Chancey of the Maury River (16 page)

Though I had exhibited great courage, enough to be recruited by Mrs. Maiden, it would be another month or more before Mrs. Maiden actually allowed me to teach in the therapeutic school. This next phase of my training would test me to the limits and ultimately desensitize me to loud noises and erratic movements. All of my senses would be reconditioned for extreme tolerance. I would have to learn that I could not bolt or squat, rear or buck, in retaliation of any stimuli. I would learn to accept, as had Mac and Gwen, that neither fight nor flight could ever be an acceptable response for a horse in therapeutic service.

Stu arrived at my room with all of his hunting beagles at his side. He hoped that using his dogs in my training would speed my progress. During the deer-shooting season, I had seen the dogs out on several occasions. As was customary, Stu began our lesson by greeting me in my room and offering me a peppermint from his pocket. A young beagle, whom I had not seen before, showed great interest in the candy and snatched it out of Stu’s hand before I could take it myself. Stu lowered his voice. “Tommy!” he scolded. “Tommmmmy, that’s not nice.”

The puppy dropped his head apologetically, leaving the candy on the ground. I quickly scarfed it up for myself. I sniffed Stu’s jacket, certain that I detected at least one more candy piece. Stu reached in his pocket and then handed it to me.

“Chancey, meet the new pup. His name is Tommy. His Latin name is
Canis familiaris.
He’s going to help us today. If you like him, I’ll bring him with us every day.” I lowered my head to see the young dog, whose only interest was how much horse dung he could eat. Tommy took no notice of me whatsoever.

“Tommy, meet Chancey,” Stu continued. “His Latin name is
Equus caballus.
Chancey’s studying to be a therapeutic school horse,” Stu told the dog. He patted me on the neck and added, “You didn’t realize that I know Latin, did you, Chance? It’s always good to learn something new. Keeps you alive.”

I blew on Stu, for even though I had no interest in Latin or beagles, Stu had won a secure place in my heart precisely because he credited me for having such interests. Tommy remained obsessed with the ground.

In the cross-country field, Stu and his unrelenting hunting dogs set to work on me. It must be noted that I was never in any danger or under a threat of physical harm from the beagles. The dogs did not bite or nip at me, and I returned the favor by neither biting nor nipping at them. They did annoy. The beagles jumped and yelped. They crawled under me and used my rear and chest to prop themselves on two legs. Stu seemed to find their behavior endearing. I did not.

To keep myself focused, I played a concentration game with myself during these arduous sessions. I set about documenting and remembering my home so that even long after I had completely lost my sight I would still remember the Maury River Stables. I tried to completely tune out the dogs by imprinting the details of my surroundings onto my heart. I stood in our field, with hunting dogs bounding all around me. I could just see the tops of the sycamore trees lining the left bank of the river. While the dogs set about distracting me, I turned my mind toward the Maury River, and Saddle Mountain just beyond.

I recalled how when I first arrived at the Maury River Stables, I visited the Maury River often and cantered alongside it searching for some clue as to where the river had been or what it was rushing to find. After a rowdy storm, the Maury might flow muddy and fast, pulling downstream an entire chestnut tree, or some such debris, which it had ripped from the banks upstream.

While the beagles lunged at me and pestered one another, I listened for the river. I confess that a part of me desired to break from Stu’s dogs and gallop toward the sloping river birch that in the dead of winter marked the Maury definitively with its bright white bark. I knew the beagles would stay right on my heels if I attempted such a break.

Only once during this daily practice did the beagles successfully break my concentration. We had enjoyed an unusually high occurrence of rain; I knew the river ran high and fast, for I had no trouble at all hearing it rush by us, beyond the gelding field. I judged the electric fence to be approximately three feet high. As a young horse, I had successfully cleared more than three feet, but only a handful of times, if that, since coming to the Maury River Stables. Both the cancer and the arthritis had by then contributed to the demise of my jumping career, but logic had no such hold on me that morning.

Tommy began jumping at my left side, and I could not ascertain his intent. Though he stood no higher than the top of my cannon bone, his vertical range reached much nearer to my cheek than I had expected. I felt Tommy there, bouncing up well past my forearm, but could not see him. I could hear the pup; it would have been impossible not to hear him. I could smell him, too, for this young beagle had no bladder control whatsoever and in his excitement, he covered my feet in the contents of his bladder more than once. Though it had been almost a year since my first tumor was removed in Albemarle, and I had by then grown accustomed to complete blindness in my left eye, I panicked that I could not see but only feel Tommy there at my side. I tried to ground myself with my remaining good eye.

Tommy then launched himself above my head. I cast about for the sound of the river. I was sure I could clear the electric fence. I flicked my tail at Tommy and began to dance. I pinned my ears back, a fair notice of warning. The young beagle continued, aware, no doubt, that he had gotten a reaction from me and from Stu as well. I lifted my front left foot and poised it there, giving Tommy one last opportunity to leave me alone. “Chance, you can do this,” Stu urged. But it was too late; I kicked the little beagle away from me, not hurting him badly, mind you. Without question, if my intent had been to injure the pup, I would have done so with such might that little fellow would not have been able to run crying to his mother, as he did.

I knew my error straightaway and regretted it. I did not bolt to the river. I stood square in front of Stu, who just laughed. “Whoo, Chancey, he got to you. Tommy got to you.”

Stu sent the dogs to the front of the field, where they obediently waited for him. He moved to my left out of my vision, and patted me on the neck. “It’s your left side, I know. You’ve done a fine job compensating until now. Don’t worry, Chance, don’t worry.” Stu did not sound disappointed but rather satisfied with what he had discovered about me. I hoped that my outburst toward Tommy had not eroded Stu’s confidence in me.

I was comforted to walk with Claire that afternoon and relieved that she already knew about the incident with Tommy. Claire did not tack me up but walked me bareback up an old logging trail around the base of Saddle Mountain. Few leaves remained on the mountain and those that did swirled around behind us for the entire five-mile trail. We stayed inside the mountain, for neither Claire nor I dared to take on the frigid, unrelenting mountain air at the unprotected peak. On our return to the barn, Claire finally told me.

“I heard about that annoying puppy this morning. I don’t blame you for kicking him. Don’t worry; he’s not hurt. Stu’s not mad, either. He said every therapeutic horse he’s ever trained has cracked with the beagles . . . except Gwen.”

Claire patted my neck. “You’re doing a good job, pony. Stu says you’re one of the best.”

Claire, Gwen, and Mac, between them, kept me motivated during my training. Without them, I would have easily become discouraged.

Mac predicted that my training would soon extend beyond the Maury River Stables onto adjacent properties. As ever, Mac was correct. Our lessons were no longer stationary, which Mac assured me was indicative of great progress in my training. Stu intended to introduce me to companions immensely more annoying than Tommy and the other beagles. In Rockbridge County, many people keep horses, and as they all ride and love the countryside, a strong tradition of courtesy use exists for the purposes of pleasure riding nearly every day of the year, except for those days when hunters are allowed in the woods.

For our first morning ride, Stu tacked me up quickly with only a bareback pad and a lead rope tied into reins. I am always overjoyed to ride without the bit in my mouth. I don’t mind the bit so much in the hands of a rider as knowledgeable and kind as Stu or Claire. Claire and I often ride without a bit or saddle and I can say, with certainty, we both enjoy that very much. In the case of Stu, unlike some of my younger and more diminutive riders, his instructions to me through his legs and seat are straightforward and easy enough to follow that the additional aid of the bit is unnecessary. Stu is not a big man, by comparison to John the Farrier or Doctor Russ; Stu’s weight, because it is well balanced and evenly distributed, actually gave me much confidence and security as we rode.

Stu led me away from Maury River Stables with great purpose. My nemesis from the cross-country field, Tommy, accompanied us. To my surprise, the puppy behaved more respectfully to me after I had kicked him. He stopped relieving himself on my feet, an outcome that was well worth the mild kick I had previously delivered. Having learned his lesson, Tommy ran beside me, always on the left and well away from my feet. His panting and yelping kept me aware of his position and served to mark the left edge of the trail. I found that by keeping an ear turned toward Tommy, I was able to use him as a guide on the trail. The willing pup kept alongside me; his presence kept me from stumbling into ditches or holes. I began to warm to his personality and could see why Stu was so fond of him.

We rode away from the Maury River. Our destination was Mrs. Pickett’s farm, some distance from our barn, past a neighboring cattle pasture, through an overplanted pine farm, and across the paved street.

As we approached Mrs. Pickett’s farm, we moved straight along the fence line at a nice working trot. Before I could see my distraction, I heard him. His coarse voice grated my ears so badly that Tommy’s yelping would have soothed me. I wanted to bolt, not from fear, but to get some relief. The honking was not altogether unlike a horse, but not nearly as refined. It was not quite a neigh and definitely not a whinny. I wasn’t frightened, just annoyed.

Stu kept me trotting, again keeping the fence on my right, which I greatly appreciated. The beast, upon seeing me, acted quite as if we were long-lost brothers. He magnified his horrendous noise tenfold, alternately begging me to break him out of the fence and pleading with me to jump over the fence to live with him. He professed to be a lonely soul, certain that I had been sent by our Creator in answer to his prayers.

I did not laugh when I saw him, for I know well the feeling of being laughed at and would not wish that feeling on any fellow being. He stood on four disproportionately short legs with a barrel almost as wide as mine. He very nearly appeared to be a horse, but a most uncommonly exaggerated one. Besides his torturous voice, his astoundingly elongated ears were his most defining characteristic; they towered above his head straight up at attention. As I moved closer to him, I observed that his nose was nearly twice as long as my own. Indeed, I had to suppress my deep urge to laugh, for he was comical in every way.

As Stu had orchestrated this gathering, he introduced us formally.

“Chancey, my friend, meet Joey. This is Mrs. Pickett’s new donkey, also known as
Equus asinus.
Y’all are kinda cousins, I guess, since you’re both
Equus.
”

Joey seized upon the mention of a familial connection. He turned his ears rapidly to and fro, then rolled his eyes down to Tommy. He squeezed his oversize nose under the fence and said to the puppy, “Yes! Yes! We’re cousins, you and I. Yes, we are.”

Offended as I was at Stu’s ludicrous suggestion of a genetic resemblance between Joey and myself, I was even more offended that Joey would feel elation at being related to a beagle, when an Appaloosa stood right in front of his eyes. I did not flatten my ears, though I most certainly wanted to do so.

Tommy furiously wagged his tail in circles at the donkey, eager to be adopted. Taking no notice of me, Joey invited Tommy into the family. “Hello there, little wagger. Hey, I have a tail, too. Look at my tail; look at mine!” Joey flicked his tail around for Tommy to see. Tommy barked and yelped to encourage his new cousin,
Equus asinus.

I could take no more of their foolishness; I pinned my ears, showed the whites of my eyes, and whinnied sharply into the donkey’s ear. Joey looked up from sniffing Tommy.

“Are you my cousin, too?” Joey asked me.

I then set the matter straight. “
I’m
Chancey, not him. He’s not our cousin. He’s
Canis.
We’re
Equus.
” Joey practically threw himself over the fence toward me.

“Oh, cousin! Oh, Cousin Chancey! I’ve been waiting for you to come. Please, don’t ever leave again,” pleaded Joey.

I had learned by then that the longer I held my curiosity on any new object in our lesson, the longer Stu would require me to spend on that lesson. Eager to be far away from my new cousin Joey, I feigned boredom by dropping my head to graze and passing gas. This technique proved itself as Stu picked up my head and with a squeeze of legs we set off again.