She's Apples

Two weeks ago today, I said goodbye to my boy.

I have been putting off writing this post. I know that whatever words I can come up with will not even come close to expressing our time together. They all seem quite hollow and empty.

I remember the first day I saw him. We'd been looking for a horse to buy for a few months and my riding instructor had called earlier that week to let us know that he'd found a horse that fit all of our requirements. I remember sitting in the car as Mum drove me out to my weekly lesson, and craning my neck to try to catch a glimpse of him as we came around the corner of the driveway. There was a split second where my heart sank, thinking that plans had changed and he'd already been sold, but just at that moment he threw his head up from behind the tackshed. He was tied up with a frayed red webbing halter and was wearing a very weathered Keiffer saddle stuffed with various faded tatty saddlecloths. Despite the embarrassing attire, he just glowed. His short black mane made a messy mohawk along the top of his neck and his fine coat showed every curve of muscle as he curled his neck to get a good look at me.

We bought him.

I took a glorious dressage-trained performance animal and made him into a kids pony. We did it all. We galloped along goat tracks in the wee hours of morning. We would jump anything and everything that stood still for long enough. We'd work on our flatwork in an arena that looked something like Central station at peak hour. We'd get 3 girls up on his back and lead ponies back down the driveway to their paddocks after a long day of doing a whole lot of nothing much at all.

We did a few shows. He never approved of this, but seeing as it took hours to get him ready and I just kept shovelling the food into him until I was finished, he didn't complain too loudly. He'd get washed and glossed and trimmed and plaited and then we'd go and try our backsides off. We never really got anywhere, but we never really cared. He'd show off for the day, and I'd try to help him out by not looking too much like jelly on a plate, and we'd generally come away with some ribbons for our efforts. The next day though, it'd be right back to having fun.

We even tried Pony Club for a while, but it soon became apparent why kids ponies are normally ponies and not thumping great horses with the turning circle of a tank. We started out at a club up in the Blue Mountains, getting up at 5:30am and riding the 2 hours down into the valley with a small group of other riders to the club. It was always the most fun part of the day, even the days when you ended up having to ride home in the pouring rain. We'd cut through backyards and cross the road at the top of the track so we could avoid the ostrich farm. He'd tolerate many things if I asked him to, but those huge fluffy birds were sometimes just that little bit too much for the both of us! In the end, we attended a club closer to home. We both got to sleep in a little longer, but it was never quite as much fun.

 

Some time after that, I became ill. We were out on a trail ride with far more people than horses, and so those of us with bigger horses were doubling. I always had the largest horse, and we were always the designated pack mule. While everyone else was up and ready to leave after lunch, I was always still on the ground and packing things into the saddlebags. Instead of standing still and then doing a mad gallop to catch up, we'd just walk along behind and I'd jump up when I was done. This particular day, I couldn't jump up, and I knew something wasn't right. I ended up having to claw my way on and cross my fingers he would get us home safely. He did, as always.

We'd always had an understanding. He was always head of the pack, and he worked hard for it. My concession in the relationship was that I was not to do anything to embarrass him in front of his herd. None of this riding business, or any of those smothering cuddles, and he'd do none of this happy nickering or walking up to me in the paddock to be caught. In return, he'd behave and do what I asked. Heaven help either of us if we overstepped the boundaries, it made for a most unpleasant day! He'd even get the dirts if I rode anyone else. It didn't matter if he was occupied with a rider of his own, he'd watch me the entire time and make certain that I understood his displeasure the next time I got on board. It sounds stupid when you write it down, but that was just how it worked.

It must have been 3 months since I'd seen him. I'd been stuck in bed and hadn't even been up to a car trip. Mum got the driveway gate and as we got to the parking area I saw him up on the hill behind the dam with a bunch of the other boys. I got out of the car and called out to him but the word stuck in my throat. I put my head down and held on to Mum to get over to the paddock gate to try again, and halfway there I heard this thundering of hooves as he tore across the soggy paddock to the fence. There were clumps of mud and grass going everywhere and a very confused group of geldings on the hill behind the dam as he galloped towards the fence. There were two big furrows as he dropped anchors and came to a screaming stop in front of me. I wasn't feeding him, I hadn't waved any carrots, he had absolutely no reason to expect anything at all, but he came anyway. With speed. If there was ever any doubt in my mind about how he felt about our little relationship, that day cemented it in my mind. We were fine.

He gave me a hell of a fright in 1999. We got a phone call at some horrid time in the morning, and I remember Mum's face as she told me he was unwell. I don't think I've ever gotten out of bed faster. He was miserable and was trying to throw himself on the ground every few minutes as his gut cramped up. When he saw me, he stuck his nose nder my arm and stayed there much longer than usual. I still don't know how I managed, but between my mum, another owner and myself, we kept him upright for around 2 hours until the vet could get there. Once the painkillers kicked in and he rested, I slept. It was only a short grace period before it started again, and this time everyone was exhausted. I put him on the float and travelled out to the vet in another person's 4WD. I didn't cry that day, and I'm sure they all thought that I was cold and heartless, but I told him the rules. Behave and come home to me. Two days and around 16L of IV fluids later, he was headed back to his herd. I spent the next 6 months in bed and thought it was well worth it.

Eventually I was strong enough to come and groom him. Then I was strong enough to sit on him and have a potter around. I'm pretty sure he had a good idea of my limits, but he was never overly gentle with me, prefering instead to leave me dangling from conveniently located low-hanging tree branches, should the opportunity arise. My arms ached, and my legs screamed at me for days, but I felt more alive in those few minutes than in the months of sitting about the house. It wasn't until we were all kitted up and out in the bush that he started to get his oomph back. He'd go anywhere out on those bush tracks, even where there were no tracks. Down rock stairs, through creeks, and right up to cliff edges. It took me right back to when we were both more able. There was a day when we had to strip him down to his skin and walk low and slow under a fallen tree. There was a day when we followed a trail up the sides of a mountain, and then found that it lead nowhere, forcing us to come down in reverse. There was even a day when we were playing cops and robbers and, while coming around a blind corner at considerable speed, managed to skittle three nuns in full habits while they were out on a relaxing walk.

He was getting on though, and his joints just didn't want to play. Pretty soon after I started feeling well enough to ride regularly, he started getting stiff. He never said no, and even after his legs started giving him trouble, he'd still attack our occasional rides with energy and excitement but only if we were going out in the bush. And usually after double checking my bag for carrots.

I was worried that retirement wouldn't agree with him. He's always been so very posessive and proud, and I was concerned that he'd become miserable and turn into a sour old grump. I worried for about a year, until one day I realised that he wasn't looking for me anymore. I rode past on another horse, and I expected to be met by his typical loathing stare, but it never came. He had a beautiful big paddock, two meals a day, and a little group of mares. He was happy.

I watched him a lot in his paddock at the beginning. I watched him herd his little band of mares around, and drive the other boys away. I watched him carrying on like a two year old and galloping around with the ex-racehorses. The day I watched him fight for his position in the herd and lose without complaint, my heart just ached for him. In that one moment he went from being the top dog to looking like an old horse, and that was never meant to happen.

I only rode a little after that. He didn't mind endulging me, but I got the distinct impression that he had better things to do. Often, I'd stay until late in the evening and watch him with his dinner. The first 3 bites were the most fun. First he'd shove his nose into the dry feed as quickly and as far down as he could, stuffing his mouth full before I could get in there and dampen it down. The next mouthful would be very similar to the first, but he'd never quite get down as far and would end up with wet bits of food all over his nose. These would be sneezed and snorted loose at the beginning of the third mouthful, and he would relax into his meal as he became sure that nobody was going to take it away from him. That first mouthful was always gold.

I don't want to write this. This was not supposed to end this way and even now, when I think about it, it still doesn't seem real. I keep thinking that it is all just a bad dream and that I'll drive up and find him gadding about in his winter woolies, hassling the other retirees for that good spot under the tree.

 

I got a phonecall from the people who manage the property telling me that he was off his feed, and had looked a bit miserable the past few days. They said that maybe I should get a dentist to have a look at him. I went out in the meantime to try to get him to eat. I made his favourites; warm pellet mash and molasses water. He made a half-hearted effort with the food, and halfway through he nuzzled his head into my shoulder. Somewhere inside I knew right then and there that it wasn't his teeth. I bookd the dentist, and before she'd even finished working on him, the vets had been called and the float had been hooked up to the car. He didn't want to get into the float.

 

 

When the results came back from the first test, I knew that it was more than the infection that the dentist had expected. The vet was talking in a way that I understood, but enough above everyone else that I didn't have to deal with hearing the explanations of why. I pretty much already knew, but I ordered extra tests anyway to be sure, and left for the night. He didn't want to follow the vet into his stable.

 

 

She didn't call that night, and I barely slept. When the phone went in the morning, I wasn't sure what I wanted her to say. She said what I expected her to say, and I called PSWC to drive me out there. He let me cuddle him for a while before giving me a half-hearted nudge, and then gingerly followed me into the sun outside and we sat and talked for a while. And then he followed me back inside.

 

On Wednesday the 13th of June 2007 I said goodbye to my baby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

• Everyday Thoughts

It is past 5.

She said she'd call after 5.

I don't know what to do.

Today was not the day I expected it to be when I woke up this morning.

• Everyday Thoughts

I watched them dance last night.

All of these kids in their flashy matching costumes, dancing these carefully choreographed routines while the audience whistled and clapped their approval, it brought back so many memories.

At every performance, there is always that one performance that sticks with you. Once upon a time it was three girls in top hats strutting their stuff to Steam Heat, and after that, a small troupe that twisted and contorted to Dave Brubeck's Take Five.

Last night it was Little Boxes.

Little Boxes
Malvina Reynolds

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All go to the university,
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
And there's doctors and there's lawyers
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf-course,
And drink their Martini dry,
And they all have pretty children,
And the children go to school.
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
And they all get put in boxes
And they all come out the same.

And the boys go into business,
And marry, and raise a family,
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

At first the sound irked me, but there is something in there that just works. Listen here, but be warned it is mildly 'yowling cat'.

• Everyday Thoughts
• Sing a Song of Sixpence

Blame Lou. Seriously, this has taken me all week and I am still not quite sure why I did it. I tend to get suckered into these things way too often. It is probably unhealthy.

So click on in if you are the type that can avoid falling into the meme pit o' doom

• Everyday Thoughts
• Light-hearted Waffle

Have you every just wanted to drag someone's kidneys out through their nostrils and use them as earmuffs while using an angle gringer on their boy bits?

In general, I'm a pretty hard person to anger. I get hurt, I get frustrated, I even get profoundly muddled, but generally people don't make me angry.

Tonight I got angry.

It was the type of angry where a wave of intense heat runs down your nose as the adrenalin kicks in. It was the type where, upon digesting things for a few moments, your legs start to skake and you lose that sense of knowing where all your various limbs are at. It was the bad kind, the one with the potential to make you look like a tosser.

I might have looked like a bit of a tosser.

It may have been the reference to "young ladies here" and the implication that they lack integrity, honesty and respect by virtue of being born in a western country. It could have had something to do with the way the self-proclaimed gentleman implied that the female youth of today "know not what they do". Maybe it was the way that he implied that age alone should award a greater level of respect. I'm thinking the thing that pushed me over the edge was the open invitation for people to have a shot at the Tall Poppies because he is "well used to it".

Now I'm not against felling the occasional over-confident skyward bloom, but that really isn't what this is at all. Sure, I don't agree with what the guy does, and I feel that there are times when the lack of complete information does the community a disservice, but as long as it doesn't adversely affect me, I really don't care. There are far worse ways of getting things done, and I am certainly not about to start throwing stones over that.

I will, however, hurl a rather large boulder at anyone that can make such rude, sexist, ageist, racist, bigoted, judgemental and hurtful comments while demanding respect himself, and implying that if it isn't delivered, the poor young ladies obviously have no idea about how to behave. It couldn't possibly be any other reason, right?

And so, while in my trembly, semi-coherent state, I told the old man about how I see respect.

It was somewhat less eloquent than how I have put it below.

You don't get respect just because you are chronologically challenged, or if you think you are the bees knees and have people worshipping at your feet. You definitely don't get it by tromping all over young women and telling them that they haven't got the capacity to know what they are doing when they are making decisions. You certainly don't get it if you can't stand up and own your own lousy decisions, past or present.

You get it if you are respectful of others; of their feelings, of their property, of their choices and their ability to make them. You get it if you can be honest, just and fair.

And you don't get it from me until you earn it back.

(and yes, I'm aware of how hypocritical it is to bang on about respect and then chew someone out over here, but as I said, leg-wobblingly angry and in need of a place to vent.)

• Everyday Thoughts
• Whinge Cry Complain