Of Women and Horses: Volume 1

UNEXPECTED PACKAGES : LESSONS FROM A SPECIAL HORSE

by Dr. Pamela L. Hamilton

Riding turns
"I wish"
into
"I can."

-Pam Brown

Most lessons in life come in unexpected packages and in unexplained terms. Mine came in the form of a stubby rose gray Arabian colt.

I first met "Claire" (short for Benchmark Clarion) on his second birthday. It was a bitter cold, snowy February morning in rural Michigan. Claire was too much to handle for his owner. Though the colt had been shown extensively as a weanling and yearling, his personality was too surly to allow him to be a legitimate contender in halter classes. I bought Claire on the spot for $300. He was to be my next moneymaking project.

A college student always in need of funds, I reasoned that I would put thirty days of saddle training on him and then sell him at a significant profit to pay for my next semester of classes. When that time came, I could have sold him for a handsome profit. Instead, I decided to keep him for an extra thirty days to make an even greater profit. Nineteen and a half years and hundreds of blue ribbons and memories later, my sixty-day "investment" died in my arms of old age. Oh what I learned from his life and death.

I am not sure when I made the decision to keep the rose gray colt. I'm not even sure if I made the decision. After all, do we really decide who our best friends will be in the journey called life? Eventually I changed Claire's name to Falah. Only in retrospect have I realized how he truly was my benchmark in life.

I was, by nature, a tentative, cautious, reflective individual. I barely skimmed the surface of life; too shy, too afraid to dig deep into living. I was the quiet one; not confident enough to run, jump, or shout for fear of calling attention to myself. I always sought to keep a low profile. However intellectually competent I was, I stood on the outside of academic accolades. However lonesome, I stood on the edge of social circles. However proficient in the show ring, I got "the gate" far more often than the glory.

Falah never afforded me the luxury of being tentative. In fact, the last time I was tentative, I ended up with a trip to the emergency room to set a fractured clavicle; a result of Falah's impromptu-albeit well placed-reminder to pay attention.

My major of psychology aided the training process. Keenly aware of positive and negative reinforcers, schedules of reinforcers, structuring the environment, and so forth, I was pleased by Falah's positive response to the training procedures. However, his disposition was not entirely endearing. In fact, he would pin back his ears and wrinkle up his nose in disgust every time I walked past his stall unless, of course, I had something tasty in my pocket. Not one for physical affection, he would succumb to the pleasures of peppermints. Unlike my other horses, I had to work hard at earning his respect.

The first time I won a blue ribbon was on Falah's back. I was nineteen years old as he deftly escorted me around the show ring as if he knew his purpose in my life. Falah taught me all the lessons other instructors had failed to get across.

"Sit up straight."

"Ride with your whole body."

"Put more effort into your riding."

"Pay attention."

"Look as if you're on the best horse in the world."

"Be proud"

Falah and I were undefeated for several seasons. Yet I never became complacent, partly because of his antics in the make-up arena. Invariably, he would turn in a lackluster performance: a mediocre park trot, a sprawled out canter, maybe a rein back, maybe not. I could feel the stares from fellow competitors, silently discounting us from the competition that day.

In the split second while moving from the make-up to the show arena, Falah transformed himself. The 14.3-hand dappled gray gelding became my knight in shining armor, ready to defend my equestrian honor. With purposeful cadence and rhythmic discipline, he moved through the paces to take his rightful place in the winner's circle. I think Falah enjoyed playing mind games.

Our show career was long and lucrative. Lucrative not so much concerning finances (let's face it, we live our lives with horses because we love them, not because of the money) but concerning my personal growth. Falah's confidence begot my confidence. I learned to enjoy the success and attention that Falah and I garnered in the show ring. My newly discovered confidence began to affect other areas of my life. Grades improved because I participated more in class, relationships blossomed, and risks were taken. I was published in a national publication with an article titled "College and a Horse."

During the heyday of our competitive years, we were invited to join Chuck Grant's famed Horse Capades. Mr. Grant, the gentleman who helped dressage flourish in the United States, was taken aback by Falah's talents not only as a saddle seat and dressage horse but as a trick horse as well. His then silvery coat sparkled in the spotlights.

From the Horse Capades, Falah and I landed a stint at the Kentucky Horse Park acting as official hosts of the park to visiting guests, celebrities, and dignitaries. Again, Falah taught me valuable lessons. Falah was always so nonplussed about the fuss and attention devoted to him or surrounding celebrities. In fact, he once sneezed all over the flowing white garment of an Arabian sheik who had extended his hand in his enthusiasm to see an Arabian horse.

Falah taught me never to let status get in the way. In spite of his celebrity position, Falah felt no shame as he stuck his nose in ladies' handbags in search of a peppermint. No other adult could ride him, but he allowed hundreds of children to sit on him for vacation photographs.

One of my most cherished memories was at a time when Falah was the featured attraction at the Kentucky Horse Park. After the performance, applause, purse-rifling, and photographs, I turned Falah loose in the paddock area. The crowds had vanished and I turned my attention to putting away the props. I glanced over my shoulder to see Falah leaning over the fence gently nuzzling a solitary woman in a wheelchair, unable to reach out to touch him. Falah had reached out to her. The woman's misty eyes caught mine. The tears embarrassed her. She explained she had never touched a horse before, and in touching Falah, a dream had come true. In spite of all the accolades we collected, I shall always remember the tenderness of that singular moment when I saw Falah's heart turn to gold.

Times and circumstances passed, but Falah's friendship and loyalty prevailed. In spite of all the changes my young adulthood ushered in-getting married; moving away from my family; having a son, then a daughter; graduate school; a career; moving across the country-Falah was my one constant. He was a touchstone, a benchmark with which to measure my growth against who I used to be. Psychologists say that young adulthood is the loneliest time for women, and I suppose that would have been true for me if not for my relationship with Falah. My singular identity had evolved into a variety of roles: wife, mother, adult, psychologist, and community volunteer. When I was with Falah, however, I regained my center: unpretentious, down-to-earth, capable. I called my time with him my Falah fix. Falah christened our new barn by being the first to enter the threshold.

In spite of loving care and constant companionship, Falah grew old. Imperceptibly at first, yet steadily, Falah's life was coming to an end. I worried about the loss of dignity he might endure. I worried about the pain he might suffer. I worried that he might die alone, that I would not be there for him. I learned not to expect tomorrow. I learned to cherish the moments that make up a day. I learned to fully enjoy.

All along, Falah had taught me to get involved with life, even when life gets scary. So instead of shying away from the prospect of Falah's death to avoid personal pain, I relished my days with him. He filled up my senses: his earthly scent, his silky mane, the way he still crinkled up his nose when I ran out of carrots or peppermints. I found relief from the dread of his eventual death by living life fully. Living life fully helps me choose not to regret. I have learned to appreciate all that each new day brings. Simple joys abound if we look for them.

When Falah's last day arrived, I felt prepared: no regrets, be brave, be strong, help him pass through this life. Faithful friend to the end. Dawn came and went and gave way to the afternoon sun. Falah's silver coat glistened in the sun, shining, silky, reminiscent of his horse show glory days. Evening approached, the night as big and as dark as Falah's loving eyes. I vowed to stay with him. With death imminent, Falah walked out of his stall and circled the paddock area, as if to take everything in one last time: the gentle midnight breezes, the reflection of the moon in his water bucket, the soft sand under his hooves. He gazed up toward the house where my family slept, respecting and honoring our privacy and precious time alone.

Profoundly, I walked with Falah back into our barn. As if speaking a silent equine language, Falah lingered by each one of the other horses' stalls. Instead of the usual squeals and stomping when a horse has invaded another's territory, there was only silence. Falah gently touched the noses of his...