Finn at Rocking Horse Stables
About a month ago, I took Finn out to do a routine gallop set. That day I was paired with Sara, who was riding a horse that was in the barn for training. We did our sets up the track as usual, and Finn was being Finn (for those who don’t know him, he was a bit eccentric when it came to spooking). I’m not sure if it was a clicking power line, or the horse behind him, or just pure fun, but at the end of our last set, as I was pulling up, Finn did his signature spin move that gets me off more times than not and took off up the road for the barn. In a move that foreshadows his later heroics, Ryan Wood and a working student of Phillip’s jumped into a truck and sped off after him as I sprinted up the road behind them.
When I wheezed into the barn, they already had him inside. Somewhere along the way Finn slipped unseen and fell on the pavement, impaling himself on my once trendy but now outdated “quick release” stirrups. For those who don’t know, these particular stirrups are made to open when pressure is applied to the sides, so that a foot cannot get stuck. I’ve had them since I was 11 and they have completed nearly every event I’ve ever done. Once they were declared dangerous because of the open points they created upon opening, I wrapped vetwrap around the treads to keep them shut. I never anticipated that the weight of a falling horse could completely bend one in half, separating the points, and the open end went deeply into Finn’s shoulder. In addition, he had some serious road rash on his hip and a few other minor cuts. I was so scared that day. He impaled himself. He could have been hit by a car. Why didn’t I expect that spook? What could I have done differently?
Tuesday morning Boyd called me at 7am. This is not unusual, as Boyd tends to call me very early in the morning. I ran the preliminary at Fair Hill as a final prep for Bromont the day before, and I assumed he was calling to hear how everything went. Since it was my day off from riding and I was half-asleep, I just rolled over and figured I’d call him later. Then I got a text. “Call me asap.” That wasn’t usual. So I called him back. And everything stopped.
I got Finn the summer before my senior year of high school, in 2007. I had competed one season of Prelim with my previous horse before he went lame from a combination of old injuries and ringbone. I was devastated. I worked so hard with that horse for three years, and when you are seventeen things are much more apocalyptic than they seem. In order to graduate from my high school, all seniors were each required to give a speech in front of the entire student body. I talked about “losing” my horse. At the time, I wrote, “There are not words to articulate some emotions. They cannot be described, only felt as an actual, grating pain, the kind of pain that makes you want to rip yourself apart so that you do not have to feel.”
I thought that was the worst, that it was the bottom. I thought I knew. Then I got the phone call Tuesday morning.
The day Finn dumped me and fell, I spent several hours with him; riding, icing, and then with Dr. Kevin Keane as he stitched up the wounds. Before Kevin got there, Finn was clearly in pain. He wasn’t a very cuddly horse, but he put his face next to mine and left it there, a silent plea. Seeing him hurt was absolutely awful. He’s a tough horse. Four years and barely three lame days. Whatever they do in Australia works. He had the strongest legs I’ve ever seen. At sixteen he never even stocked up. His only flaw was a shoe boil on his left elbow.
Most of the time, life slips away unnoticed. Minutes, hours, days, pass by without ceremony or fanfare. And then there are the moments that you will never forget. I will never forget the conversation I had with Boyd on Tuesday morning, word for word. I will never forget the hour-long drive to the barn that morning, during which I convinced myself that it wasn’t’ the whole barn, that they would be riding as usual when I got there and business would continue. That I still needed to set up the vet appointment to get Finn injected on Thursday. That it was a misunderstanding. I will never forget the moment I turned off of PA Highway 41. I could smell the barn from half of a mile away.
I can’t tell you what was lost in the early hours of Tuesday. Finn is just my personal burden. Lillian lost Ariel, a beautiful mare who I can’t even begin to describe. I had the pleasure of watching them from the beginning, and I can tell you Lillian is unparalleled in talent, patience, and horsemanship. Faye, who I first met in an airport security line when she saw me carrying my helmet, lost Ollie, so talented and so young. Anne lost Summer, bred by Boyd and just beginning her career. Densey lost Charla, so distinctive and on her way to stardom. Bonnie lost Cagney, who held so much potential. Each had talent, history, and most of all people who cared. I can’t tell you what it is to lose them like this.
The past two days have been very numb. There has been a lot of pretending to be useful, pretending to be normal. There have been a lot of phone calls, texts, emails, and Facebook messages. I cannot describe the feeling I get when ever I open my laptop and see that the entire world is mourning our horses. I knew the horse community is pretty tight, but I never saw its true colors until yesterday. “Thank you” doesn’t feel anywhere close to sufficient. “Eternally grateful” has a nice ring to it, but still doesn’t quite capture the feeling I wish to convey. I will never forget Tuesday morning, but neither will I forget Tuesday afternoon, when my cell phone was dead by 4pm. The support and compassion I have received is overwhelming. And I’m not even close to being one of the “big guys” of our sport.
While I can’t describe what was lost, I can tell you what is still here. There are five horses that survived. Five horses that survived because of Lillian, Caitlin, Ryan, Boyd, and Phillip, all outstanding horsemen who I strive to emulate every day. Their actions have turned them into living legends, not that they weren’t already. They are the ones that need our support. So rather than fixate on what has been lost, I am looking to what is left. Saddles can be replaced, and barns can be rebuilt. Burns will heal and scars will fade. There is an outstanding community that had gone above and beyond to support a few dozen people on their darkest day. And, most importantly, there are horses that need to be fed. Maybe not our horses, or horses that we have invested hours upon hours with, but they are still the magical four-legged creatures that we cannot resist. Today is about them.
Five days after his fall, Finn and I rode at the April Plantation Field Horse Trials, stitches and all. It was a pretty awful day, as those who were there can attest. The dressage took place on top of a large hill. It had just started to sprinkle when Finn and I were warming up and the wind was really going. I wasn’t expecting to have a very good test. As I mentioned, Finn has a nice spook in him. But he knew his job. We entered the ring, and by the first diagonal I was already smiling. It was the best test we ever had. He listened to me, he was obedient, and he shone. At the end of the day we were leading the class. I was so proud of him. In fact I’m looking at that dressage test right now, as it hangs on my wall over my desk. This moment, along with many others, is what I hold onto now. This moment is what is left. I was trying to think of a good quotation to include in this post, and all I could think of is a Bible verse. For those who are not religious, please forgive me. It is Philippians 1.3, and it reads, “I thank my God upon remembrance of you.”
Go love your horse.
