There was a time when I didn’t know what freedom was, when everything seemed set in stone with little to no hope of changing the future. I didn’t know what a dewy pasture felt like at dawn or the pleasure of my rider being handed a ribbon, the photographer infinitely excitable, using anything in his bag of tricks to make me perk my ears for the camera.
In my youth, I lived at a beautiful place, a true equestrian center. I remember it vividly and often times question if it were real and sitting in my dirty stall, it was the only thing keeping me docile. The large green lawn was criss crossed with neat squares, the barn painted a soft dirt brown, like the bottom of a forest floor and the roof was a blinding white. Inside, the open oaken stalls extended for what seemed like forever, with the best horses on the right side and the new horses on the left side. I, being merely two years, belonged to the left. There, I stayed for training and was treasured and valued, as every horse seemed to be at the dreamy estate. The stable specialized in dressage, the art of balance, grace, athleticism, flexibility and intelligence based around complicated patterns, specialized moves, and years of training. Talk of making me a dressage prospect flew around the barn as I grew long strong legs and a chest wide as the best reining horses. Many horses were sold to other stables but I was lucky enough to be wanted to stay and be trained. All seemed permanent until my stall neighbor, Barney, nicked at me through the metal dividers.
“What do you think’s going to happen to us?” He nervously jittered.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you hear? He’s gone! I saw it! I saw it with my own two eyes!”
Barney slouched his bedding around the floor, producing an uneven covering that the groom's would later resent him for but also be expecting. I passed his comments by, knowing how the pony could stretch his imagination and turned to face the other direction, my ears pointed away from his breakdown but still visible from the corner of my eye.
“Don’t you realize what’s going to happen?” He paused his shuffling,” Are you even listening? This is important! What will happen to you, Mrs. Dressage prospect?”
I took a sigh,” What happened, Barney?”
In all my time next to the him, Barney never stopped dead in his nervous attacks. He turned his gaze on me, his eyes wide, nostrils flared.
“You haven’t heard?”
“Haven’t heard what?” I craned my long neck around to watch him.
“The owner, Mr. Kessler, fell from Nami, that big stallion from the next barn over. They said something after he fell but I’ve never heard the word before. I can’t seem to remember it…” He looked towards the isle, his ears quivered,” Oh yes! That’s it! They said he was something called ‘dead’. Oh my, I hope he’s okay!” Again he started pacing.
The events following Mr. Kessler’s death were quick to come. All of his property, horses and barn included, were to be auctioned off by the next of kin. It turns out he had died by riding his favorite jumping stallion and all was going well until the horse had refused a jump. The landing had been severe and he passed only minutes after the impact against the oxers.
To keep things short, I was not bought by the wealthy ladies with husbands who made millions of dollars with racing horses. My small two year old frame wasn’t developed enough to be raced or even trained. They laughed when I was paraded into the ring like a cow by an unskilled, fumbling handler. My price plummeted as the seconds wore on in the tiny round pen. Finally, I was bought. My sinking heart picked itself up, knowing that it wasn’t stopping for slaughter. What I didn’t know was the feeling of relief was only short lived.
“Get ‘er up! Push her!” Milly screeched at the top of her lungs. Instantly, I was kicked in the side with blistering metal spikes and my mouth was ripped backward by the twisted bit. In a trot, my rider bounced her hands and threw her weight this way and that, forcing an uneven gait on my behalf. With every jerk of her hands, my mouth grew more sore.
The woman riding me was named Annalise, and not only was she my rider but she was also my owner. Truly, she wasn't so bad. She tried her hardest to be a good owner, but she was given the wrong direction. It was the trainer, Milly, that leaned against the white arena fence.
She wore big heavy western boots that were stained with dirt all over. Freckles spotted her arms and ran up her face but left her cheekbones dry of spots. She was hefty, with big hips and shoulders and a waist equally as strong. More often than not, she wore tanks tops, the most frequently used being a mint green. I hated that green color. Every time I saw her standing in the ring, fear plunged into my muscles and I refused to walk forward or do any work for fear I would make a wrong step and be beaten again.
Today, we were at our first show. Years of training had finally paid off and Milly had thrown me in the trailer to jump somewhere else. This place was just as wonderful as the barn in my dreams.
Colorful jumps were scattered in the sand, some with hedges, others with big boxes of flowers, and one with water, the glassy surface reflecting the sun from its surface. Unlike our dirt arena, the sand was soft and pleasant to tread on. My hooves sunk deeply into the material and took away a portion of the pain from the hard shocks our own arena sent up my legs. The natural light brightened up my dulled black coat for the first time in months and the white stripe that blazed down my face binded all eyes that looked upon it.
While Annalise was in the ring, whispers echoed from the grandstands. The audience watched with contempt with every step I took. People flinched at her particularly bad riding when falling back over a jump or at ripping my bit when attempting to turn. Within the sea of judgment, one face looked on in complete and utter horror. It was a girl standing at the fence, wading in her tall white britches and drowning in a button up shirt. When I passed her on the rail, I felt the purity and humbleness of something I haven’t dreamed of belonging to.
I was snapped back into reality by a growl.
“Take her over again!” Screamed the trainer,” If she raises her head again we’ll get her martingale!”
At this, equestrians gave her sidelong glances and shook their heads, praying for it to be over. As they watched, I hoped with all my heart someone would help me. Someone to stop this woman and take me away.
When Annaleise aimed me toward a jump, she waited until the last minute to set me up to the middle of the rail. Once my front legs took off, she yanked my mouth back in order to stay in the saddle. While landing, she jerked the reins up. To escape from the pressure, I tossed my head.
“Alright, stop her!” The trainer entered the ring with a strip of leather. Her hand flew up to grab my bit. Instantly, I rolled my eyes and backed as fast as I could away from her. In the background, the crowd started getting restless. Milly was oblivious as she clipped the leather on my bit and to the bottom of the girth. I knew the game the trainer was playing and how it worked.
The leather strips of the martingale tugged at my bit, forcing my nose into my chest; it was far too tight to even canter with. To make matters worse, she pulled a small crop from her back pocket. It was a small red stick the size of her forearm with a flimsy strip of leather on one end.
“Use this,” The trainer handed the red stick over,” Right before the jump, give her a little smack to pick herself up.” I shuttered at the physical contradictions she suggested. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girl who ran away from my pain come back with another woman. Her face was long, set with almond eyes, aged skin, and dotted with sunny freckles. She stood by the girl and watched, assessing the situation. Finally, her fists clenched, she marched heavily toward the office. I didn’t watch her too long before I was spurred forward in a weighted trot.
Years later, I still remember how every step felt. When my natural stride jolted the rider, she fell forward and yanked my reins back to keep herself steady yet insisted that I continue on with the gait by kicking my sides with limp, flapping legs. Every step ate away at my dwindling patience; Every pained, helpless face in the audience prodded me to destruction; Every second that ticked with the trainer staring and the rider jolting, and the spurs poking, and reins pulling, blood beating, sweat flowing, flies buzzing, wind howling and my silent pleading growing pushed me to pin my ears in anger.
To refuse my master was to refuse the right to eat tonight. At this point, I would do anything, even give up my dinner, to get the idiot off my back. I kicked up my heels and rocked Annaleise forward onto my neck. Her surprise was palpable. The crowd hushed, waiting for a reaction. The girl on the rail stilled. I wanted to think her captured expression hoped for me to do whatever it took for justice. Then, my mind was set. Her small face pushed me on through my rebellion.
Instantly, Annaleise turned the crop on me. She hit me with all the force she had. Each blow stung and popped my hindquarters forward while her harsh bit kept me back. Eventually, I charged through it. I carried her through the ring to the other side at a gallop before she pulled me down to an impatient halt. Now, I saw the freckled woman had come back to stand behind the girl and held her by the shoulders, looking on.
“I don’t think this new bit is working very well!” My rider yelled to Milly while she see-sawed my head down and rejected my advances to move away from her leg pressure.
“I have another one back at the trailer. Let’s just take her over another jump.” She motioned for her to take her 3’5” vertical rail with the white standards. Annaleise tore at the right rein and asked for a trot.
“Canter her over it! Don’t be an idiot!” Milly called.
I felt Annaleise clench her stomach in fear. Still, she brought the whip down on my rear, asking for a gallop.
As we neared the jump, my vision flickered to the woman and the girl and I turned my head to look. When I caught the aged womans eyes, she knew.
In her eyes, I saw her grasp in one moment what I had lived in three years.
My face was ripped away from the kind face and back to the jump.
I recalled the woman and the girl.
The jump was getting closer.
My mouth burned.
My sides ached.
The jump was in front of me now, meters away.
My ears pinned.
My hindquarters stung.
I stopped.
The sand grabbed at my hooves, pleading a halt. Annaleise flew forward, only gently did she tug my reins. The red crop was released from her hands and hovered in the air before it dropped what seemed like a mile away. There was a crack, then a groan, finally a thud. She slumped to the side of the the standard she fell on, clutching her side.
People flooded into through the gate, filling the desolate arena. Before the storming trainer reached me, the kind woman sung my reins into her soft hands and led me away, out of the sand, out of the farm, and out of my cruel life. Behind us, Milly struggled against two strong men, the crop in hand, yelling for me to come back.
Four years have passed since then. The kind trainer, Sydney, adopted me before I was even admitted into the rescue.
“I fell in love with her when I first looked into her eyes,” She would state,” And it’s all thanks to his kiddo.” She would turn to the girl, whose name I found was Alexa, and rustle her hair. Over the years, I’ve won many competitions, but not jumping over obstacles. I was the horse that pranced around the ring and sowed the seeds of inspiration for aspiring dressage prospects.
They called me Dancer.