When I was a little kid we got a horse. What I didn’t know at the time was, he was too old to work on the farm, too expensive to keep and his only prospect was a one way trip to the rendering plant to become dog food, glue and fertilizer. The saying goes, “You can take the boy off the farm but you can’t . . . “ that was my dad. We lived on a plot too small to farm but big enough for a barn and several acres of fenced pasture. Dad worked a day job in the city but I grew up barefoot with chores, barb wire and bales of hay. We had a milk cow, a few chickens and sometimes a pig to finish out before butchering in the fall. The horse took retirement gracefully at our place, named him ‘Scout’ and turned him out with the cow.
Our new-old horse was gentle and he didn’t mind giving us a ride but he was passive-aggressive with the saddle and bridle. It took my dad to get him ready. The saddle was way too cumbersome for me to manage. If I could get it over his back I couldn’t get the cinch tight and all he had to do was hold his head up high to avoid the bit. After several failed attempts I conceded, if I didn’t have an adult to get him ready, I couldn’t ride. Maybe this is where I learned, if you can’t have what you want then make do with what you have: lower your expectations. I coaxed him into his stall with some grain, snapped the lead rope onto his halter, climbed up the side of his stall and onto his back. Once he finished the grain in his feed box he took us outside. With just a lead rope on the halter I could only turn his head one way. We made lots of circles. I would make the universal, checking sound that translates to the horse, “Let’s go” and we went. Getting him to cooperate meant, take turns being in charge, a middle way. On a warm, sunny day it was natural to turn around, lay forward with arms folded on his rump and take a nap. At the back of the lot, beyond the barn, we were out of sight, out of earshot from the house. The slow rocking action as he grazed was all it took for me to fall asleep and that was fine with me.
J.Q. is a former student and a friend, currently a veterinarian he specializes in large mammals, horses, cattle and such. His growing up was on a real-deal farm with 80 acre fields and dark, deep woods. They kept prize winning, Belgian draft horses that worked through the week and showed off at fairs and competitions on weekends. Tractors are great and you can’t pull a 12 bottom plow without one but they don’t make good pets or follow you to the gate. Working the horses made work into fun. A few years ago I had Sunday brunch with J.Q., spent the afternoon with him at the farm. We walked and talked, ending in the pasture next to the house where the horses were enjoying a lazy afternoon. They came over to see if we had carrots or sugar cubes. Even if we disappointed them on that end they waited patiently for kind words and some hands on affection.
I hadn’t been around horses since Scout but it’s like riding a bicycle, it comes back. There was an apple tree outside the fence, just out of his reach and he loved apples. They were never good enough for Mom to feed us so when they started falling I kicked them under the fence or scooped up hands full and rationed them out, one at a time. They were small and hard with a tart/sour taste, even as they ripened in the fall. Standing by as he munched, cheek to neck with one arm looped up under his jaw, his mane hung in my face and it must be like mothers with their babies, you don’t need instructions or practice, you stroke and pat and say in your kindest, firm but gentle voice, “Good boy”.
People go to great length to scrub away or sanitize their body odor. Even so, we recognize that subtle scent and sometimes, it it’s the right person, that aromatic signature is just right. Everyone is unique, a little different than someone else, maybe genetics, diet, environment but the human scent is unmistakable. Horses are no different. Part sweat, part dust, part earth hues of grass and pollen, whatever comes up with them after they roll; it is unmistakable, wonderful. I am not possessed with a pseudo-civilized aversion to body odor, not that I sniff out humans but then again I don’t find it repulsive, not usually. But the scent of a horse is always agreeable.
Standing there beside a 2,000 pound Belgian with an arm curled up under her jaw, cheek to neck, no apples or carrots but she let me stroke and pat as long as I liked. In my best tone I assured her, “Good girl.” For a fleeting moment I might have been eyes closed, napping with my arms folded on Scout’s rump, my nose filled with the essence of “Horse.”
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