking his neck and offering him treats. The vet administered an injection, and he crumpled into his pre-dug grave. She arranged his body and said good-bye. Thirty-two years is old for a horse, but he was appreciated to the end.

Grieving Bobbi thanked me for having allowed Theo a room at the farm in her company amongst the Weatogue action. We all grew fond of the old man, and he alone owned the privilege of trekking back and forth from paddock to barn untethered, moving along at his own pace, occasionally side-stepping off-parade for a look-see elsewhere. Some loud calling of his name would bring him back in line. Bobbi, Meghan and I believed he died of grief at the loss of Katie, his companion of fifteen years, but the vet pegged it more likely age and the weather. I wonder. Old people seem to die off in the winter, but they also tend to follow their spouses. The pain of such parting I am beginning to comprehend: after twenty-five married years, Scott and I both acknowledge that once old, we would choose to die first rather than be left. Happy trails, Katie and Theo.