Disclaimer: I am in a shitty mood, Cleveland is dead, and if you think this blog sounds like the rantings of a spoiled brat, come pour yourself into trying to keep a good horse comfortable for a few years, just to have to lose him anyway. Watch him die, knowing you failed at prolonging his pain-free life, and then tell me I'm whining.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a Horsechick. I don’t know anything else or any other
way to be. I started with
miniatures when I was five, and I suppose I never really grew out of it, much
to the dismay of my parents. As
long as I’ve been in the horse world, I’ve heard people (mostly my siblings or
former significant-others) say, “I hate horses”. Generally this came out of their mouth when I was in the
midst of foiling their plans with something horse-related. I can’t say I blame them. I’ve been thinking about it a lot
lately too, actually. And to be
perfectly honest, not only do I see where they’re coming from, I’m beginning to
agree with them.
I’m facing the very difficult and unpleasant part of
ownership right now in that Cleveland was laid to rest a few weeks ago. I miss him and, frankly, this makes me
very frustrated and pissy. I don’t
handle grief or vulnerability well, and I tend to display any negative emotion
in the form or sarcasm or anger. It’s
wasn’t his fault that he had to die, he was used up hard his entire life, and
not afforded the luxuries that a horse of his caliber and kindness should be
until it was too late. He was in
pain, despite the medications he was on to try and help, and his quality of
life was unmistakably low and I had to make the call to end his suffering
before his body failed him completely and he ended up passing in a painful,
miserable way in the middle of winter.
He didn’t deserve to have to go out like that, no horse does, and it
seems like there are quite a few assholes in this world who will turn a blind
eye to their pet’s suffering and wait for nature to “take its course”. He died quickly and peacefully, high as
a kite on pain meds and still chewing on a mouthful of grass. Exactly how I want to go out, the lucky
bastard. It still hurts though, in
that tiny space where they say my heart would be, if I had one.
This pisses me off, and leads me to wonder why in the hell I
do what I do. What’s the point, if
there are still people out there doing the exact opposite of what’s right? Why should I have to be the responsible
owner who anticipates her horse’s pain and does her best to avoid it for the good
of the horse, even if it means looking like a jackass sitting in my car in
traffic with tears streaming out from under my sunglasses for a full two weeks
before the horse even dies because every time I’m alone, all I can think about
is the fact that he’s one of the kindest damned horses I’ve ever come across
and I only got a couple of years with him? Talk about torture….at least I could blame my red, puffy
eyes on allergies. Thank god for
waterproof mascara.
Since I have a job that affords a large amount of time for
internal reflection (which I’ve learned is never a good thing), I spent most of
the past few weeks contemplating why I do this to myself. Verdict: I have no idea. The pain and aggravation far outweighs
the rewards, it seems. I’ve
decided that I, much like the aforementioned men in my life, hate horses. And upon further discovery, this is a
feeling I’ve evidently held for quite some time. I just didn’t know it.
I hate horses because, as an elementary and middle-school
age child, no one ever invited me to their houses for playdates or
sleepovers. Looking back, one
could probably assume it was because of my inability to get along with others,
but I know it was because I had ponies at my house and everyone knows ponies
are the most powerful magnet in the world to little girls. Everyone came over to my house, I went
nowhere.
I hate horses because I could have bought a much nicer dress
for senior prom, had I not had to pay board or pay the farrier that month
instead. Let’s completely
disregard the fact that my prom date ditched me for another girl mid-dance whom
I’m fairly certain is a male, post-op, these days. And no, I’m not going to let that one go.
I hate horses because I probably could have gone away to a
fancy school and gotten a shiny, expensive degree in something that pays a
whole lot more than I’m making now with my less-shiny degree, but because I
refused to “give up the damned horses” (thanks Dad), I’m working my ass off
every week just to hand my checks over to the horses in one fashion or
another. Gucci? No. Grain.
I hate horses because when my friends post Facebook pictures
of their epic vacations and world travels, I know that I’ll never do the same
because no one will be able to comprehend the feed chart in the barn or keep
track of what horses need what care on a daily basis. I also know that I’m a complete control freak and couldn’t
leave town without stressing out the entire time. Also, see above regarding paychecks….
I hate horses because we could be living in a lakefront
house right now, but at last check, horses haven’t adapted to life as aquatic
creatures yet, and I’m sure there’s a zoning ordinance against keeping horses
in a walk-out basement and letting them graze a public boat launch. I could have been living the boat life,
but my blinding white legs (from wearing jeans or breeches constantly)
prevented my bikini-body from ever taking shape.
I hate horses because I could have a closet full of the
trendiest clothing and shoes, but instead, I have a closet full of outdated
show clothes, Underarmour and “barn jeans”, and have legitimate anxiety attacks
whenever an event arises that requires me to make a conscious effort to dress
up. I couldn’t curl my own hair if
my last breath depended on it. I
couldn’t curl ANY hair, actually.
But I can braid the hell out of a fake tail. Just don’t ask me to do it in heels.
I hate horses because fall doesn’t mean cider mills and
trail rides and pumpkin-spice lattes for me. Fall means panicked phone calls from owners who forgot that
it snows in Michigan and desperately want me to sell their horses for top
dollar. This week. For free, to “help them out”. Even though the horse hasn’t been
ridden in five years and hasn’t seen a farrier in the last six months. But it should bring close to what they
paid for it ten years ago because it’s a nice horse.
I hate horses because instead of being ecstatic and eagerly
planning a wedding, I’m trying to guesstimate how much winter hay needs to be
purchased based on how many horses may end up dumped here and signed over by
their owners when the snow flies.
I worry about how many I can afford to save and what happens to the ones
I can’t help. I see no rational
reason to have a wedding when that money could be invested in the property in
the form of a stall barn or arena footing or paying off the house. Having horses has robbed me of the
ability to take joy and excitement from something that the majority of girls
dream about from the time they get their first Barbie.
I hate horses because at the end of the day, when all I want
to do is curl up on the couch with a book guilt-free, I can’t. I have a dozen emails, calls and texts
to respond to from other horse owners asking for advice, tips and tricks to
make life easier for them and keep their horses happy and healthy. I hate that I dread calls from unknown
numbers because they usually involve someone saying “My friend said you can
probably sell/take/give away my horses for me so I don’t have to send them to
the auction”. Never mind that I have a herd of my own to attend to, if I don’t
answer and help them, the horses suffer.
I hate horses because when I go to a show, its’ not with a
nice, finished, expensive show horse that I can show off and take pride
in. I take what I have at home,
and more often than not, I’ve loaned it to someone without a horse and am just
along to help while they enjoy their day.
I cannot justify spending substantial money on a problem-free horse when
I know there are hundreds at any point in time desperate for a home to keep
them off the kill truck. My guilt
cripples me. Actually, no. My shitty knees cripple me. My guilt (and cheapness) keeps me from
owning a nice show horse.
I hate horses because I know that at any point in time,
there are at least a dozen people in the horse world that I’m forced to
interact with that should eat a bullet the ugly way for what they do when no
one is looking. I see the shit
that goes on, the abuse, the lies, the cheating, and because the horse world is
so unbelievably small, I have to shut up and even sometimes smile. The worst offenders, yes, I can try to
do something about those (and I do), but for every big fish that I fry, there
are a hundred little ones waiting for their turn to grow.
I hate horses because I can look out in my pastures and know
that every face staring back at me (only at dinner time, of course) has been on
the receiving end of one of those “big fish”. Every horse I have and that passes through my hands is
broken in some way, be it physically, mentally or emotionally. They are all the products of humans,
and there is nothing I can do to change that. Some I can fix, but the scars never truly go away, they just
get covered by a little bit of hair, or pushed to the backs of their minds and
maybe forgotten about for awhile in lieu of cookies, kindness and a little bit
of patience. Some are like Cleveland,
who had a handful of years of peace and comfort at the end of his life, but
whose life had to be cut short far too soon nonetheless. They are products of man, never
designed to be broken so badly, but broken. And because of this, I cannot walk away. Sure, I could quit. Sell everything and buy that lakefront
house and the nice clothes. But
then who will take care of everything I’d be walking away from?
I hate horses because they’ve built my reputation for brutal
honesty for me. This one has an
issue, and no, I won’t sell him to you because you have kids and I won’t put
anyone in the position to get hurt.
This is a nice horse, but you’re not experienced enough to be successful
with him, sorry, I’m not going to take your money, go spend it on lessons. This also causes me to loathe the
asshole “trainer” who talks parents into an unsafe ride for their kid just to make
a quick buck. That kid gets hurt,
that horse gets dumped at a sale, and I inevitably have to tell the “trainer”
that she’s an irresponsible idiot and is going to get a kid killed, try to save
the horse from a death sentence, and find the parents a new trainer. Then I get accused of having “anger
issues”. Which is only slightly
untrue.
I hate horses.