The Next Horse Whisperer

"They're like dogs, only bigger." As we pulled up to the ranch, I added, "Just don't get stepped on."

My two boys looked at each other. They knew I'd grown up with horses, cows, and itinerant siblings. They were skeptical about this outing. And, because they were brothers, when one was interested, the other was beyond bored.

Nevertheless, I had to check on a sick horse, and since they were with me, they went. The horse was one of about ten owned by a non-profit organization that helps special-needs kids learn to ride. My sons didn't quite understand why I did this, how helping others helped me, how horses helped my soul. And besides a few pony rides at the county fair and a couple of visits to my parents' farm, my boys had never been near horses before.

We headed for Rafi's stall. He had been colicking for a day or two, but was feeling better and wanted to eat. He sniffed the boys, looking for food.

"His nose is HUGE!" Tommy exclaimed, backpedalling into the corner to escape. Bobby tried to hold his ground, but Rafi was pushing him, searching his pockets for treats.

"Um, Mom, he's attacking me," it was all he could do to keep calm.

"Just pet him, like a dog," I said. Bobby stroked Rafi's nose, enthralled. Tommy did, too, grimacing. Always such opposites! Still, one out of two wasn't bad.

Rafi had been sick the day before - I had spent hours with him, walking him, massaging his back, trying to get him to drink some water. He was the kind of horse that, when he wasn't feeling good, wanted to crawl in your lap like a golden retriever. By Saturday night, after a shot of painkillers, he seemed a bit better. Although he still wanted to crawl in my lap.

The next morning, on my way to church, I decided to stop by the barn first. Sure enough, Rafi was down, thrashing, his body twisted in pain. We got the vet out right away, pumping his stomach, more pain medication, then filling his stomach with mineral oil in the hopes his intestines would unkink. Colic is often deadly in horses, especially older ones like Rafi. After that, all we could do was walk him, watch him, and wait. Later that day I took a break to get something to eat and pick up my boys.

To get Rafi’s system going again, he had to be walked. A lot. I caught Bobby staring at the lead rope I was holding. "Would you like to walk him?" I asked. I didn't have to ask twice. "Just don't get stepped on."

He took the lead rope. Rafi looked at him. Bobby walked forward and Rafi ambled off with him, slowly, putting his head down low so he was eye-level with my son.

There are certain moments in a parent's life that freeze-frame in your mind. Watching Bobby and Rafi walking side by side was one of them. Spending time with horses had, in my youth, given me confidence, and recently eased a difficult time. And now here I was, watching my son discover the healing qualities of a horse. The intensity of the emotion caught me by surprise. I fumbled for the camera on my cell phone, hoping to capture the feeling, but I was too spent, my eyes too glossy and worn to deal with it. I sighed. The sun was setting on a Sunday evening. We would have to get going soon.

Circular healing. Walking with my son, Rafi was feeling better. My son was grinning, stepping out confidently to guide the huge animal like he had done it all his life. In the cool breeze of a California sunset, this was a bit too much of a happy ending for a weary mom. I was pretty sure God didn’t mind me missing a hymn or two that morning. Besides, that night, I think we discovered a few new ones.

8 Seconds - Dad's First Ride - Chapter Two

(psst -Chapter One is found directly below this post - you might wanna read that first)

Patty was quite experienced at avoiding the bit. She'd spin her head back and forth, ducking and dodging the bridle. My dad would get it over one ear and she'd slip her other ear out, then push the bit out of her mouth with her tongue. He’d begin again, and she’d respond with the old ear dodge and head bob, to the point where it looked like they had orchestrated a dance - The Waltz of the Weaving Horse Head.

The trick to getting the bridle on a horse, Dad’s book said, was to first carefully put your fingers in the horse's mouth. Yes, slide your fingers right on in there. Carefully. This was akin to carefully placing your fingers in a wood chipper.

Eventually Dad managed to get the big curb bit in Patty’s mouth without crushing a digit. Patty swished her tail, clacked her teeth, and stomped. Round 4 to a rather tired dad.

By now Patty was well aware she was dealing with horse-rookies. She knew she had the upper hoof in this arrangement, and she set the tone early and often. At times our idiocy must have frightened her. Like the time we accidentally put the bit in her mouth under her tongue instead of over. I’m sure it hurt like Hades, and when I fixed it she gave me a look like we were trying to kill her.

Patty must have had quite the life before she arrived at our little farm. For some reason, most likely valid, she had cause to despise people. Animals aren't born hateful - they need to learn it, and people can be excellent teachers. I often wondered what awful things had happened to her to make her so angry and spiteful. Usually this thought went through my head right before I hit the ground when she bucked me off.

It was time for a ride. My dad grabbed the reins and attempted to swing himself into the saddle. Each time he went to get up, Patty would step away so he’d miss, left foot in the stirrup, right foot hopping madly after his spinning horse. Always fun to see when it happens to someone else. Dad was busy not getting killed, so I knew he wouldn’t catch me giggling.

From watching many Western movies I knew that once you were up it was traditional to simply leap into a gallop from the spot. Dad didn’t let me down. Later I found out it wasn’t his idea to take off at a dead run.

Patty and Dad bolted down the hill. As Patty’s hooves spit out clumps of grass and gravel, I was impressed with my dad’s bravery, at least for a few seconds. Horse and rider reached the bottom of the hill and veered right. Actually, Patty veered right. My dad - left.

Another trick horses have is the nifty hold-your-breath-when-they-tighten-the–cinch move. They exhale when the going is good and voila – the saddle slides under the belly and it’s the end of the trail. Which was of course what Patty did, and why my dad was now sitting, spitting up daisies, in the grass at the bottom of the hill. And which is why, cowpokes, you should always recheck your cinch before you get on a horse. Game, set, and match to Patty.

I don’t think my dad ever rode again. There’s an expression – get back on the horse, meaning when life knocks you down, don’t give up – try again. There’s a little-known amendment to that expression – if you don’t want to get back on the horse, have your offspring do it.

Not that I had to be prodded. Thinking Patty’s vile ways were standard equestrian behavior, I rode as much as I could. In other words, as long as Patty would let me. Honestly, I didn’t care how mean she was – I had a horse and I was going to ride. In no specific order, I ended up getting tossed off, bucked off, scraped off, dragged, trampled and rolled upon. Once Patty even reached around, grabbed my foot in her teeth, and flung me from the saddle to the dirt. But at least I got to ride. As my mother would put it years later – I rode off and on.

8 Seconds - Dad's First Ride - Chapter One

Ever since I could whinny I whined for a horse. At some point or another most girls do. Usually it’s just a phase, since the logistics of a childhood don't often lend themselves to a 900 pound animal. Eventually most girls grow out of the idea and move on to safer things like boys, wine coolers, and sororities. The difference with me was:

1. we had the land
2. my dad had a soft spot for animals
3. as far as knowing the dangers, the expenses, the effort needed for horses, my parents were blissfully clueless
4. as far as knowing the dangers, the expenses, the effort needed for boys, wine coolers, and sororities, my parents opted for the horse

My mother quickly ran out of excuses as to why we should not get a horse. She realized how determined I was to ride, especially when she caught me saddling the dog and roping the cat. Eventually, my dad and I wore her down, and she let us go see a man about a horse.

We went to visit Mr. Hornbeck, the farmer down the road, and explained that we'd like to buy a horse. My dad made it clear we had absolutely no equestrian experience whatsoever. In other words, have mercy on our souls and sell us a sweet, gentle pony.

Mr. Hornbeck was an eighty-year-old, God-fearing, whiskey-drinking diabetic, who was also apparently hard of hearing, because we ended up with a horse who was, to this day, the meanest, nastiest beast I've ever met in my life.

Patty was a rangy, speckled grey mare of dubious heritage. If you so much as made eye contact, she’d flatten her ears and practically growl at you, lips curled back in a snarl, flashing big old nasty horse teeth. She had a young filly with her who we named Toni. Only a few months old, Toni was a pretty blonde chestnut. Pretty with the exception that one corner of her lip hung askew like she was missing the cigar that usually went there. Mr. Hornbeck swore she’d grow out of her ‘gangster lip.’ She did not. Mr. Hornbeck was a nice man, but some of his facts left a lot to be desired.

We soon discovered that both horses could go over, through, or around just about anything. I once saw Toni jump a fence that was nearly six feet high – from a standstill. Her momma was on the other side and although the gate was open, hopping over the barbed wire was quicker than wandering down to the gate like a normal animal. We’d build a fence even higher and still find them on the other side of it in the morning, calmly munching in the front lawn, corn field, or trash cans like they belonged there.

Late one night I heard quite the racket coming from the kitchen. I would not have been surprised to find Patty and Toni rummaging through the refrigerator looking for a decent snack. Nor would I have gotten in their way. The next morning I found out it was my brother doing the foraging, but for most of the night I lay very still in my bed, hoping voracious nocturnal mares wouldn’t visit my room. Sometimes imagination trumps reality. Sometimes reality wins the terror contest. If you survive, it’s all good.

Horses have many clever tricks up their furry sleeves, most of them designed to help them avoid doing something they don’t want to do. To this end they make government employees look like slipshod rookies. This may also explain why when there’s an ass in a government position he’s usually in management.

You may have seen a silly video where an unsuspecting rider gets scraped off an innocent-looking horse by a tree branch. That’s one of the simpler tricks a horse can pull to ‘unload.’ I’ve seen many more, first hand and up close.

When my dad first saddled up Patty for a ride he looked like he knew what he was doing. As he flung the worn old Western saddle over her back, Patty’s ears flattened and she reached around to nip him. By this time we had learned to expect this, and had tied her lead rope short to keep her from drawing blood. Round One went to Dad.

Dad reached under Patty’s belly for the cinch, the strap that goes under the horse and keeps the saddle in place. Patty swung a rear leg at his head and nearly took it off. Dad landed on his butt and rolled to safety, cursing. Patty’s tail swished in satisfaction. Round Two – Patty.

The next part was a bit tricky for someone new to horses, but my dad had a book on how to tie a Western cinch, so he was as ready as he was naïve. The book said it was just like tying a man’s tie, except different, which was true yet disturbingly inconclusive. Following the instructions, my dad did the over/under/through movements like a pro, making sure the cinch was snug. Patty clacked her teeth a few times in protest. Round Three – Dad.

...to be continued....

Piano Lessons With Cats

For as long as I can remember, and even a bit before that, I took piano lessons. My mother determined that I needed a habit more irritating than many of my sister's irritating habits, which included talking nonstop at a high pitch, staring unblinking at people for hours at a time, and having a bladder the size of a walnut. At least with the piano, my sister's squeals would be drowned out by the lilting toils of rickety, pensive scales played eighty-seven times in a row.

My piano teacher was Mrs. Bartagas, an elderly widow who lived alone. If you could call living with forty-three cats living alone. It was more like living with moving, breathing, angora stealth-pillows with claws.

My mother would drop me off at her house and I'd knock on the front door. The cats lived inside, every last one of them, and as Mrs. Bartagas opened the door to let me in, a swirl of cat hair would rise in the draft. The cats would scatter into the shadows, kicking up more hair and throw rugs as they went. I could sense their eyes shining at me from the nooks and crannies of many years of accumulated furniture. I half expected Rod Serling to appear with afternoon tea.

Forty-three cats is a rough estimate. I was never able to line them up for an actual head count. Cats don’t cotton to counting. Once in a while I’d spot one I thought might be new. “Why, yes, that’s Oliver,” Mrs. Bartagas would reply. “He’s new.” Then I’d ask her how many cats she had now. The answer was always, “Why, forty-three, dear,” as if she was surprised to hear such a silly question.

Mrs. Bartagas had a lively past that she loved to share. Since this meant less playing time I was all for it. She had somehow been affiliated, in reality or fantasy, with Doris Day. There were pictures everywhere of Ms. Day, some even signed. It was hard to make out the signatures because cat hair blanketed nearly everything.

She would launch into a story about the olden days, and I'd keep an eye out for attack cats. There were a few that liked to bite my ankles, especially when I pressed the piano pedals. I was convinced that one day I’d be playing a tune and hear an irritated 'meowrr!' from deep inside the piano as I smacked some misplaced feline with a felt piano hammer. The top of the piano would fly open, and the angry cat would leap out and attach itself to my jugular. In a hostile territory such as this, Clair de Lune can become a dangerous enterprise.

The air in the house was pungent, thick. While I loved all animals, I was allergic to cats. Attempting to play Beethoven’s 5th whilst sneezing one’s fool head off was difficult, however the adrenaline rush produced by the cat-claw assaults on my ankles helped clear my sinuses enough to get by. Every once in a while a kamikaze kitten would wipe out the clicking metronome on the top of the piano. The constant drama kept me alert and terrified. Looking back, my visits were probably the highlights of their little feline lives. When I left I’m sure they had some tall tails to share.

The keys of her piano were real mother-of-pearl - worn, wavy and opalescent, much like Mrs. Bartagas' fingernails. I tried not to notice the similarities, but when she'd show me how to play something, her nails clacked on the keys. Ebony, ivory, and geriatric cuticles all blended to form a hopefully once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Her hands were incredibly quick and lithe on the keyboard, which was good because if they stopped for any reason, I couldn’t help but stare since they were, well, ancient. Veins, arteries, and tendons arched and mingled like a city map. I did my best to listen to her instructions, but my mind was fixated on the freeway interchange just south of her pinkie and ring finger.

In a pasture in front of the house lived Mrs. Bartagas’ white horse. When I was leaving, he’d come over to the gate and bob his head at me. Mrs. Bartagas would often ask ‘Bob’ what she should have for dinner. He’d whinny something unintelligible, at least to sane people, and she’d head back to her house of cats. He’d look at me and bob his head, so I’d pick some grass and feed it to him. Then I’d leave before he started telling me things I was better off not knowing.

When my mom picked me up, I’d be sneezing my head off and bleeding about the ankles. But I was humbled, happy to see my mom, and thrilled to be going home. I’m guessing that’s why she sent me in the first place.

Stuck on Polo

We were playing a tournament at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center. It was arena polo, similar to hockey in that it's a physical team game played off the walls, and similar to rodeo in that it's rough, fast fun in a dirt arena.

The other team's fans were booing me. I took it as a compliment - they considered me a threat, and I had scored on them already, taking the ball all the way down the wall right in front of a hissing crowd.

One of my horses, Superiora, was and is to this day the fastest thing I have ever ridden. A gorgeous chestnut running quarter horse, 'Supie' resembled a rubber band that was constantly wound very tightly.

When I first saw her, she was out in an arena practicing incredibly fast rollbacks. By herself.

She loved speed and loved to play. Unfortunately, her prior owner had fried her brain on polo, so once she got going she was nearly impossible to stop. I taught her barrels, which she loved, to the point that as we flew out of the arena after our turn, she'd do a rollback in an attempt to go back and do it again. The lateral 'g' forces as she whipped around the barrels made me physically nauseous. I'd dismount and not be able to stand. Anyway, she was intense and I got her cheap because most people were afraid of her.

Near the end of this particular tournament, I took a shot at the goal and missed. However, the ball bounced off the wall and I was able to spin around on Supie and attempt a near-side back shot. This is where you lean your right hand and mallet way up and out over your left side, and swing down and back over the left side of your horse, sending the ball flying back behind you. Horses naturally don't like having big sticks raised high over their heads, but good polo ponies tolerate it because they know something exciting is about to happen.

And of course it did. The ball bumped a dirt clod, I missed my shot completely and hooked my mallet around Supie's butt. Unfortunately, the end of the mallet lodged under her tail and stuck. Startled, Supie clamped her tail down and reared. At that angle and degree of horsey muscle tension, try as I might, I couldn't dislodge the mallet. To make matters worse, my right arm was extended out across the left side of my body, my upper body hanging out over arena dirt, trying to keep the stick from falling under Supie's legs.

There was a gasp from the crowd as Supie and I crowhopped and bucked the length of the arena. All the while I was hoping Supie would "exhale" enough so I could pull the bamboo enema from my mare's behind.

Finally it came out. I was beet red, half from fear and half from embarrassment. Supie was pawing the ground, flicking her tail like a mad cat, just as embarrassed as I was. The crowd was now roaring with laughter.

At least we won.