(“Rrrrules is rrrrules.”)
An object, a person, a remark . . . not being what they seem is a fact of life we all have to live with. Tops on my Delusional List/ Befuddled Horse Category, is represented by a gelding I know—more suspicious than any normal horse ought to be—who recently could not fathom minute alterations to his schooling environment. Now we’re not talking about a waving beach umbrella or a small child shooting Roman candles over the handlebars of his tricycle. One morning he simply took umbrage with a nearly-invisible indentation in the arena footing—a golf cart’s tire track. Nothing would persuade him to cross it. Gentle invitation gave way to demand, first conventional, then threats of the thermonuclear variety. Nada. Once I discovered he wouldn’t step over the track, I scraped an inch-deep rut all the way around him with my heel. He’d still be there if I hadn’t later erased it. When you discover you own such a horse, you can save lots of money on paddock fencing. Forget the post and boards. All you need is the handle of a rake!
Delusion Number Two, this one brought about by an anxious clinic rider’s inability to make transitions anywhere near where I asked her to.
“Mary, halt at C.”
She cruises a length and a half past the letter and trickles to a stop.
“Try again. Prepare . . . and as you come to C, make the halt.”
Once more, nowhere near.
The lessons are taking place “up north” in a small indoor ring. White plywood squares with painted dressage letters mark the arena’s sides. Sliding doors grace the centerline at both ends. C and A rest on the door ledges. If they were nailed in place, the doors couldn’t be pushed open.
A third attempt to halt at C. A third aborted landing.
“Mary, com’ere, please!” I reach onto the wall for letter C, tuck the board under her arm, and invite her to resume trotting. “NOW halt at C,” I command.
She halts.
I congratulate her, “Exactly at C! Now go again.”
Farther down the track: “Halt at C.”
Yes! Every single time—right at the letter (which still resides pinched between her elbow and her ribs.) By and by, I reclaim C and replace it on the wall. Mary’s nerves have evaporated, she’s laughing, and halts start to come promptly and on the mark.
The last bit of mischief had an ulterior motive. I admit that other mischief is simply its own reward. You may have noticed that officialdom can get entirely too full of itself, as can competitors and trainers who lose their perspective in the “heat” of summertime showing.
The third il(de)lusion occurred at the state fairgrounds in Tampa one hot August morning some years ago. One ring was set up in the (relatively) antiquated Lykes Arena, which is also used for FFA and 4H cow judging among other things. The building is a bit dark and not immensely well ventilated. The walls are as high as a high school gym’s, and placed variously near the roof line are vertically-mounted exhaust fans set in louvers. When the show began, the louvers were open and the fans were turning—no problem. As the sun rose, shining through the blades, the whirling shadows marched closer and closer to the ring fence till finally they sat themselves right on the track—for some horses a real show stopper!
Complaints and protests. “It’s not fair! Close the shutters and make the shadows go away,” pleaded those yet to ride.
A less-than-amiable conference ensued in the arena. The twirling apparition at their feet, trainers pointing skyward, Tebow-like, at the offending fans. Klaus, the TD, saying, “Rrrrules is rrrrules. We cannot change conditions in the middle of the class. They must stay open.” Riders arguing that the conditions had changed—the earlier horses hadn’t had to brave the blades.
Time to help out! I grabbed an implement from a maintenance man, and ran into the ring. “Klaus, Klaus. I’ll fix it,” I announced, and skidding to a stop, began tossing shovelfuls of dirt onto the spinning shadow to “cover” it.
I don’t know why I’m not appreciated.