I wasn’t looking for a horse, not for myself anyway. I’d seen a listing online for ‘Danny’, a 2008-model TB at a local rescue, and clicked on the link thinking he might be suitable for a friend who was searching for her next eventer. The video showed a woolly youngster perambulating about in a round pen on horrendous footing. I couldn’t tell much about his actual movement but I was struck by his unusually good balance and surefootedness. He’d also raced as a two year-old and retired sound. I sent his link to my friend who quickly pronounced him ‘unspectacular.’ She wasn’t interested.
But I was. I have no idea why. I don’t buy horses, I breed them. The easy answer was that recent life events had rendered me vulnerable to the siren call of a furry creature in need of a home. Just days before, my beloved, ancient, unbelievably demanding dog had died in his sleep, and now that I was no longer being ordered about (mercilessly and 24/7, I should add) by a tyrant the size of a squirrel, I found myself with a lot of free time on my hands. I also missed my dog terribly. While I knew I didn’t have the strength to cope with another Chihuahua mix, a three year-old OTTB sounded comparatively fun and relaxing.
In the late-afternoon twilight on Christmas Eve, I made my first visit to the rescue’s barn. That’s got to be the height of loneliness and dejection, seeking kinship at an animal rescue when everyone else is celebrating the biggest holiday of the year, but for me it was an occasion of cautious optimism marking the end of a very sad week. Cheer up! You’re going to look at a horse! A friend and I drove there in an appropriately Biblical downpour which only became worse when we got out of the car. Danny greeted us at the gate; he’d apparently appointed himself maitre d’ because he greeted everyone who came on the property the same way and then hovered around to see what was going on. We’d planned to turn the horse out, trot him on pavement, check out his canter, do everything you do when you’re responsibly sizing up your future eventer. We did none of those things. We led him around in the wind and rain and looked over him as best we could. His legs were immaculate, he had good bone, his feet were a little small, he never put a foot wrong. He had the tail of a weanling.
I didn’t decide to take him right then. My mind was firmly set against it by the time I got back in the car. I didn’t need another horse and besides, I prefer super-hot, lightning-fast, small mares. What did I want with a laid-back gelding who was already well over 16hh and liked to lope along at the back of the pack? Nonetheless, when the rescue director called to ask if I liked the horse, I just couldn’t say no. I returned to the barn two more times, mostly out of courtesy, planning to see Danny trot an unspectacular series of steps so I could give the director a smart-sounding reason for passing on him. But on both visits, the weather was even worse than before and I was resigned to standing in the run-in shed, watching Danny eat hay.
At some point, as I was huddled under that roof shivering in the cold and wet, I realized I liked this horse. I enjoyed spending time with him. He was kind and curious. He’d stayed sound on the track as a two year-old. His groom and trainer from the track adored him. The rescue adored him. He knew where to put his feet. What more did I need to know for $500?
He arrived at my farm yesterday. He’d systematically and methodically inspected the ramp before strolling into the trailer and he walked out just as calmly. All good signs, because nothing in Danny’s young life could have prepared him for what was about to happen next.
Danny was moments away from meeting his first mule.
Let me put this in perspective: No matter how many times Danny had gazed into the trackside crystal ball, no matter how many times he’d thrown the alfalfa-cube I Ching or shared the secrets of his soul with a horse psychic, you can bet the future he envisioned for himself never included a mule. But the universe works in strange ways and so we went down to the pasture to bring Casper up to the barn to watch over the newcomer.
In addition to his other talents like posing for photos and engineering Ninja-like escapes, Casper is an excellent babysitter. We put the young ones with him and he takes it upon himself to make sure they don’t do anything too stupid or embarrassing. Does he like doing this? You saw the photo. But he’s a good sport about it and we appreciate his efforts. For the rest of the afternoon, Casper grazed quietly around Danny’s paddock and even touched noses with him a couple of times. Touching the mule is a privilege, not a right, so Danny must have shown the requisite signs of respect for a hybrid equine of vastly superior intelligence.
At night, I head down to the barn armed with a bag of black licorice. I love real black licorice, the strong European kind as opposed to its sugary American false equivalent. My horses all acquire a fondness for it (they like Salt Herrings most of all) but not everyone loves it right away. Sometimes it takes a while to get beyond the snorting, sniffing, spitting-it-out, you’re-trying-to-poison-me phase. With this in mind, I offer Danny a piece. He inhales once and eats it without hesitation. Then he tries to take the bag out of my hand. He wants more. Now.
“Danny,” I say. “You’re my kind of horse.”
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