Sometimes I wonder why I spend hundreds of dollars a month to get myself half killed by some crazy quadruped. A BIG crazy quadruped. Wrangling twelve hundred pounds of hoofed beast is how I spend my spare time. I could go shopping. I could see a movie. I could grab a glass of wine with some girlfriends. But instead I drive a hundred kilometres (round trip) to go visit my Muffy. And I've been doing it for years.
Occasionally you'll meet horse-crazy people like me; we usually smell, um, interesting, and have dirty cars with oddly shaped pieces of leather adorning the passenger seats. Don't get excited, boys. That whip is not for you. We see no problem with spending entire paycheques on boots and saddle pads for our four-legged friends. My horse has a more colourful wardrobe than I do. Upon meeting one of these equine enthusiasts, it is usually advisable to pretend you haven't. Run away. We'll take your money.
A horse of my own was all I ever wanted as a child. I wanted a horse more than I wanted nice clothes, more than I wanted that new cool gadget, more than I even wanted friends. I used to sit on the arm of our couch, pretending to be a jockey or a steeplechase rider flying over jumps. I read every horse themed book I could get my hands on. I owned a fleet of pastel coloured My Little Ponies and staged Barbie rides with every single one of them. My poor mother didn't stand a chance.
I had to wait 13 years for my dream to come true. For my birthday that year I received a spunky Thoroughbred mare. I use the term "received" lightly, as I paid for Skye myself. Well, actually, my generous mommy lent me the money, and I paid her back over the next few years by bussing tables. I realize now that the real birthday gift was allowing me to have a horse at all, and it's still the best gift I've ever received. She wasn't an expensive horse, but she was perfect. Dainty, chestnut with a heart shaped star: she was the love of my life and my best friend for many years.
That doesn't mean she was an easy horse. Skye was impatient, prone to pulling back and pawing, she pulled like a train, she had no brakes, and I often ended up on the ground for a closer look at what she was spooking at (usually nothing). She broke halters and lead ropes trying to fling herself away from whatever she was tied to, and she even put me on crutches once. Ask Cassie about the polo clinic: that's a good story too. I shed many tears of frustration over that horse, and I loved every minute of it. My horse memories often provoke me to ask myself, are other athletes this dedicated? If the hockey puck or volleyball ran away from you every time it saw you, and it took you 45 minutes to halter it and another hour to put it on the trailer, and then you fell off during your lesson and ended up with a face full of dirt, would you still play the game? Here's a nod to all the other riders out there. It must be love.
Eventually I ended up with a fabulous instructor who tamed Skye's unruly ways and really taught me how to ride. I even won Reserve Champion at dressage provincials one year. Pretty good for a horse who cost less than the saddle I rode her in.
Sadly though, our partnership was not to last. Skye's advanced age and limited athletic abilities led me to retire her and take up another mare, Wantara. Although I intended to keep her and lease her to less experienced rider, she died suddenly one spring night. She was only 19, not that old for a horse. I'll never know what killed her, but I still miss her. Perhaps it's silly to miss a horse, but I do. I still have her halter.
So now I have another horse friend, Wantara. I call her Muffy because frankly, I think Wantara is a terrible name. What do I yell out when she's trying to turf me? Wanty? Tara? Muffy is clearly the better choice.
Muffy is a special horse in her own right: she suffered a terrible injury as a 3 year old, underwent surgery and months of isolation in an effort to heal her, and then completely lost her mind as a result. She needed a few years of mental rehabilitation, but she's coming around. She's only recently stopped leaping in the air on her hind legs, although she still does it sometimes just to spite me. She's still terrified of everything, though. White things are especially scary. (She doesn't realize her feet are white too.)
Any why do I put up with all of this? Because I was born with a genetic defect that makes me a horse addict. Lots of people have it, but that doesn't make it any less debilitating. You can't cure it, so don't even try. So here's the tip from the wink for this edition: Buy your kids a pony. Ponies are really cute, and they'll force your kids to get a job.
