Blog
Bonding
When I first bought the Super Saint, I was fifteen and thrilled to have my own horse. I’d stand outside his stall with a goofy grin on my face and wonder when this bonding thing was going to happen. He, meanwhile, was thrilled to have fresh hay and water and stood inside the stall, probably wondering when I was going to go away and let him eat in peace.
Sometimes you get that instantaneous bond–the one complete with two souls running towards each other in a field of flowers, an extravagent sound track, and a pyrotechnics display to shame all of Broadway. The Project Pony and I were like that.
But Super Saint and I? Not a penny whistle tweeting on a street corner. Not a single sparkler.
It took us months to “get” each other; I couldn’t even tell you when we did bond. But somewhere, in all the miles of handwalking and riding and general hang-out time, we started to figure each other out. We defined a partnership, and he was one of those horses who insisted his rider work as hard as he did. I learned, in turn, that if he was not working as hard as me, there was nothing unfair about asking him to pull his own weight.
Our next show season was much better–not that relationships are measured by ribbons, but that our increased partnership was obvious in our rounds. We also went from doing pretty well in dressage to doing very well.
Our relationship didn’t really hit home for me, however, until the day he dumped me in the dirt.
It was the last show of the year, and several year-end championships were on the line. The judge–who knew this horse well from previous years/owners–thought Super Saint was the bee’s knees. I, already nervous about the championships, was in a near-panic that the judge would think I wasn’t good enough for this horse. The entire weekend was a disastor–I blew every class.
On the last day, we were warming up for a small medal class and I misjudged the distance. Super Saint trusted me anyway, and we both crashed down after the fence. Once we were both checked out and it was clear we were both unhurt, we were cleaned up, jumped one fence, and headed into the ring.
I don’t, to be honest, remember the round. Or the flat portion of the class. When it came time to do the test, we were in second-to-last place. I was still shaken up about our fall, and as I rode towards the first fence of the test, I froze.
Super Saint was indeed a saint, but not that much of one–if I was going to check out and not ride, he wasn’t going to jump. Especially after the fall, I think. He stopped. I didn’t.
I wasn’t hurt, and when I stood up on the other side of the fence, it was to see him standing there looking at me. His bridle was half pulled off, his saddle was askew, and he huffed at me as if to say, “Well? What did you expect?”
I wanted to disappear. The judge was probably banging his head against the desk in frustration that this horse should be owned by me. My trainer was going to kill me for not riding to that fence. And my horse…
And my horse just stood there waiting for me, ears pricked forward.
As we looked at each other, I realized that if I got on him and asked him to jump again, he’d do it: IF I started doing my share of the work load. He’d made his point, and he was waiting to see if I’d gotten it.
I fixed his saddle and bridle, checked to make sure his legs weren’t cut, and remounted to return to line. I’d rather have been swallowed by a hole, of course, but there wasn’t a convenient one to fall into. The judge commended me for being so concerned about the Saint (instead of myself, I suppose), and the rest of the class finished. To my utter surprise, my trainer didn’t yell at me–instead, she said how proud she was of me–not for falling off, but for being so quick and quiet about returning to the lineup so the class could continue. We both knew I’d have much rather run crying from the ring.
I learned a lot of lessons that day, obviously, but right now the one I remember most is what I learned in those few seconds while my horse and I stared at each other across the fence.
He was waiting for me. He hadn’t gone high-tailing around the ring, and he didn’t even wander off to the in gate, where my trainer and his old owner were watching the class.
I can joke about him being the Anti- One Person Horse, but the fact is I had just let him down, badly, twice, and he was standing there waiting for me. Waiting for me to get a clue, but still–waiting. For me.
Who needs fireworks after a look like that?
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On Feb 14, 2007, risingrainbow said:
This one touches a place in my heart. Thanks for sharing.