I grew up longing for a horse. My favorite book was Golden Prize and Other Horse Stories, which was chock full of tales about horses and their young owners. I remember one that centered around a city dweller who won a horse in a lottery and then tried to house his winning mare in a midtown apartment. Another described a horse that would only turn left, unsurprisingly named Lefty, causing chagrin for her young owner until she somehow proved to save the day with her left-turning skill. I may not remember a page of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology, but I know my Golden Prize. Most stories were all about a girl and her horse, which is what I longed for—what I dreamed to be. A girl in love with her very own horse.
As a suburbanite, I never got to own a horse, even though I lived out the fantasy in books and an occasional spin on whatever horse Uncle Wayne owned at the time. Either he was not too selective in his horse purchasing or I was a horrible rider, as I don’t think I ever stayed on any of his horses for a complete ride out and back. I grew pretty familiar with ground rush, but I suspect I was the problem. So, a horse was not in the cards for me, but that all changed when I married into a farm-owning family. At least, it all changed for my daughters who shared the unfettered rapture of most young girls where horses are involved. There was no excuse for not experimenting with horse ownership, so we waited for the right time. I just might get my own horse, after all.
We first met her at Alli’s trainer’s barn. At that time, my youngest was enamored with Saddle Club, a TV series featuring a group of preteens living the equestrian dream on a trainer’s ranch in Australia. We found a place for lessons and Alli enthusiastically settled into barn life at Ms. Mary’s, relying on borrowed mounts for instruction each Wednesday afternoon. Before long she had us convinced, though, that nothing would do but to have our own steed at the barn. Then, on a day much like any other, we met Fanny, the headstrong copper red mare that was destined to teach Alli to win, lose, cajole, acquiesce, lead, follow, socialize, and apologize, while at the same time to perfect the emergency dismount stylishly. She also learned patience at the lead of the red mare and came to appreciate the importance of maintaining a steady supply of cinnamon apple flavored treats and soft peppermints. It was just a girl and her horse, and it was enough.
It’s interesting how the most mundane of days can hold immense promise. We really had no idea how much our lives were to be affected by the nondescript horse who was just passing through the trainer’s barn that afternoon. She was supposed to be there only temporarily but was having a tough time proving her worth to potential buyers. There were apparently a lot of headstrong red mares on the market, but most displayed better manners than this one. That fact became apparent as she continued to be returned to the barn after multiple trial periods at other farms. She might spook on a trail ride or refuse to load on a trailer or commit some other act of defiance. When we least expected it, we’d arrive at the barn to find Fanny back in the paddock hanging out with the others after yet another failed attempt at rehoming.
She had attitude and she was independent. Just like Alli. Maybe that’s why they forged such a lifelong attachment that began that Tuesday in May when we offered $2,200 to take her home. I had just received payment from a publisher for my first textbook, Practical Computing, so we briefly, and not very seriously, considered giving her the same name as the book, but of course, she could never be anything other than just Fanny. Or Frances, as Mr. Roger dubbed her. She still had a slight problem with manners, but somehow our girl and Fanny connected in such a way that any behavioral issues grew to be less distracting and much more forgivable. Or maybe she just needed the right touch. I sort of think the same could be said of Alli, as she grew and learned and matured right along with Fanny, who apparently had just the right touch herself to keep her independent human charge humble and occupied and earthy.
We think we own animals. But in a lot of ways, they own us. With perfect execution, they get us to feed them, shelter them, love them, and put up with them. And somewhere along the way, many of them return the favor by unintentionally teaching us. Many people insist that sports, particularly team sports, build character, engender trust, and encourage both graceful winning and losing. I know that’s true, but not being much of a team player, I’d suggest that just as many lessons are learned by simply caring for some living creature other than yourself. Especially when that relationship is a team effort that involves competition, the learning goes both ways. And yet I’m fairly convinced that most of the teaching is done by the four-legged teammate who gives every appearance of doing all the learning.
Fanny was a master at teaching patience. It was her forte. She began those lessons early, by refusing to load on a trailer, which was a nonnegotiable for Alli when an offsite show or practice was involved. On more than one occasion, we stooped to first loading another more amenable horse buddy just so she would follow suit. She and her paint horse friend, Skip, made a few road trips together before she trusted us to ferry her safely. Skip learned that treats were involved, so he was a willing participant in the ploy. And Fanny learned trust.
Closely akin to learning patience was the study of humility, which any horse owner picks up in quick order. There’s nothing quite as humiliating as going airborne without permission or cleaning a horse’s rear end, both of which were occasionally on Fanny’s lesson plan. Any touch of pride was quickly dealt with by an unexpected downfall, often quite literally.
Fanny’s career as a show jumper and sort-of-eventer involved a lot of hard work. Alli hated cross country and Fanny despised dressage, so they met in the middle and agreed to work on show jumping. Alli memorized difficult jump patterns and Fanny carried them out to perfection, tucking her slender legs tightly under her chest as she took flight, even taking home top honors at 2010 Rally in Kentucky. Alli learned to win big that June day. She also learned to lose on most dressage courses, raking in lots of helpful advice from judges but seldom leaving with a ribbon. At the end of the day, win or lose, it was just a girl and her horse, and that was enough.
We trailered for practice and competition at Wolfgap, Moontown, Redstone, Double Trouble, LaGrange, and Percy Warner, among others. Fanny competed against high-dollar horses from Texas as well as local Friesians and Warmbloods, who were bred for her sport. As a maybe Quarter horse with a not-so-flashy name, she never quite fit the expected mold, so the horse and her girl had to work hard and expect little, in the process proving that Fanny was not such a simple horse with a simple name. She was a winner more often than not.
For a few years, her social calendar was filled as the ribbons mounted up. She hung out with the girls of the Pony Club, fraternizing with Skip and Sable and Circle, as their girls suited up in the shiny black riding boots and Charles Owen helmets. She and the horse club trailered to Rally each year, dragged through traffic by moms and preteens in Suburbans. At less structured events, she donned Tinkerbell wings and a green blanket for a local farm’s Octoberfest celebration, and she dutifully lined up in red reindeer antlers for the family Christmas photo.
Her retirement to the farm brought little fanfare, as she didn’t protest at all the days spent grazing and sunning and bossing her fellow barn occupants. Only once did she leap the fence to explore the neighbor’s front lawn, which was uncomfortably near a major four-lane highway. School was out for her in never ending vacation, but I don’t think she ever stopped teaching us. In her leisure time, she perfected the attitude, slyly encouraging infractions from her pasture buddies so she could quickly remind them who was boss. She knew, and we knew, that she would never leave the farm. And we all knew who was boss. She had bought and paid for her retirement and she was family and she was happy. Work done, it was just a girl and her horse, and it was enough.
Among her final lessons was that of just living each day. During Fanny’s final years, with Alli studying out of state, I finally got my own horse. We might not have saddled up too often, or at all, but I brought Fanny peppermints and made sure she had plenty of hay and water and good conversation. Jenn picked up the slack as well, taking care of her sister’s horse as her own, noting her stiff back legs and keeping her exercised. Her copper coat still gleamed in the sun, even if the ribs showed through a bit. And each day was a new day, with more green grass to nose through and constant shade to enjoy.
I firmly believe in Godsends, or God Winks, or whatever you want to call them. Oklahoma State University is nowhere near home, but this past weekend, Alli flew home on a whim and spent much of those two days enjoying time with Fanny. The 30-year-old horse and her girl hung out that final afternoon until time for the return flight. About the time the plane lifted off, Fanny grew ill, which led to an emergency vet visit, which didn’t end well. But God had arranged for the goodbye time so there is peace. And Jenn made sure she was never alone, as you do for family.
Golden Prize and Other Horse Stories is missing a great story, although it is one that will never be recorded there. Without much fanfare, I’d call it A Girl and Her Horse. It would be a simple tale of lessons learned and life lived as a girl and her horse grow up together. I’m not sure, though, how the story could really tell the tale. You had to be there.
It was just a girl and her horse, and it was enough.
