The Story That Never Was: Part Six

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Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
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"Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;
The iron bit he crushes ’tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with." (William Shakespeare)

Not long after Jake's first horse show, I was asked to work with him at a party on Carousel Farms. As a commercial barn, Carousel took pride in being the biggest (and most expensive) location for children's "pony parties". It was Jake's turn to suffer through a day of Torture By Children, and Donna and Shannon wanted me there to deal with him in case anything went wrong.

In case was pretty much a joke. At pony parties, horses have to deal with babies wailing in their ears, kids slamming down on their backs and inadvertently kicking their sides, and ignorant adults who stand in their blind spots or decide to employ flash photography inches away from their faces. Jake could hardly tolerate another horse within twelve feet of him; this was not going to be good.

Five minutes before the party began, Jake was pulled from a riding lesson in the back ring so Shannon could slap a western saddle on his back, stick a carrot in his mouth to keep his teeth occupied, hand me lead line, and say, "Go for it." He hesitated a little when he saw the party area, with its big balloons and bright colors, but he had his carrot to chomp on, so he graciously walked along. Donna was waiting there to give the workers their final instructions and collect the check from the parents. She told us what we already knew: that we could lead each kid once around the short trail once until everyone had gone, and then they could come back for more; that the horses couldn't graze at the party; that we should keep the horses away from each other; and that the kids had one hour and not a minute more with the horses before they had to move onto to the next activity in the barn. And then she turned the party over to one of her riding instructors and headed to the refuge of her office. As she passed Jake and I on the way out, she threw us a dirty look and warned, "Watch him."

I just rolled my eyes as she turned her back and slipped Jake another carrot.

The party went just as expected. Jake and I walked the monotonous, square bridle path: walk ten yards, left turn, walk ten yards, left turn, walk ten yards, left turn, walk ten yards, left turn. Children ran, squealing, behind him. A little boy almost threw up in his face. Parents snapped pictures left and right, turning on the flash as the cloud cover grew thicker. Jake's mane was pulled, his sides were kicked, and his back took a beating. Jake grew more and more irritated. He began pinning his ears and flashing his teeth. I ran out of carrots, so I let him start licking my arm to keep his teeth away from the children. Towards the end of the hour, Jake stopped short and a little girl (more from being startled than by a loss of balance) slid slowly, sideways off his back. As she hit the grass with a thump, the staff decided to call it a day.

As I tried to lead him out of the party area, Jake, who had his mouth around my arm, licking me, simply tilted his head and chomped down on my forearm. I swatted him swiftly, and he backed off, looking at me with what can only be called an apology on his face, but I was still stung: both physically and emotionally. It was the first time he had dared to bite me. I could tell then how much toll the day had taken on him.

As I untacked Jake and put him back in his stall, he looked a mixture of emotions: frustrated, irritated, confused, melancholy, upset. I worried then that the party had been too much for him, that we had pushed him too far with the noise and sights and stress of it all. But, in the weeks to come, I began to suspect something more. That party was only the beginning of it: an emotional vortex from which I would never see my horse recover, a blackhole that would doom his fate at Carousel Farms.

[To be continued]

Part Seven