The Horse Inside

“You didn’t seriouslyexpect to be on a team did you, Catherine?” a voice sneered behind me.

It was Saturday, and the eve of our barn’s summer dressage show. I stood in front of the notice board, scanning the list of chosen riders and hoping against hope one of the team captains had taken a last minute chance on me.

None of them had.

“You think by staring at the list, you’ll magically appear on a team?”

Switching on a false smile, I turned to face Debbie Giles, Goldwell Stables’ star rider and owner of its most expensive horse.

“Of course not,” I lied. “I was just interested to see who’s riding tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh.” Debbie sounded unconvinced.“Well, surprise, surprise, no one wants you or your hairy yak riding with them!”

Without responding, I walked down the aisle as fast as I could. Please God, don’t let her follow me! I can’t face any more taunts from her today!

Oblivious to Debbie’s rudeness, my chestnut mare rested her head over her stall door. Her eyes were half-closed and her lower lip hung down, a sure sign she was taking a nap. At the sound of my approaching footsteps, her ears perked up, their tiny tips almost colliding with each other.

I rubbed the irregular white star on her forehead and whispered the bad news. “Sorry, Besca, we didn’t make a team.”

Debbie overheard. “I bet she’s relieved to avoid embarrassing herself tomorrow!”

Ignoring her, I fetched my grooming kit from the tack room and brushed my little horse inside her stall. It was better than attaching her to the cross-ties in the aisle, where I’d attract more insults.

The ‘hairy yak’ gibe was because I hadn’t clipped Besca’s coat this past winter. Money was tight—I couldn’t afford to pay someone to shave the areas on her body which sweated the most during exercise.

It was yet another difference between me and the other boarders, whose horses were fully clipped during the winter months, regardless of whether they needed it or not. Now, in summer, Besca wasn’t at all hairy. In the sunlight you could see auburn hues glinting off her bright chestnut coat

It was ten o’clock. Since I worked for a local CPA firm on weekday afternoons, my mornings were free for riding. Most of the horse owners at Goldwell Stables rode in the afternoons, and this gave Besca and me time alone in the indoor arena without being crowded out by the younger, higher-level riders. It was the perfect arrangement.

But this was the weekend, and my heart sank when Debbie led her warm-blood horse, Darcy, past Besca’s stall. The Oldenburger’s saddle was top of the line, and his double bridle was an import from his native Germany.

Expertly-wrapped white bandages protected his lower legs. Trying to emulate my more experienced fellow boarders, I had once applied some to Besca’s legs. But while riding in the indoor arena, I became aware of loud sniggering.

“Look at your reflection!” Debbie cried, pointing to the long mirror covering the side wall

With dismay, I saw in the reflection Besca’s white bindings unfurling and streaming behind her. She looked like a circus pony dispensing ticker tape at a parade. Crushed, I exited the arena and put on the brushing boots preferred by amateurs. They’re safer because they close with Velcro.

Later that month, Debbie found me hiding in Besca’s stall. I was busy wrapping my bare feet in VetWrap, an elastic bandage designed for horses. I’d forgotten to bring my socks to the barn, and it was quicker to protect my feet with that than drive all the way home to fetch my footwear.

“Can’t afford socks?” she’d guffawed. “Want myVetWrap, too?”

Using her cell phone camera, she’d snapped a photo of me sitting on the stall floor, VetWrap in hand, and texted it to the whole barn.

I knew Debbie would find a way to belittle me in the arena today, but I was still determined to ride. So I finished grooming Besca and placed my second-hand saddle on her back, securing her girth before putting on her boots and the snaffle bridle I’d bought at the local second-hand saddlery shop.

Maybe I didn’t have money to spend on new items like the other owners, but Besca was treated by the Mexican barn staff with the same consideration as the pricier horses. Smart breeding and superior dressage talent didn’t impress them; every equine received equal care.

Their attitude to my horse was the reason I kept Besca at Goldwell Stables, and I greeted them with a cheerful ‘hello!’ whenever I came to the barn.

I now led my Thoroughbred to the indoor arena and called out, “Door, please!” using the accepted warning to mounted riders of an incoming horse, which also served as a request for permission to enter.

Debbie was already on Darcy. “Do you reallyhave to come in here today?” She scowled. “I’ve got to practice for tomorrow!”

I swallowed hard. This was a blatant gibe at my failure to make a team.

But I reminded myself I paid the same boarding fees for my horse as Debbie did for hers, and was just as entitled as she was to use the facilities. My being the oldest and the least talented rider in the barn did not change this fact.