Sadness.
In the broad range of possible responses to a situation, sadness had always seemed to me a waste of time. Not only was it draining, it was fruitless. It accomplished nothing, gave nothing, fixed nothing, changed nothing. Anger or frustration I could understand, or at least tolerate because action usually followed. But sadness was one of those feelings I just didn’t see a purpose for. The best way to handle sadness, in my opinion, was to move past it and make room for something more useful.
These were the thoughts rolling around in my head after Priscilla and Voyager walked away. Returning to January and again taking her lead, I tried to pick up where we left off. As we worked, though, my heart was no longer in it. I should have been angry at Priscilla for ruining what had started out to be a very promising session, but the most I could summon now that she was gone was a vague, unsettled irritation—along with the needling notion that what had happened here today between us had to do with far more than just horses.
I could tell January was picking up on my mood, so finally I decided to call it a day before I made things not better but worse. The gathering clouds were also an indication that it was time to wrap it up. I pulled the bag loose from the stick, which I tossed to the side, and then I crushed the crinkly plastic back into my pocket. I decided we would end today’s session with a final lap or two around the ring. We started off, her lead rope in my hand, walking at a regular, steady pace.
As the horse and I moved along side by side, I prayed for insight, after which I began to sense that I should go back over Priscilla’s words, hoping to look beyond my own aggravation to the core of what she’d been trying to say. She had been right about Patch. Was there at least a kernel of truth in what she was saying about January too?
The problem was, even if I gave her the benefit of the doubt, her theory made no sense. What on earth would a horse—especially this well-cared-for, physically-healthy horse—have to feel sad about?
In my mind, I went over what I knew of January’s life, but there just wasn’t much to work with. Sure, her problems had begun once she moved to a new home, but why should that have made any difference? It wasn’t as though horses became homesick, was it? The fact that I was even asking myself that question made me groan aloud.
So what else could it be?
One of Natasha’s kids had suggested that maybe January missed competing, and perhaps somewhere inside her tiny apple-sized brain she did. But I refused to believe that something as basic as that could cause a horse to be sad. Horses retired all the time and probably enjoyed their life of leisure far more than they ever had their time in the ring.
As horses did not mate for life, I doubted she was missing an old boyfriend.
I supposed some horses developed deep bonds with their humans and would feel sad if those bonds were broken, but January hadn’t been the beloved pet of some little girl whose whole life revolved around her pony. January had been a show horse, which meant that even if she’d only had one previous owner, she’d probably lived through a series of handlers and trainers and riders, with none of them around her long enough to ever form that kind of bond. Natasha had specifically said that January’s owner wasn’t involved in her day-to-day care at all.
As my mind pondered these thoughts, I noticed movement off to my left and turned to see Stephen heading my way. Glancing at the diminishing sun, which was now low in the sky, I realized it was time for our chores in the barn. January and I finished out our loop, and I rewarded her with one final carrot. Then I led her from the paddock, waited as Stephen took Willow, and we started across the grass together.
When we reached our destination, we put the horses away and got busy, starting in on the Kinsinger side of the barn and methodically working our way across, cleaning the stalls while Comet played nearby with a cricket he’d discovered among the hay. I could hear thunder off in the distance and knew the rain was finally rolling in. Natasha had told me that bad storms were one of January’s triggers, so a part of me was glad. I’d been working with the animal for less than a week, but if we really had made some progress, as it seemed, then this coming storm might provide the perfect proving ground. Better yet, Priscilla couldn’t accuse God, as she had me, of heartlessly sending a trigger January’s way just to scare the animal into submission.
As Stephen finished with the last of the Kinsinger stalls, I moved to my side of the barn. The storm was growing ever closer, and it sounded as if we were in for a drenching tonight. January was already acting anxious, hoofing the ground and shaking her head, sure signs that she wasn’t too happy. Now that I was here, however, if my presence served to calm her, then that would be a good indication of her newly blossoming trust.
Even Willow was a little bit antsy, though, so I went to her and gave her some long, soothing pats down the line of her neck. Then, after a carrot and a “Good girl,” I returned my attention to January. As the first of the rain began to fall, I positioned myself just outside the closed door of her stall. Resting my hands casually across the top rail, I spoke in low soothing tones to the frightened animal, assuring her it would be all right, that I wouldn’t let anything hurt her.
She didn’t seem to get the message at first, especially once the steady patter of rain was followed by a solid boom of thunder. In response, she tossed back her head, her eyes wide with fear. Though I would have preferred being in the stall with her, where I could better provide the soothing comfort of touch, I knew that wouldn’t be safe. A frightened horse can be a dangerous horse, so the best I could do was to remain just outside her reach and try to get her through this ordeal with only the sound of my voice and the assurance of my presence as protection.
It didn’t seem to work at first. The louder the storm grew, the more frantic her behavior became. By the time Stephen had finished with Big Sam’s stall and come over to my side to join me, January was so agitated that I feared for her safety. What a disappointment. Apparently, we hadn’t made any progress yet after all.
Then again, I told myself as I looked out through the open door at the rain, this was a doozy of a summer storm, made worse by the fact that it was passing directly overhead. Maybe I was being too impatient, and if I just stuck it out a little longer, I would see some results after all.
I heard a whimper nearby and looked over to see that even Comet was a bit rattled. He had come in from the other side of the barn and was now standing at Stephen’s feet, looking up at him with sad eyes. Obviously, Comet didn’t like this weather any more than the horses did.
“Hey there, fella,” Stephen said, pausing in his work and setting the pitchfork aside. Then he bent down and put his arms around the dog who was almost instantly comforted in the safety of his master’s embrace.
“If only I could get my arms around you,” I cooed to the large, frightened horse in front of me. In a way though, I told myself, I was holding her, by staying close until the worst of the storm had passed.
Ultimately, my plan seemed to be working. When the next loud clap of thunder came, I braced myself for January’s reaction. And though the whites of her eyes still showed from nervousness, her muscles were no longer trembling and her feet remained firmly on the ground.
Could it be possible? Had she really been taking something from our lessons after all? I nearly held my breath until another clap of thunder came, so eager was I to prove our success. This time, when she barely reacted, I felt like jumping for joy.
We had done it! Though January still had a ways to go, it was clear now that she felt safe with me, at least to an extent. Eventually I hoped we would reach the point where she was secure and confident in every case, no matter the threat, whether man-made or flashed across the sky by God.
Now that she was calm, I turned my attention to the work that still awaited me in the barn. The good news was that even when I had to move farther away from her and my attention was distracted by other things, she still remained reasonably at peace. Every time I glanced back at her, a part of me wanted to point all of this out to Stephen and share with him about my success, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist gloating, so in an attempt to stay humble, I kept quiet and just smiled to myself, the proof of my technique standing quietly in her stall nearby, munching on hay.
Eventually, the worst of the storm had passed, though the rain lingered and we could still hear distant rumblings in the sky. Once the dog stopped whimpering, Stephen got back to work, too, but soon all that remained was to clean out the stall I’d been using to house Patch. As that arrangement had had nothing to do with the Kinsingers, I told Stephen I would handle it myself and sent him on home.
That ended up being easier said than done. In fact, Stephen had such a hard time coaxing the rain-shy Comet to leave the dry safety of the barn that I was nearly done cleaning the empty stall by the time they finally left.
In the quiet, I exhaled slowly, allowing myself the smile I’d been stifling since January first calmed down. Feeling deeply pleased, I reached for the fattest, juiciest carrot in the box, a reward for my star pupil: January the palomino, picture of peace.
Except that she wasn’t acting so peaceful anymore. The last time I had looked over at her, minutes before, she had simply been standing there, chomping at the fresh hay, the whites of her eyes no longer even visible. Now for some reason, though the worst of the storm had passed, she seemed nervous again, her nose twitching, and her muscles tense. Another low murmur of thunder sounded in the distance, the storm’s rumbling farewell. In response, January tossed her head and suddenly began pawing the ground.
I was confounded. For a guy who claimed to read horses pretty well, I hadn’t figured this one out at all. Calm one minute and terrorized the next, January was challenging everything I thought I understood about the gentling of horses. As I stood there, hands on hips, surveying the situation, I began to wonder if perhaps she had some sort of physical issue, something that wasn’t behaviorally related after all. Then again, Natasha had talked about how thoroughly she had been checked out by experts, so I doubted that was it.
Closing my eyes, I asked myself the only question I could come up with in this moment. What had changed? Other than the fact that the storm was still moving farther and farther away, what else was different between the point when January was calm and now? Had my movements spooked her as I was cleaning? Did she have a fear of pitchforks like the one I was holding in my hand?
Finally, I opened my eyes, feeling like an idiot for not catching on before. The difference between when January was calm and now was Stephen.
The key here was Stephen.
My mind raced. Was it possible there was something about the boy that had a calming effect on the horse? If so, I couldn’t imagine what, until I remembered my earlier theory. Priscilla’s insistence that January was sad had led me to question whether the horse was missing someone or something from her life with her previous owner. As a show horse, yes, she had probably been exposed to a never-ending series of trainers and riders and such, but who’s to say there hadn’t been a certain constant in this mare’s life? The constant of a young boy. Perhaps the owner or the stable master had a son, one who spent enough time with the horses that he and January had managed to form a special bond.
That had to be it.
Pulse surging, I knew I had to test this theory—and right away, before she grew even more distressed. Leaving her alone in the stable, I grabbed my hat and ran out into the rain to Mahlon’s house.
I got there just as the family was sitting down to supper, and though Beth invited me to stay, I said thanks but no thanks, that what I really needed was to borrow their son for just a few minutes. They didn’t seem to mind. As Stephen and I dashed back through the rain together, I realized he thought he was in trouble, that perhaps he had done something wrong with one of his chores. I assured him that wasn’t it at all, and then I explained the situation as simply as I could. When I was finished, I could tell he seemed pleased at the thought of a horse being calmed simply by his presence.
Once we were back to the stable, however, we could both see that my theory was wrong. Even when Stephen stood close to January’s stall door and spoke to her in calming tones, she was still in an agitated state. We gave it a good five minutes, thinking maybe she just needed time to calm back down, but if anything she only seemed to grow worse. Finally, I thanked him for coming and told him we were done here.
My shoulders heavy, I put out the lights and Stephen and I headed back into what was now just a drizzle. We walked together part of the way, and then with a solemn good night the boy veered right to go to his house and I headed left toward my cottage. I had only gone a few steps, however, when I froze and turned around.
There on the porch, Stephen had paused to greet his excited dog before going back inside. Comet had been with us in the barn when the storm first started, and January had calmed down about the same time he showed up near her stall. Then, once he and Stephen left, January had grown agitated again. Just now when I came back to get Stephen, it had still been drizzling and Comet had chosen not to come along. Wherever Stephen went, Comet always went too—except when it was raining.
“Hey, Stephen!” I called, just as he was about to head inside. “Mind if I borrow Comet?”
Understanding slowly dawned in the boy’s eyes as I approached, and with a big grin he whistled for his dog and the three of us raced back to the barn. As we stepped inside, we could already hear January’s agitated huffing and snorting, but the moment Stephen led the dog over near her stall, it was as if someone had flipped a switch.
Suddenly, the body of the anxious, twitching, pawing horse grew still. She gave us a look as if to say, “It’s about time you figured it out,” and then she took a big bite of hay and stood there calmly chewing it, as if all was right with the world.
“Well, would you look at that,” Stephen said, turning to flash me a wide grin.
The horse had been missing a dog.