Dorothy's Imagination: (probably mid-70s)-1998

[jenett]

Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved horses. This girl watched a movie - "Black Stallion", perhaps - and asked her parents if she could have a horse. They said "No, but you can have riding lessons." So she did.

Years passed, and she kept asking - and kept having riding lessons. Even a nasty fall on a trailride didn't put her off. She kept asking.

The summer before she turned 10, her church had a picnic at a local farm that had been endowed 'for the enjoyment of children' - and someone, along the way, decided that this meant pony rides.

The girl found out that you could arrange to help take care of the ponies (cleaning stalls, cleaning the pony, helping with feeding and some other chores) for free, as long as you didn't mind not being able to use them when they were needed for pony rides.

The girl's parents figured that she would get tired of this when she realised that it was a lot of work, and that it gets awfully cold in New England in the winter. That there would be many days she'd be unable to ride, and would still need to do the work.

That didn't work. The girl missed only 2 days at the barn that whole next year - one was the day of Hurricane Gloria, when it was impossible to get out of her street or drive safely. The other was the day after falling off another pony onto an inconvenient rock, and bruising her kidneys. She was out there when she had colds, the day she got braces, the day she had four teeth pulled. She was out there in the rain, in the snow, and in the summer heat.

The pony she rode - Shamrock - was not particularly cooperative. Sometimes he would not canter - or even trot. She often fell off (he had a trick that would have been nasty were he larger of galloping and then suddenly doing a 90 degree turn. When riding bareback, the laws of physics tend to encourage the rider hitting the ground in such situations. And the less said about their showing at the county fair, the better.

But the girl loved Shamrock. And due to her skill in the 4-H knowledge competition, and her dedication to keeping Shamrock's stall clean (and him as spotless as he'd allow) earned her a place as the 8th alternate to the state 4-H horse show, as those things counted towards going. On the very last day she could qualify, she found out she could go. The show would be the weekend of September 22nd - the girl's birthday.

There was a problem though - over the summer, her mother had started having problems breathing - she'd wake up in the middle of the night unable to breath. Once, when the girl's father was out of town, the girl had to call 911, and spent the early hours of the morning in the emergency room.

The week before her birthday - and the state horse show - the girl's mother was admitted to the hospital, so she could be kept on oxygen while they tried to figure out what was wrong. They had problems figuring it out - but finally, a resident who had grown up in the Midwest realised that it was a disease called Farmer's Lung disease - a hyperallergy to a mold that grows on hay. It's not exactly asthma or anything like that - the process is different.

At any rate, the girl was told that she would have to give up riding - that she could go to the state show, but after that, would have to say goodbye to Shamrock. She went. They did .. well, not terribly well. He refused to do many of the things he was supposed to (though it makes a funny story now.) But she got an 8th place ribbon in her trail class (and there were other people who placed below her), and she was happy with that.

She said goodbye to him. And stopped riding. And in the next quarter or so of school (she was in the 5th grade), her grades dropped dramatically - a full letter grade or more. Her parents were worried, and started trying to figure out what they could do.

Finally, they found a lung specialist, who pointed out (quite intelligently) that the problem was not horses, or even hay - but in this case, a very specific mold that grows on hay that isn't very good for horses either. He thought that if she only rode at barns that were very careful about storing hay, and did not clean stalls herself, and changed clothing before getting in the car, and had a thorough bath the instant she got home, that her mother would be all right.

So the girl and her parents went horse shopping. The very first horse (technically pony) they looked at was Dorothy. They didn't do all of the things you're supposed to do - vet exams, other tests and ways to make sure it's the right horse. They looked at a few others, but kept coming back to Dot.

Dot was at that time around the girl's age - perhaps 10, perhaps 13 or 14, but somewhere in that range. She was a stocky horse - built, honestly, much like the girl was. Stong bones, broad shoulders and ribs. She looked much like a draft horse who had simply been scaled down in height. Not very elegant, even at the best of times, but very sturdy and strong.

Dot had been owned by a woman in her late 20s who had gotten a new younger horse she was training, so she had not been ridden much in the last 6 months. She was very stubborn and single-minded, and she'd been out in a field with a number of other ponies (and ruling them all...) and had picked up some not-so-fun habits.

The girl and Dot had a hard time for a while - Dot would buck and rear, or charge at the ring fence to stop short, trying to see who was in charge. Curiously enough, the girl never fell off - but she got scared quite a few times, and got off shortly thereafter.

There was another young woman there - in her early 30s at the time - who had ridden with another very well-reputed riding instructor in the area. She took the girl under her wing, and started giving her lessons until her instructor had space in the stable for her. Her mother and father encouraged the girl's parents as well - helping answer questions, and even encouraging them to consider the school (Phillips Andover) that the father taught at.

Slowly, the girl and Dot began to sort each other out. Then, a space opened up at the training stable, and they moved there. They had three lessons a week - Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, along with beginning to attend Pony Club meetings on Wednesdays, as well as 4-H. The girl learned how to better signal Dot, and Dot stopped challenging every instruction. Except for about once a month, on principle.

They bonded. The girl taught Dot to 'say' please and thank you (the first by picking up her left front leg, the second by doing so and touching her nose to her knee when she did so), and Dot would ask for treats. She was pampered and groomed until she gleamed with vibrant color (for she was a very red-chestnut with a lighter mane and multi-colored tail).

When other people tried to ride her (changing horses is part of the requirement at the higher Pony Club rating/exam levels), she would not be nearly as easy for them. Many people were suprised by how hard she could be to ride, if all they'd seen were the two of them together. They had what could only be described as telepathy or something closely akin - when things really mattered, they moved as one, and everything went right.

They put in a lot of work - 5 or 6 days a week, for five years. At the end of that time, they had had a great deal of success. Dot loved jumping, and they did some combined training (at the novice and pre-novice levels) but they also competed in Pony Club, and in 4-H shows.

Their instructor pushed them very hard. But the girl got a lot out of it - a strong sense of commitment, of dedication, of learning how to meet goals she set for herself, and how to reevaluate or change those goals when needed.

It showed in the rest of her life, too - her parents suffered very little back-talk from her (the one time she tried, she heard about it at length from her instructor for days... and, of course, her parents had a very easy punishment, simply by refusing to take her out riding if she was a brat.) Other teachers and adults in her life regularly complimented her on her dedication and follow-through, even when they didn't know about the depth of her riding commitment.

In 4-H, they did not generally do so well in equitation or pleasure classes (where the judges tended to favor lighter built horses), but they got to the point when other rider's parents would agree that they were doing better than they'd placed. But their great glory, when it came to 4-H shows, were the trail classes.

Such classes place a number of obstacles that the horse and rider must complete. These can include things like opening a mail box, taking out a letter, and showing it to the judge, opening a gate, backing through a specific pattern, moving a rattling object (like dry leaves in a plastic bag) from one place to another, and all sorts of other tasks, many of them things that horses do not much like.

They were *very* good at trail. They got the champion ribbon for their division within their show circuit several years running - and twice won their division at the state 4-H horse show. Even when the show put on by their own 4-H club deliberately included elements they'd had a lot of trouble with, Dot still performed flawlessly when it counted.

In Pony Club they also had a lot of success. The girl - riding another, smaller, pony - twice qualified for nationals for Pony Club games (including one year where they were the second ranked team in the nation, and competed at Madison Square Garden's National Horse Show for what is known as the Prince Phillip Cup.) She also qualified two years for the knowledge championships.

But the girl and Dot also qualified for the dressage championships one year - and acquitted themselves well, placing about in the middle of the 100 competitors in their age group, who were drawn from all over the country.

There are, though, more important things than ribbons. When the girl was 14, her father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Dot's mane and shoulders absorbed a lot of tears that year - much hanging around her neck and just *holding* for dear life. The girl's father, knowing how much this helped, was very firm about the fact that no matter what happened, her riding should be disrupted as little as possible.

(In a side note: one of her mother's co-workers had offered to help drive her up, saying that she'd wanted to learn to ride more for a long time. It turned out that she adored it, and far beyond simply driving the girl to the barn a few days a week to help out, she's now an active and devoted rider, even after moving to the Netherlands.)

But it was more than that. The first time the girl went to the barn after her father died, Dot knew. It was possible to see her grieving as well.

In time, she helped another person with comfort - her instructor's now-wife's mother and father - when the father was diagnosed with a similar cancer. He said, just before the end, that walking out to see her, and see her affection, to hear her whinny in welcome from her stall on the end of the row.

But by that time, the girl was no longer riding as often - rather regrettfully, but she had more demanding classes, and then boarding school, and couldn't spend the hours at the barn as she once had. And Dot, too, was getting older, less able to do the jumping and running that she'd so much enjoyed.

The girl's mother continued supporting her, paying for her food and vet bills, and another young girl rode her for a time, though without nearly the same success or bond.

But eventually, time really did catch up with Dorothy. There came a time when the irregular colics she'd suffered from for several years became much more regular. When any jumping (again, something she actively enjoyed) caused her to come up lame. And, eventually, in 1998, the riding instructor and the vet determined that the colics were simply becoming too numerous, and the other pains too great, and that it was time that she be put down. She was in her mid-twenties by then, a respectable age for a horse.

The girl - now a woman, now 23 - had just broken up with her ex-fiance that Tuesday. On Thursday, her mother called her at work, and told her what was going on - and that if she could come out, they'd wait till that evening, so she could be there.

She was. She watched the vet give her the final injection, and watched Dot lie down for one last time (and one of the very few times ever: one of Dot's quirks was that it was very rare to see her lying down. She'd get up at the sound of footsteps on the aisle.) She watched her eyes closing peacefully for the last time, and then while her instructor removed Dot's halter, and gave it to her.

***

These days, there's one lasting physical reminder of Dot in that once-a-girl's life. There is a model (a Breyer plastic model of something along the right shape, though many details aren't quite right) that the girl's father had painted to match Dot's coloring as a last Christmas present before he died. It sits now on the woman's Ancestor altar, in memory of Dot, and in memory of him.

***

You are remembered, Dot. For all that you taught me, about herding figurative cats, about cooperation with strong-willed beings, about commitment and dedication. About the pain that comes with growth, or with learning to do something *well*, not just adequately. It's only now that I really realise how much I learned from you.

For all the gallops along winding trails through the woods and along the power lines, for all the times we flew through the woods and over stone walls and the combined training practice fences. For games of horseback hide and seek, and picnics, and swimming in the lake. For pole-bending and barrel-racing, and for cold winter days, when riding you bareback with all your fur was *so* much warmer than any other option. And even, yes, for all the hair you shed, enough to stuff a horsehair sofa every year, I think.

For the times on the cross-country course, where we have photos of you literally grinning, your joy so apparent, even on a face that can't exactly smile. For the thunder of your hooves. For all the times that you *knew* when it counted, and behaved flawlessly - and for all the times when you tested me. And for the way you greeted me, each and every time I saw you, even to the last. How you always knew it was *me*, not someone else. You liked other people, but .. we were unique.

Run fast, Dot. Jump high. Enjoy yourself. If ever a horse deserved the perfect afterlife, you did.

Comments

[jadesramblings.livejournal.com]

I can not even being to tell you how much your connection with Dot spoke to me. I was blessed to have a horse named Gypper in my life that meant as much to me as your Dot. Gyp passed on three years ago and I still miss him.

[iamo.livejournal.com]

This reminds me a lot of my sister, and her horses Sue (whom she did not own) and later Susie (whom she did). Right down to the way you got it, though the medical problems were more in the way of sprains and breaks than allergies ;)

[amberlaine.livejournal.com]

That was really beautiful, Jenett. What a great story. When I was in high school, one of my best friends rode and I used to walk down to the stable and help her groom her horse every Saturday. I never had a horse or even wanted my own, but helping her take care of him was one of the highlights of my junior year in high school. I think a horse is the only animal I could really ever love.

[redbird]

This is beautiful, and well told. May the memories continue to bring joy and comfort.

[elisem.livejournal.com]

*weeping a little*

Is a good tale. She was a damn fine horse, it sounds like. Am glad you two had each other.

[herbgurl82.livejournal.com]

That was a very moving story. You were lucky to have a horse like that in your life.
Meg

[felonytexas.livejournal.com]

I think any one who has ever owned a horse and truely worked with them, understands your connection to your pony. I had a horse for years named Judge, and I trusted him with my life, all my secrets and everything else. He passed away a few years ago from poisoning (as someone was dumping meth lab waste into the creek that ran through our pasture), and I've missed him every day since.