Рита Браун - Animal Magnetism

“Do you know how to make a bran mash?” He looked down at me.

I felt like I was in the shadow of a mountain.

“Yes, sir. I use PopPop and G-uncle’s recipe.”

“And what might that be?” He had great respect for the brothers.

“You heat the water for the bran, mix it up until it’s not too watery but not porridge either, throw in some flaxseed for their coat and two jiggers of cheap whiskey per horse.”

“Whiskey, now?” His blue eyes twinkled.

“Yes, sir, but we don’t let PopPop do the whiskey part.”

Tweetie shook his head, saying nothing. My grandfather’s decline saddened most people who knew him before the Great War. And of course there are always a few people who actually feel superior to the alcoholic—not many, but enough to turn your stomach. Tweetie and I both knew who they were.

Weekends, I showed up at six A.M. Sundays I would go to vespers if Mom and Dad went, or I could always go to mass with Aunt Mimi. Mother, not Catholic, didn’t care if I beat my beads, as she put it. Religious dogma flew over my head. Still does.

Weekdays, I worked after school. The horses had already been fed and turned out but I picked stalls and if there was something that needed to be soaked overnight, like beet pulp, I prepared it. Beet pulp puts weight on a horse so if you have a nervous horse or one who’s worked off the weight or been ill, it’s a help. You have to roll up your sleeves and get your hands in it to really mix it up. On a bitterly cold day it’s an onerous chore but at least the water was hot. The bucket was bigger than I was so I’d lean over, face about down in the beet pulp, to sink both arms in up to my elbows. Threw in brown sugar, just a little, and the two jiggers of whiskey per horse. Never underestimate the power of whiskey.

Even though the horses had been turned out I checked them. Picking up those big Percheron hooves, especially if the horse has a sense of humor and wants to watch you sweat, is difficult for a child.

I groomed them—such an enjoyable task, as is cleaning tack. The odor of a horse is heady perfume to me, and so is the sweet aroma of leather, oil, and saddle soap.

Once every six months I washed the tack with harsh Castile soap, stripping it. Then I’d put, say, a martingale and bridle in a bucket of light oil. Journeyman Saddlery in Middleburg makes just such an oil. After the tack had soaked a good two hours, I’d hang it up on tack hooks, a bucket under each bridle. Finally I’d wipe them dry and put them back together. Most bits, especially those made of fine English steel, were sewn in so I didn’t have to worry about putting the tack back on the bridle. I cleaned the bits until they gleamed. Eventually, I reached a point where if there was a tiny pit in the steel I felt it and immediately reported it to Tweetie. He could smooth it out in his mechanic’s shop. Every tool known to man and woman sat in that shop. Every tool hung on a pegboard, nothing lay on the ground.

Suzie Q repaid my efforts tenfold. We loved each other. Then again, I learned so much just being around Tweetie. He was highly organized and didn’t cut corners. Eagerness must have radiated from my face, because he took me under his wing and taught me a great deal about caring for horses, and about farming, too.

Young as I was, I could ride Suzie Q. To put the bridle on I had to stand on a big box. She was patient with me and would kindly lower her head. Tweetie told me not to canter when the ground was too hard. If it was brutally hard, I wasn’t to trot either. But I could always walk her up and down hills. Walking when the ground is tight saves a horse from becoming footsore. He pretended I was conditioning Suzie Q. She was in fine condition, but how thoughtful of him to make me feel competent.

Balance was all I had, since I couldn’t get my legs around her big barrel. I knew nothing, but at least I could stick up there. My inner thighs ached until the muscles adjusted to the spread.

Some days it was so cold my fingers curled around the reins and didn’t want to uncurl, but I didn’t want to stop. Night vision isn’t the problem for horses that it is for people, so on a December day at four-thirty, when the sun was setting, we could still get some riding in.

I learned diagonal leads, how to ask for a canter, how to sit a bit deep when you wanted to stop, because Suzie Q taught me. I wasn’t fortunate enough to have an actual riding lesson until I was thirty-four. The way Suzie Q taught was intuitive. I could feel the changes in her rhythm with the lead. It took me awhile but I figured it out. The canter, as always, is easy. Posting creates difficulties for most people learning to ride because the tendency is to go up and down. That’s not what you do. The horse’s motion throws you up and down, but posting means you move your pelvis forward and backward with the motion as you rise and fall in the stirrups. It saves energy. Sitting a trot becomes tiring, especially in the hunt field. It may be easier to sit a trot in a Western saddle, but I only rode in a Western saddle once so I’m not sure. I remember it drove me crazy because I felt I had no contact with the horse. If I were on a cattle drive I bet I’d learn to appreciate it.

Suzie Q taught me to understand her language. If she lowered her head when I came to fetch her from the paddock she was interested and focused on me. If she shook her head, whether I was on foot or up on her back, that motion meant the same as it does among humans: “No,” or “I don’t want to do it.”

Tweetie had an old McClellan saddle. Seeing me ride bareback he said I could use it, but it was just too big. Took me two weeks to reach that conclusion. I threw a square saddle pad on her with an old overgirth, a densely woven cloth girth that typically goes over the saddle. It’s used in addition to the regular leather girth. You’ll often see overgirths in team colors, on polo ponies. They come in different sizes and I found one that fit, even without going over a saddle. It kept the saddle pad from slipping. I’d found it while looking for something else. Isn’t that always the way? I rode her bareback. I’d draw my legs up. One is supposed to reach down with the legs to get a firm grip. I couldn’t do that yet. But if I kept my legs drawn up, like a jockey, I could keep my balance.

At the time I didn’t think of what I was doing in these terms: a medium-sized predator making common cause with a large prey animal. We literally see the world differently. Their eyes, huge, are on the sides of their heads. Their vision is almost three hundred and sixty degrees except for a small area between the eyes. They can see you sitting up there in the saddle. Our eyes are in the center of our flat faces. We can focus intently, but we lack field of vision.

Their ears, large and movable, detect the slightest sound, and their first defense is to flee. If not, they will fight. At six years old I was starting to understand the difference between prey and predator behavior. Suzie Q knew all about how humans operate. I was the one being taught.

Draft horses have mild temperaments. If you ever have the privilege to be around a Shire, the largest of the drafts, take the opportunity to ride it. I hunted a friend’s Shire once. My friend was a big man; I’m a small woman. Riding his draft horse, Oreo, made me feel like I was in a BarcaLounger. It may be a cliché, but you are in the company of a gentle giant. Belgians, a pretty breed with their golden color, are also mild. Percherons have temperament. While they are not as sensitive as Thoroughbreds, I wouldn’t classify them as always mild. They have good temperaments. I like a bit of pizzazz, but not so much that I want to become airborne at regular intervals.

Suzie Q was kind. It’s funny how horses recognize a child’s lack of strength or ability. Rarely will a horse toss a child or someone who is not able-bodied. It does happen, but it really is unusual. Regardless of my mistakes—tugging on the reins, bringing my hands up, putting my legs in the wrong position—Suzie Q forgave me.