Horse and Man

I know this may sound odd, but my mare, Remi, is stalking me…  I mean, I think she is stalking me.  Maybe I’m paranoid but I don’t think so.

Whenever I go outside, she is always looking at me.  Day or Night, Winter or Summer, this mare is fixated on me.  I can walk outside and no other horse even lifts its head and she’ll spot me with her held held at Defcon 5.  She could be far off in her field where she is only visible to me via a squint, but that squint will reveal her big white blaze fully loaded right back at me…  I can throw her some hay and sure, she’ll grab a bite but then watch me as I serve everyone else.  And, it isn’t as if she thinks she’s missing out.  She isn’t pawing or putting her face through the fence boards; she is just looking… at me.  If I let her out to graze, instead of heading for the green grass, she will come right to me and look at me.  I ask her what she wants and she keeps looking so intently I feel like I’m the only human that cannot understand her.  She even comes up to the windows of the house and looks in.  If I am in my upstairs office, she will wait at the window closest.  In fact, as I am writing this, I just went over to the window and there she was.  So, I snapped this one shot (the first pic in the post) where I’m looking down at her on the lawn.

Actually, I have assembled several photos for you to see what I mean.  If I went out and tried to get my other (normal) horses to pay attention and look at me while I was taking a photo, they’d all look up for a moment and then go back to whatever they were doing.  Some would even give me that disgusted horsey sigh,  “She has that thing in her hand again”…  Now, I’m not talking about being inside of their pens.  I’m strictly speaking of your regular, every day activities that might include a photo from the porch.  Do your horses watch your every move?  Didn’t think so.  When it comes to Remi, if she sees me,  she locks and loads!

All this would be rather creepy if I didn’t really like her  And, maybe that is it.  Maybe I’m her girlfriend.  Maybe.  Or, maybe I’m just not getting it.  However, I may have a clue…  First though, let me tell you how she came to live here.

I rescued Remington from a feedlot in Washington.  I saw her face on the internet and her brief story which I will add here.  “Remington is a 10 year old BLM Mustang mare – she seems sweet – feet too long to ride — don’t know if broke.”   That was it.   I couldn’t even calculate her size.  There was a guy in the photo holding her rope but I didn’t know if he was a small guy or a giant.  I had no point of reference.  Still, it was something about how she stared right into the camera.  It was as if she was searching for something…  See, I think she was stalking me even then.

I had just gotten paid.  My paycheck was burning a hole in my pocket and my compassion was burning a hole in my heart. I quick, without letting myself talk myself out of it, sent the email that saved her.   Well, actually it was the several buttons I pushed at Pay Pal that did the actual rescuing but you know what I mean.  Anyway, that should have been enough.  I should have stopped there.  For criminy sakes, we have 13 horses here already.  But, ohhhhhh noooooo, instead I asked if I could have her, too.

For those of you who are not part of the gripping daily drama of horse rescue (I’m not putting it down — I want to save them all — but it can be very dramatic.), there are many aspects to a rescue.  Most people who are involved do whatever feels best for them.  Some search the feedlots, some take photos at the feedlots or wherever, some work the computers to get the word out, some send money, some quarantine, some transport and some house the rescued horses until they can find their forever homes.  So, it would have been enough for me to do just one part.  I could have easily stopped after bailing her out of the slaughterhouse.  But, for some reason, I filled out the adoption forms.  I was accepted.

So a few weeks later, she arrived.  Her feet were so long they looked like elf slippers. She was skinny and her coat was nasty.  She wouldn’t let me get near her.  She just stared at me.  Of course, when a new, ex-wild horse stares at you, you kinda figure that is par for the course.  But, it has been two years and she still stares at me — all the time.

I decided to find out what I could about her past.  I know the BLM has to keep records of all adoptions, so I contacted them.  “Sure, just send us a jpeg of the brand.”  So, I did.  Success!  They, of course, had a record of when she was captured (poor girl) and who first adopted her.  Hmmmm.  “Could I speak to him?”  Well, they didn’t give out that info but they said they would contact him for me and let him know I’d like to speak with him, if he was at the same number…

And they found him!  Yup, he was still answering the same phone number 8 years later and he used it to call me almost immediately.   From his voice, I felt he may have been at least an octogenarian.  Probably more of a centuryarian.  Anyway, he started crying when I said that I had her.  He was so relieved.  It was obvious that he loved her and felt horribly that he had to give her up recently.  I didn’t tell him that she was on a feedlot.  He had no idea what his kids had done with her (so sad).  He asked if I had her sister, too.  That made my heart ache.  I did know that there was another BLM mare that had been rescued at the same time as Remi so I told him that I thought she was rescued, too.  He told me that “Headlight” (that’s what he called her) had been very difficult to break but that she had been his ranch horse.  He described her perfectly, even the scar on her shoulder.  After a few minutes, I promised that I would send him a photo which I did.  He asked God to bless me and I started to choke up a bit.  I didn’t have the courage to ask something as ridiculous as, “Hey, did she stare at you, too?”  So, I didn’t.  I hung up and knew that I was now her keeper and proud to do it for this sweet, old cowboy.

So, I knew more about her, but I still didn’t understand her.  As time passed, I learned a few things.  Yes, she is stubborn until she decides that something is OK to do.  She will not follow you unless she thinks it makes sense.  She will not leave her pen unless she is going someplace equally as safe.   Remi has not forgotten what it was like to be a survivalist in the wild.  No fly spray, thank you very much.  She doesn’t like to be groomed, she doesn’t want to be ridden (we’ve tried) and she doesn’t even want to go to the neighbors to eat their grass.  She has no desires in life except to be touched…  And that was my first clue into why she stalks me.  I have hands.  And, I’m not afraid to use them…

The first time she let me actually touch her, she almost collapsed into me.  Her eyes rolled back into her head and she moaned softly.  I thought I had hurt her so I stepped back.  Remi whipped her head around and I swear I heard her say, “Keep doing that!”  So, I touched her again.  I ran my hands all over her and she let me touch all parts as long as I was stroking her.  Previously, she wouldn’t pick up a hoof.  But, if I was touching her and massaging her (not like I know how to massage a horse… but you know what I mean), she would be very accommodating.  She will let me apply fly spray if I use my hands, she will let me groom her if I put a groomer glove on my hand, she will let me start at her poll and end at the tip of her tail for HOURS, and I do mean hours.  She pins her ears if any other horse comes around and closes her eyes as soon as I start.  The girl is a spa girl.  She loves to be touched!

So, I guess she really isn’t a stalker.  I guess that look I saw on the Internet was a query.  I think she maybe didn’t get so much stroking from the man who dearly loved her.  Maybe she missed the touch of her wild herd.  Maybe she longed for the comfort of having her flesh pressed upon from all sides.  Maybe, my accidental desire to get fly spray on her by putting it on my hand and wiping it on her was a gift from the horsey gods.  Maybe I do understand her after all… Maybe I hear her loud and clear.  “I’m here and ready if you wanna touch me…?  I really, really like that and I want to be near and ready whenever you think you might want to touch me.  So, just know that I’m right here if you want to touch me… Is it today?  Is today the day you want to touch me?  If so, I’m right here and I’ll just wait for you to call my name or whatever…”

So now, when I see her looking at me so intently, I know exactly what she wants.  Hey, I understand…  I totally know how she feels.  Don’t you?

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Show Season has begun!  For all of us, that means different things.  For me, I am a Morgan person.  Well, at least when I show horses, I am a Morgan person.  I have lots of other breeds around the farm…  Anyway, have you ever been to a Morgan show?  I have.  And I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m just not a show person.   To coin a relationship phrase, “Its not the show, its me.”

PHANTOM OWNER

First off, let me tell you that although I had Morgan show horses for many years, I’ve only been to a handful of shows.  Not many Morgan horse people really know that I actually exist.  The people in my trainer’s barn called me the Phantom Owner.  It was as if there was a myth about me and my horses… someone pays the bills but we cannot confirm or deny that these horses really have an owner.  I felt like the benefactor of the eternal roses on Marilyn Monroe’s grave.  They were always there but no one knew how or why.  That was me.

Oh sure, I was totally into the behind the scenes stuff.  I was a fixture at the training barn.  My trainer would call me up and say, “He’s getting hooked today…”  I’d be there.  “Doc Curnan is coming today…”  OK!  or “C’mon by because it is beautiful outside and I think we are gonna work her in the outdoor arena…” Yippee!!  I sometimes would even go to the barn just to hang out and watch him train all the other horses all day long.  I loved learning everything that it took to turn out a great show horse.  And, of course, I loved to study the breeding.  I don’t breed anymore for various reasons, but during my breeding days, I was glued to the Progeny DVDs and the Stallion edition of THE MORGAN HORSE magazine.  In fact, my trainer probably saw me too often!  ;)

MY FIRST UNSHOW EXPERIENCE (I wasn’t there…)

I had been very lucky with my first show horse (pulled from my back pasture at age 9 to start training – considered ancient in the horse world and hopeless to be a contender…).  I never went to his qualifying shows because he was such a long shot.  For some reason, it never occurred to me to go watch.  My bad.  He won two World Championships when he had only been in training for 8 months.  Now, that was terrific and I’m only kinda boasting a little, but I never basked in any show glory because it never occurred to me to go.   Hmmmmmm.

But, the pictures were good so I was kinda there.  And, the phone call from the trainers was awesome!  They were so out of breath!  It went something like this, (ring) “Ah, hello…” (heavy panting and yelling in the background) “Hello?, is someone there?”  (Trainer says) “OMGOMGOMG!! YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS!! TOM WON!! HE WON!!  (Me) “Won what?”  (Trainer amongst people cheering and yelling) “THE WHOLE THING!!” (Me, making dinner and half-way listening) “What whole thing?”  (Trainer, exasperated) “IT ALL, HE WON HIS DIVISION AND HE WENT ON TO WIN THE TITLE!!!!!” (Me, being naughty and not gettting it…) “What title?  Most improved pasture gelding? he hee”  (Trainer, really frustrated) “NO, HE WON THE HUNTER DIVISION AND SOMEONE IS OFFERING YOU BIG $$$ FOR HIM RIGHT NOW!”  (Me, suddenly listening), “Wha? OMGOMGOMG!”

And, so the rumors started.  I became the phantom owner who didn’t even show up to see her horse win it all and then sell for a lofty sum.  It gave the impression that I was something I wasn’t.  Basically, I was just ignert and busy… But, everyone thought I was so mysterious.  Ha!  T’wernt no mystery!

DAGNABBIT, I’M GONNA GO!

So, with my next horse, I decided to go.  I decided to follow her progress and really participate in the show scene.  Whatever that was… Huge Pause here. I had never, ever been to a Morgan Horse show and I was about to embark.  I packed my little bag with a few types of outfits depending upon the weather.  I brought comfy shoes and appropriate (or so I thought) jackets and pants for being around horses but also being around people.  I got in my car and drove to the out of town show.

The next morning, I put on my outfit, stuck my chapstick and visor in my purse and headed to the show grounds.  (Another big pause…)

I MUST NOT BE A SHOW PERSON BECAUSE…

FANCY DIGS

As I drive in, I see people wearing clothes that didn’t match what I had brought at all.  Was there a cocktail party happening here?  I see gorgeous horses strutting about.  OK.  OK.  I see colorful curtains and lots of brouhaha hanging.  I see ribbons and pictures and  so much stuff my brain has a hard time keeping up with it all.  As I get closer, the detail becomes more precise.  I see that every trainer or barn has a different layout for their area.  This was such a statement.  For me, coming from a television background, I understood the showmanship, hierarchy and social stratosphere I had just walked into… ugh.   I mean, I should have known, but it took me a few hours of walking around to really get it.  I could almost hear the music from West Side Story…  Jets and the Sharks… One after another, Joneses trying to outdo the Smiths.  Or, Hatfields and McCoys.  I had no idea it would be like this.  And, as I delved further towards my own trainer’s palazzo, I saw even more elaborate sitting areas constructed to draw the more well-heeled clients like flies to honey.  I saw entire aisle ways being taken over by  full bars with shavings covered floors, imported foliage and automatic temperature systems.  Was I at a spa?  Was I on vacation?  I thought I was at a horse show?  Uh, Dorothy, we aren’t in Kansas anymore…

So, what is up with all that then?  Well, of course, I know what this was all about but I hadn’t expected it.  You need to rise to the status of your clients. I totally understand that a trainer needs to cater to his client to keep them coming back.  And, many horse people require certain creature comforts.  But, I couldn’t not notice the contrast of it all.  Clearly the area with the most stuff wins.  The fluffy booths were all clustered together.  They obviously had some seniority.  You could just feel the beat of the “haves” party going at all times.  And, yes, my trainer was among them.  Right in the thick of it.

But, before I joined my “barn” at the show, I decided to stroll near the bathrooms and manure pile to the “have not” section.  Hmmmmm.  A bit different.  I knew how the economics of it all worked, clearly.  However, I felt a bit uncomfortable.  It seems like we were playing one game at home, but when we got to the venue, the rules changed.  I thought the goal was to have fun.  But, now I see, the goal was to WIN.  And, honestly, winning did feel good and I had to think about how I fit into all of this.  I liked winning.  But, I didn’t like this… whatever it was.  I wanted to unparticipate.  I wanted to participate in the horse part but not really in the human part.  I was starting to like my Phantom identity.

As I was thinking  this through, I went back to my trainer’s area and relaxed in a very cozy chair under a mister with a fan blowing perfectly nearby.  I had a glass of wine – from a very nice bottle.  Y’know, I see how this experience feels nice and vacationy.  After all, it costs all of us a pretty penny to get here.  So, why not?  I drank my wine and melted into my recliner.  I thought about venturing to the arena without crossing the other side of the tracks…  Hmmmmmm.   It all felt a bit awkward for me.  But, on the other hand, I fit right in…  I actually fit in better than most because I had the whisper behind my back of “She’s the one with the two World Championships…”  I was more “in” than I felt inside.  Thus began my show conflict.  Thus began my show avoidance.  Thus began the perpetuation of my Phantom myth.  I exemplified exactly what was making me uncomfortable. Ugh.  At my first show, I decided that perhaps it should be my last.

And, besides the emotional stuff, I had a few questions…

MUSIC

Ok, veering away from the human drama for a bit, I want to discuss the music at Morgan Horse Shows.  Have you ever heard it?  Oy.  Let me tell you that it is the same musak they played in every elevator and in every doctors office before Sirius/XM came along — only worse because they take every piece and convert it into a dandy organ ditty.  How can Billy Idol’s REBEL YELL end up on the Morgan Horse Show Circuit?   Because it is unrecognizable, that’s why!  I swear, they played the National Anthem and I had no idea.  I’m surprised anyone can stay awake with that droning churchlady music playing constantly in the background — and I grew up Catholic!  I should be used to it.  But you never get used to that Morgan Horse Show music.  It is no wonder the horses lose it occasionally.  There is no rhythm or cadence or pattern for them to understand other than being totally frustrated and irritated.  I could not believe it.  I sat there slack jawed, wondering why no one else was running over to the music booth with a stack of CDs and a boombox.

Then it occurred to me.  The organist must be somebody’s mother.  This is her only job and she lives for it. Or, she has dirt on the officials or something.  I could not fathom any other reason for not bringing this show out of the elevator and into the new ages.  So, that was my second “I must not be a show person” thought.

DRACULA MAKEUP

My next discord was makeup.  Why are the darling little horsey kids all made up to look like Dracula’s bride?  I was shocked when I watched the first class of kids.  Who replaced little Ashley with Wynonna?  Why do I feel like I’m watching actors from an Italian Opera?  It is one thing to have a fake smile plastered on your face, but to also have plaster plastered on your face just makes it all really bad.  I swear, I have a photo of a teenage rider on my horse and she looks like Norma Desmond, “I’m reeeeady for my close-up Mr. DeMille…” (not pictured here…).  Whoever the culprit was who told these girls that this was the way to wear makeup oughtta be taken out back and made to move the manure pile around a few times.  Sheesh.

DIRT AND HORSE SLOBBER

I totally get why a judge wants to look their best.  I get why a presenter and an owner want to look good for the photo.  I mean, it is a huge charge of excitement to win and you want that picture to capture the moment… and of course, you want that moment to be one of your finest since you will show the photo to everyone.  Still, I cannot help giggling a bit when I see fancy outfits and pumps walk out onto the arena dirt.  Invariably, someone trips or hikes up their best shiny dress while walking gingerly and wobbly to the photo area.  And, also invariably, they go to kiss the horse and they get slobber across their chest or face or some other inopportune area.  Frantically, the owner wipes off the slobber to create a schmear somewhere it shouldn’t be and then grapples with her outfit just as the photog is counting “3″.  FLASH!  Darn it!  Take another one, please!  So, the owner wipes a big, red angry swath across her cheek to wipe away the now dripping brow that has attracted several flies just as the shutter clicks again.  Even the horse was on “2″ for that one.  Oy.

I say, wear a nice top and some comfy pants/shoes, trot out there easily and don’t kiss your horse until after the photos.

NO ONE WILL SIT NEAR ME

It isn’t like I have cooties or anything… It is just that I am not a lot of fun at shows.  I lose my ability to chit-chat.  My chit-chat mechanism defaults into fixated pedigreeitis.  I cannot help myself.  I am consumed by genetics.  I think I should have studied that instead of television.  I can totally see myself in some tiny lab somewhere, in a white coat, looking through a huge microscope and proclaiming, “A-ha!  I knew that marker for tongue curling ability was on R-52!”  But, alas, I didn’t take that fork in the road so my fixation expresses itself at horse shows.  I’m like a junkie in need of a fix.  I get all jittery and grind my teeth.  I’m flipping to the back of the book to check out the pedigrees of all the horses in every class constantly.  Flip, flip, drop the book, flip, spill my drink, flip, drop my pen…flip, flip, flip…  I’m obsessed and completely annoying so it isn’t very fun to be around me.  That’s another reason no one knows me at horse shows.  I’m the crazy lady in comfortable clothes who is flipping frantically through the show brochure that most of you are sitting on so you don’t get the bleacher booty marks.

WHY I DON’T GO TO SHOWS ANYMORE

So, that’s why, really.  I’m just not a show person.  I have a hard time with the social strata divisions even though I admit that I choose to sit in my trainer’s very comfy area and not cross the divide.  I have a real hard time seeing Susie in full drag makeup and I really want to change out the whole music library.  I tend to titter a lot during ribbon ceremonies, not good, and I always seem to mention judging errors when I am supposed to keep quiet.  And, since I spend most of my time alone doing genetic calculations, I really am unfit to sit in the stands and socialize.  So, I stay home.  The Phantom owner sits quietly, listening to music she likes, wearing comfy clothes and pours over progeny lists in the privacy of her own computer — waiting for my trainer to call…

MY NEXT PHANTOM UNSHOW

Yes, it is show season for me, too.  I do have a horse going very soon in Monroe, Washington.  So, if any of you are at the Morgan Show in Monroe, look for Bellorazzo.  He might be driving in his first show although we hope he might be riding.  Anyway, he does have an owner and she does love him dearly.  She just isn’t really a horse show person…

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