I climbed aboard my first at age six, half petrified and half in wonder of the sheer beauty and grace of these very large creatures. It seemed that the horses that I was to come in to contact with in my younger years were all made of gristle and bone, with a single minded determination in assisting me to find another hobby. Bucking, biting, running away with me became second nature. I was undaunted and horses have always been a consistent golden thread that wound their way throughout my life.
Not too terribly long ago, at age thirty five, I sat in the darkened living room, close to midnight, with only the flicker of light from the television set to keep me company. I had stayed up way past my usual bedtime because I knew there was a "horsy" program that started at the witching hour (which of course the obsession with all things equine demands that you do). I felt like a kid, sitting cross-legged on the floor, my eyes and ears attuned to the set. One of the segments revealed what seemed to me a ballet on horseback. It took my breath away and tears welled as the sheer magnificence filled my heart. I learned that it was called dressage, and I knew immediately that it was my calling.
Being a western rider, the conversion was, at times, difficult to say the least. I had an old style bulldog type of Quarter horse who was completely insulted by the thought of direct rein contact, much less the sissy saddle he stoically endured. After two years of trying to make him into something he was not, I decided to sell my best buddy. It was one of the hardest things to do, but it was done and the horse search was on.
Patience, I kept telling myself, is a virtue. The search for a new partner took an immense amount of patience. Combing the papers, looking on the internet, it all seemed futile as the seemingly suitable horses were out of my price range. I knew I couldn't afford a Warmblood and wanted either a Thoroughbred or an Appendix Quarter horse. It was an early Sunday morning when I spied a tiny little one-line ad. The advertisement read,
Registered Appendix Quarter horse mare, 3 years old, 16 hands, red, $1000 and gave the phone number. As I wondered if she had three legs or four, I crossed my fingers, called and arranged to check her out. She was cheap, way too cheap.
There she was with a lovely head, nice clean neck, long legs and every bit of sixteen hands. However, she was painfully thin. Her backbone, ribs, and hips were protruding, her eyes had no spark, the poor girl was starving. Looking downward from her bony frame, her legs didn't indicate any injury from the track (where the owner said they bought her from) and her feet were in abominable shape. The left front was six inches overgrown with a shoe dangling, the rest were severely chipped and cracked and missing shoes. While examining her, she stood quietly, sad eyes pleading to take her away from her misery. I knew I'd probably be sorry, but I whipped out five hundred dollars of my hard earned cash and handed it over to the owner with the understanding that the balance would be paid the next day.
The following day, I arrived with a roomy trailer, borrowed from a friend. She loaded quietly, eager to get to the good grassy hay in the manger. On her arrival to her new home, she settled quickly and even perked up a bit especially when she would hear the rattle of buckets or the soft fluff of hay coming. Her papers revealed that her registered name was Gorgeous Dancer. I certainly hoped she would be true to her name. I called her Mercy, a title that I would repeat many times, both as her name and as exasperation.
After the slow, careful process of weight gain, I put her into work. For six months, I did nothing by work on the ground, undoing the trauma from the track. Mercy quickly gained notoriety by flipping over in the cross ties and rearing at the end of a lead rope. Both times, after falling, she must have decided that it hurt, because she never repeated the incidents. In other words, to me, the key to her training was to let her think it was all her idea. I rode her a few times a week. Well, I was on her back anyway, and didn't eat dirt. Mercy was coming along; at least she didn't crash into the wall of the arena anymore and had some semblance of control. She was no longer snorty, but she wasn't easy by any means. She was definitely a touch me not, you know the type.
A year later, after what seemed to me to be a lifetime, you wouldn't know it was the same mare. Her coat was a brilliant chestnut, gleaming like a newly minted copper penny. With work, she had put on muscle and was simply a lovely, lovely mare. She eventually learned to come on to the bit, off my leg without cow kicking, and we were finally getting to be the partnership I had only dreamed of. We entered our first dressage schooling show and placed. Heck, my goal was just to keep her in the ring. I was very proud of Mercy, knowing how hard it was for her to trust. While it was only a piddly schooling show, I felt like I had just won Olympic gold.
We were progressing in our training and I enjoyed every second of it. However, my personal life was deteriorating. There were always money issues, and when the marriage fell apart, it was even more financially devastating. I became a single parent with a horse. Mercy became my touchstone, the one thing I could always count on, and the thought of losing her cracked my heart. I could no longer afford lessons, boarding, even magazine subscriptions. I was at the bare bones minimum. My daughter and I were lucky if we had enough food and keep a roof over our head. My sister became a savior, offering to put Mercy on her pasture for a while. I knew that if we were to survive I would have to sell her. I didn't though, I couldn't. I made sure we kept our little house, fed my daughter well, and decided ketchup packets and bread weren't all that bad. My lovely daughter, even though it was the beginning of her high school years, felt the same way about Mercy that I did. She never whined about what she didn't have, or what she wanted, she endured. I'll never be able to make up those hardships that she suffered to her in her lifetime. I held on, and would go and talk to Mercy. I'd stand next to her in the pasture and pour my troubles into her neck. While she wasn't exactly people friendly, she stood silently, I felt that she sensed my despair and tolerated the tears.
Today, after that hellish time in my life, I remarried a wonderful man who has the same penchant for the horsy life. I look out at my own pasture of six horses and can see my copper penny chestnut mare, now at age seventeen. She's still my touchstone, drawing my eye as the first thing in the morning that I seek. Yes, she still can be cranky and difficult, but we understand each other and I love that mare. Isn't that what a partnership is about?