Horses for Courses

When I was a young girl, the happiest times with my father almost always related to being around horses. He had a lifelong dream to own a good racehorse, one capable of winning in the city at least, but alas, it was not meant to be.

In any case, my father enjoyed enormously being around horses and people who understood horses. Earlier in his life, his work required the upkeep of his horse, and he was perfectly comfortable in being right beside a horse, or picking up a horse’s leg and checking its hoof. It was perfectly natural to him, whereas I never really had experiences that taught me how to manage a horse; only to admire them.

I distinctly remember one Sunday morning when my father took me with him to the stables. I remember it was a beautiful, sunny autumn morning and how good it felt to be there. This was an old world sort of place, and rumour had it that it was where Phar Lap was hidden for a time, when it became known that certain people wanted rid of him. It was all a wonder to me. As horse trainers are inclined to do, this trainer brought out a stunning black stallion to show off to my father. I remember marvelling at this stallion’s big, beautiful body, and his fiery, proud eyes. He was royalty and he knew it. As he stood there, being shown off, his cock became very erect, and grew bigger than I could possibly imagine a horse’s cock could grow. I must have looked a little too mesmerized by the sight for I also remember my father distracting me by sending me on an errand.

Many of our happiest hours together were spent travelling to, or being on a racecourse. We both loved to go and visit the horses in the stalls, to see them walk around before the race, and of course, to watch the race. I particularly loved it when the race was over and the winning horse would canter back to the saddling area again. I was, and remain, convinced that they knew they were winners, and they held their heads up high, with a confident stride.

Although I have no knowledge of what it feels like to gallop along with a horse beneath me, I can certainly believe that it is extraordinary. It is a wonder to me that a slender man or woman, weighing next to nothing can control a wild beast such as a champion racehorse. One of the highlights of a major spring carnival race day is to hear the winning jockey being interviewed by the clerk of the course, immediately after the race. The jockey’s adrenaline is still racing through his body and his elation really tickles my fancy, whether I’ve placed a bit on his mount or not. It will go along these lines:

“Matt, she really pulled out all the stops for you today.”

“Yeah, Roy, she’s a beauty of a little girl. She just never stops trying. She wanted to go early but I managed to settle her down there on the rails...you know, just talking to her...steady, girl, wait your turn...just relax here for a bit...and when I asked her for something special...well, Roy, you know, you saw her...no one was going to get past her...she’s a real little beauty...a champion...one of the best...she gave me a great ride...you know...I didn’t have to do much...she’s a champ!”

My husband is much more comfortable around horses than me. He knows them. He rode them all his childhood. Some of his favourite memories of time with his mother are when she took her children off to compete in horse shows on weekends. They never came home without a ribbon, he told me. One Saturday, their father took them to the show instead. Afterwards, they were excited to show their mother all the ribbons they had won and they covered her hospital bed in them. She smiled weakly. It was the last time they ever saw her for she died that night. Memories of horses run deep for both of us. Both parents have gone to God.

Nowadays, my husband will refer to me as, like a filly. Sometimes I am “fractious” and need “firm handling”. Sometimes I am itching to go out onto the meadow, but I’ll go there when he is ready and not before, he tells me. Sometimes, I jump the fence and then he has to open the gate for me and lead me back to the barn. I suggest to him that horses that have a need for freedom could be encouraged back to the barn with sugar. He says he is inclined to think that sometimes such horses need to know that they keep whips in the barn. I certainly don’t remember Robert Redford prescribing to such a theory in ‘The Horse Whisperer’. He just whispered encouragement in their ear, didn’t he? Truth to tell, my husband does a lot of that, too.

It’s true, I think, that whilst the rider or jockey must dominate the horse, to let it know who is running the show, the horse will only co-operate if it feels the connection with its rider; its master. Perhaps, like the submissive woman, the horse must believe that it is all about the ride; the ebb and flow of the dominant/submissive relationship. It must believe in the connection and the love of one being for another.