How I Learned Answering a Cell Phone While Schooling a Horse Was Very Bad

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My ringtone for all barn friends (and vet) is Wild Horses, by The Rolling Stones.  My own private joke.  Wild horses?  Couldn’t drag me away?  From the barn?  Maybe you had to be there.

Tiny was a lovely lower level dressage horse, a giant pony: draft cross.  You could do nearly anything on Tiny.  I stood on his butt once, to illustrate this point.  Big Name Dressage instructor yelled: “Get down!! You’re going to get yourself killed!!” while Tiny cocked a hoof and sighed.

He was also incredibly smart.  Smart enough to hide how smart he was.  He was the only horse I felt safe enough to answer the phone on while actually schooling.  Since my horse friends were usually at the barn at the same time as I was, it would only ring under dire circumstances.

We’d be schooling, and Mick Jagger would suddenly wail Wiiiiiiild horses, couldn’t drag me awaaaaay…

Responsibly, I’d pull Tiny over, (arena etiquette for the non-horsey: you go to the center of the ring.)  Park. Answer phone.  Listen.  Talk.  Hang up.  Go back to schooling.  I ignored all other ring tones.  Over a 3 month time span, it happened three times.

The fourth time we were cantering: Mick managed to get out “Wiiiiiiild horses….”.

Before I could cue him, Tiny stopped dead, put himself on the buckle, walked to the center of the arena, hung his head, and cocked a hoof, so I could answer the phone.

Whoops.  While humorous, there was a snag.  Tiny was not my horse.  Bad Jane.  Bad bad Jane!  I stopped answering the phone, and when it rang, I was ready and kept him going.

Another 3 months go by.

I was on a catch ride in the same arena with Lily, who was schooling Tiny. We were having fun, riding around each other, calling out jokes and helping each other.

Tiny fussed about departing round and forward into the canter, Lily corrected him politely and asked again. He powered into a round and forward canter.  Lily cheerfully patted him, calling out: good job Tiny!  Good boy!

Atta boy, Tiny!, I yell.

Then, um, my phone rang.

Tiny Sends a Telegram

I see him all around the barn.

Horses are not allowed loose on the property of the barn.  (For the non-horsey: while nothing toxic is planted, it’s nice to have pretty flowers.  There are pipe corrals and dutch doors: horses “meeting” each other could strike out and hurt themselves.)

Tiny finagled becoming the exception to this rule. I’m sure this surprises no one: he often became the exception to most rules.  One or the other of us would let him loose as we passed his stall. He didn’t eat the flowers (odd for Mr. Mouth), and had no interest in investigating other horses.  Probably because he was predominantly human.  The only danger Tiny posed was to bipeds bearing cello-bags of carrots.

Since he died, I’ve been seeing flashes of him everywhere: in his favorite paddock, up behind the upper arena where the grass is sweetest in the spring, in his stall, mouthing the ribbons. (Overnight, flowers, notes, gifts began to appear on his stall door.  It’s beautiful.)  When I turn to look at him straight on, he disappears.

I assume it is a natural, calming trick of mourning.  I’ve found it comforting.

Tiny: 1993(?)-2010

~

Dearest Tiny,

This is how I want to remember you: happiest in the fresh spring grass, with grass midges startled up, surrounding you like little stars.

Unknowable grace brought you into my life.  I will be forever grateful for the day you chose me to be one of your inner circle of friends.  It was such an ordinary day.  We were grooming, getting ready for a ride.  I’d long since stopped wondering if you’d ever let me all the way “in”.  I propped the door open and left it alone.  I was starting to buckle your girth.  I’d figured out you needed it done slowly, with breaks.  Before I could thread the leather through the buckle, you turned your head all the way around and held it there, waiting for me to look at you.  I looked up, thinking I was going too fast.  I expected to hear you say “not like that.”

Instead, your eye held mine steadily, silently transmitting a message I couldn’t untangle. I looked back a question.  Very slowly and carefully, you reached for my arm, deliberately taking my shirt sleeve into your mouth.  You just held it.  Looking at me.

I dropped the girth.  You didn’t let go.  I was flooded with memories of Micah and Lee Lee, so small they didn’t come up to my hip, reaching out to hold my pant leg: in the line at the grocery store, at the doctor’s office, answering the doorbell.

A child holding on to mom: making sure she’s real, making sure she’s in front, making sure if she moves, the wake will carry you.

You were not my child: but the hold was unmistakable: we are connected.  I choose you.

I threw my free arm around your neck, afraid to move the one you were holding.  You let go of my sleeve, and I hugged you with both arms, holding.  You wrapped your long neck and big head all the way around my body and pressed.

That was the first of many hugs.  Tiny hugs.

Often when I was sad or confused, you’d reach over and grab a mouthful of my clothing, and simply hold it.  It took me many years to realize you were making sure I was in your wake, that you were in front of me: if you moved, I’d go with you. I was astounded by the reversal: you were taking care of me.

I love you Tiny.  You changed my life and my heart.  Your being was, and still is, a King’s treasure.  I will never, ever let you go.

Be free.

Tiny: All Points Bulletin

Good news!  Stunning, in fact.

The biopsy came back, and it’s not cancer!  They’re not sure exactly what happened, but he has some dead tissue on his spleen (kicked?), and if I understood it correctly (which I might not have, I was crying) the ‘lesions’ are the infection, and he’ll be okay after a long course of antibiotics and stall rest.  He’s not out of the woods, but we can see the road!  WHAHOOOOOOO

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Prayers for Tiny

Or however you send your healing!

He’s on his way to U.C. Davis with an undiagnosed problem that is affecting his whole body.  Thank god for good friends like Bella, who drop everything on a Saturday to haul him.  We (and the vet) thought he’d re-sprained part of his neck again after his colic a couple of months ago.  It appears to be more systemic than that.

Send strength for Lily…

Never Ask the Universe

You WILL be answered.

The universe is a helpful beast.  I think of it as a giant thing, with a filing cabinet full of twinkling stars. Ask ‘what next?’ and the universe will fall all over itself to let you know. Things it was saving to distribute over time are shoved to the front of the line.

Jane: Tiny’s colic was scary.  Shoot, it was a bad weekend.  Thank God (literally) he’s okay.  Should be smooth sailing from here.  What else could happen?

Universe: (Scratching its head and only registering the question) She wants to know? Okay, no problem.    Let me check the records…next six months we had planned…Oh. I see we had the colic already.  That was on schedule…what’s next?  Um-hm, okay…I see we have a lot planned this year.  Well, we’ll just move things along so she’ll know…

Jane Goes Camping, Tiny is Not Annoying, And We Worry

I’ve spared you my charming company this week.

I’ve returned from 36 hours of camping.  It’s not fun: there are enforced marches in all-weather extremes, (mine started at 80 degrees).  7 hours later, the sky is lake-black, it’s 40 degrees colder, but we are still marching in tank tops, wrapped against the chill in whatever large protective thing we can find. Hopefully the LPT is not too dirty, smelly, and overrun with spiders.  Sleep deprivation is mandatory.  Being able to tolerate the nighttime wildlife is preferable.

I’m lucky.  I only had rats, skunks, one irritable looking possum.

No one plans this as a destination, people dread going, yet a whooping 90% of horse people find themselves suffering through this non-vacation overnight spot.

Colic Camping.

Fat Jeans, Elderly Personal Trainers, and Why Tiny Likes You

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A week after breaking my rib, I was struggling to get into my fat jeans.  Apparently broken bone = Eat Anything Remotely Edible.  Preferably sugared fat in heavy carbohydrate form.   Even with minimal exposure to SFinHCF, I managed to find stuff to inhale.  I did what any self-respecting woman would do.  I lied to myself and said, “Oh I’ll be fine.”

You know you’re a really bad liar when your own lie stands up and taps you on the shoulder.  I sat down with a calculator to come up with a projection that proved I would be fine: recovery period x amount of weight gained per week (so far).

Um.  At the end of my 6 week recovery period, if I cut down to what I was currently eating, I would only be 60 lbs heavier.

The Rider Rehab Calculator

Horse people.  Regular injury timelines don’t apply.  Here’s my personal handy-dandy Rider Layup Conversion equation:

1. Doctors recovery recommendation: 6 weeks minimum for ribs to heal, expect 8, and know it takes a full year for bone density to return to normal after a break.  No horses.  (try to hear this info over the la la la la la in your head, you’ll need it for the conversion.)
2. Plug in: Doctors Must Cover Their Butts, which shaves it back down to 6 weeks.
3. Minus The Rider Factor: We heal quicker.  Subtract 1 week.
4. Evaluate your new 5 week recovery time to come up with your projected possible re-ride date. We don’t care much about sore.  Real pain is a deal breaker, but real sore?  Nah.  Subtract 1 more week.
5. Voila, the minimum time I must wait to get back on a horse: 4 weeks.  If there’s big pain, regroup.  If it’s just wow that’s sore: good to go.

I threw my doc’s ice/heat/stay quiet RX out the window, and iced the crap out of my ribs, figuring, like horses, it was going to warm up by itself when I took the ice off.  Who better than horse people to know the most fail-safe remedy for contusions, swelling and pain?  Ice.  Lots of ice, a lot of the time.  I strapped ice to my ribs with the polo wrap, and went about my life, changing it every time it hurt enough to make me want to quit.

I’m telling you, we all need to see our Veterinarians when we’re injured.

Coping With Rider Layup

Mine isn’t going well.

When you’re banned from riding, and can’t exercise, how do you cope? (Read: not stuff yourself with pastry.)
I’ve cleaned what I can. It’s all sparkly.
I’ve organized drawers.
I tackled the geriatric crowd at our barn, cleaning up every mare and gelding over 30. (I can’t risk the non-geriatric horses yanking on me)
I’m in my fat jeans.
My tack is clean.
The fat jeans are tight.
I started organizing my “horse stuff” bins.
I’ve made to-do lists from Hades that should take me into 2020 to even start.
Most frightening? I went on a fingerprint hunt and removed all traces of human existence from our home.  Who does that?

I feel fat.