NEVER ABOUT RIDING, ALWAYS ABOUT THE HORSE PART 3

I knew I would never find another Fire Mountain, but if my horse life was meant to continue, then perhaps there was another horse out there that would be just right for me at this point in my life.

I expected it to take a while. I looked at a few different horses. Some were too old, some were too young, and some were too spirited for me. One was sweet, followed all his cues; another was a hardy trail horse. But both looked too much like Fire. Not as flaming red, but rust-colored with white stripes down their noses. Plus, I didn’t feel that tug at my heart—though of course my heart was deeply wounded. I assumed it was too soon.

Then one day I drove down to Norco, a “horse community” in Southern California, to check out an American Quarter Horse I’d found on dreamhorse.com. His name was Jack, short for Boston Macs Blackjack. At nine years old, he was neither too young nor too old. He’d been owned by the same couple since he was two, but the husband wanted a bigger, faster horse for mounted shooting events, and the wife wasn’t riding anymore. They’d only sell Jack if the right person came along. Once they heard how devoted I’d been to my beloved Fire Mountain, they felt good about a possible sale.

Though technically an American Paint Horse (his dam was a black and white tobiano),  Jack was all black—jet black—except for a white star on his forehead and a white snip on his muzzle, shaped like an upside-down horseshoe. He didn’t look anything like Fire—and that was important to me. There was only one Fire Mountain.  

I drove down to Norco four different times to visit and “test drive,” though mostly to get an overall feel for our connection. I think it was the second time that I haltered and walked Jack that our eyes met—and I felt that heart-tug. The last visit included a thorough vet check. For over an hour, I held Jack on a lead line as he was examined. He didn’t fidget, or snap, or push, or complain, but patiently endured being touched from head to tail and having his legs stretched and his hooves inspected. At one point, I had to run him back and forth as he trotted by my side, while the vet scrutinized his every movement.

Throughout the whole exam, Jack calmly watched me as I stroked his neck and repeatedly told him what a good boy he was.

I couldn’t wait to take him home.

And So We Began

The next week, the owners trailered Jack to El Camino Ranch, and together, we led him to his new stall in a completely different aisle than where Fire had been. The wife wept but said she knew he was in good hands. When they left, I could see that Jack was confused and stressed. He had no idea what was happening. New surroundings, new smells, new herd, and a new owner. Jack was losing the only owners he’d ever known since he was two.

That’s when I realized that Jack and I were at the exact same point in our lives—coping with loss and learning to love again. For a while he’d be my new, second horse and I’d be his new, second mom. But in time, we’d get there.  

At first, Jack was anxious. He fidgeted in crossties, spooked at stacks of shavings or the wind in the orange trees, and when taken to a turnout, he would call out repeatedly. I drove down the mountain every other day to work with him, hoping repetition would ease his tension. Gradually, Jack settled in at El Camino. He bonded with his stall mates, adjusted to the new surroundings, won the hearts and extra attention of ranch hands Gregorio and Antonio, who had been devoted to Fire, and despite his previous owner’s warning that Jack tended to be claustrophobic, he became quite at ease in the enclosed bull pen that Fire had loved. Maybe Fire’s spirit was there, comforting us both. Everyone at the ranch said I picked a great horse.

For a few months, everything was moving along smoothly. Jack and I even started working with a trainer once a week. We discovered Jack was not as solid as he’d seemed down in Norco. He still had a lot to learn about cues and transitions, but then so did I. Jack had a fast and rocky lope that the trainer wanted to slow down, if possible. He needed work, but, financially, I could only afford minimal help. After purchasing a used saddle, bridle, and all necessary tack, the cost of boarding, horse supplies, and vet bills pretty much tapped my available monthly funds. I could not afford separate training for Jack and could barely pay for weekly riding lessons for myself. We’d do the best we could, one week at a time.

As with Fire, my happiest moments were when my feet were on the ground, not in the stirrups. Jack would always greet me with his head lowered and his nose pressed up against my chest—our foreheads touching. I loved grooming him, walking by hand, and just hanging out. Riding would occasionally be enjoyable, but the truth was, I’d often find myself looking at the big clock in the arena to see if it had been at least twenty minutes of exercise. As winter set in, my riding time decreased tremendously, either due to dangerous mountain roads, thick with fog and slick with ice, or, if I made it to the ranch, I’d find a muddy arena.

To make matters worse, my trainer left, and shortly after that, the ranch asked all trainers to leave as they were downsizing to focus solely on breeding Arabians. While I could continue to board there, I had no one to help me with Jack. I was entirely on my own.

 Time to Say Goodbye?

Then my personal life took a dramatic turn that greatly affected Jack and me. My father, who lived three thousand miles away, became very ill. End stage pulmonary fibrosis. Most likely this would be my last year with him. I began flying back east frequently to spend a few weeks at a time. Christmas, his birthday in April, and then a serious hospitalization in June that ended with him needing specialized care in an assisted living facility. I remained with my dad a few weeks longer to help him with this heartbreaking transition.

As my trips to see my dad grew longer and more frequent, I saw Jack less and less. There was no one to take my place. No one dependable to check on Jack daily or to exercise him. He’d be fed and his stall cleaned, but that was it. I tried out a few different people who had horses at the ranch, but Jack always seemed off when I returned. In fact after the longer June visit, when I finally came back, Jack refused to let me mount him. Was he injured or was he angry? I had him examined by a vet and even treated by a chiropractor. Eventually, we began to ride again, but it was strained on both our parts.

Would Jack be better off with someone who could put him in training and see him regularly? Was it time for me to give up horses? The financial cost and the physical and emotional strain were taking their toll on me.

That summer I began to question my next move: find another stable or find Jack a new home. But first, I called his previous owners—perhaps they regretted giving him up.

As it turned out, they couldn’t take Jack back, but they did offer a suggestion that ultimately stood out as the best solution—an equine therapy facility in Norco where Jack would be lovingly cared for as a therapy horse for children with special needs. The wife volunteered there and felt that Jack could be a good fit. I visited the beautiful facility and felt in my heart it was a good place for Jack. The best part was I could visit him whenever I wanted, but the worst was he’d no longer be my horse.

As difficult as it was, I did sign the papers and felt enormous relief.  One less worry on my mind.  I could focus entirely on my dad.

I will never forget the morning I drove down the mountain to the ranch to pack up Jack’s belongings and see him off. I felt such conflicting emotions. I kept telling myself that it was the best place for Jack. And it was. No more sitting in a stall waiting for my infrequent visits.  He’d be groomed, walked, turned-out daily, and worked with as he went through their training program. New tasks to learn. New faces to see. An interesting, yet gentle life. The perfect solution. Yes, this was the right path. But oh, my heart felt heavy. How I’d miss kissing that curved white snip on his muzzle. 

It was a gorgeous Saturday morning as I drove down the mountain. No worry that day of dense fog or rock slides as my car twisted and turned down the fourteen-mile road. No traffic on the freeway as I headed east toward the stable. I’d had a restless night, feeling panicked and uncertain. But today was the day. The trailer was on its way.

As I pulled in, there were only a few cars in the parking lot. With the ranch downsizing, there were very few of us boarders left, and, fortunately, no one I knew was there. I wanted to be alone with Jack—and my pounding heart.

I heard a low nicker as I turned the corner. Jack may have heard my car or my footsteps and was anxiously awaiting the carrots that I always had in hand to say hello, along with the snip kiss. I talked to him tenderly, explaining the plan and why, reassuring him I’d visit often.

Waiting in cross ties that morning. 2011

I led him to the cross ties, remembering how he’d fought them our first week together. We’d gotten beyond that challenge and many more in our ten months together. I choked up as I began to groom his shiny black coat. I kept telling myself that he’d be in a much better place, that he’d be comforted by the familiar face of his original owner, who would see him once a week when she volunteered.

The trailer arrived to take Jack back to Norco. Slowly, I walked him over, handed the lead rope to the woman who would load him, and stepped back.

The next forty-five minutes were a nightmare.

Jack refused to get in the trailer. He bucked, reared, and stood his ground as they tried everything: circling, resting, walking and returning, putting me inside the trailer with carrots, sending me out of sight, and, finally, they tried sedating him. Even groggy, Jack wouldn’t budge. He was stressed and I was sobbing. At the end of this ordeal, it was decided to try another day. Maybe an evening when it was quieter and cooler.

I had no trouble leading Jack back to his stall. Exhausted, we stood with foreheads pressed together. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I kept saying, between sobs.

Once home, I was full of regret. Did I really want to give him up? I had already signed him over to the therapy organization. Technically, Jack was no longer mine. That evening I wrote a long email to the woman in charge, asking if I could help train him and still be a part of his life.

The next morning she called me to say she was tearing up the papers. I should keep him. She apologized, saying she feared he’d be a “project horse,” that his previous owner had admitted there were “trailer issues,” which made me wonder how they had succeeded in getting him to me. But the truth was, no apology was needed. I was overcome with relief and joy. Jack was still mine—white snip and all. Perhaps we were meant to be together.

I like to think that Jack didn’t want to leave me just as much as I didn’t want to lose him—that Jack knew a good thing when he saw it. The truth is I have since found that Jack does not like trailers—especially under stress and duress, like fire evacuations, which we’ve experienced twice. A few years ago, Jack was the last horse evacuated at our current facility as fire approached our ranch, thick with smoke. Again, he refused to load even in the hands of experienced mounted police officers who were helping us. Apparently, Jack was finally “cowboyed” in by a tiny but feisty woman, while I was out of his line of sight behind a shed—praying. My equine vet wonders if Jack had a traumatic trailer experience in the past. He has scars on the front of his rear hooves that might be the result of such an accident. Whatever the reason, Jack is clearly not a fan of trailers.

And then, this happened. After I hung up the phone with the woman who tore up Jack’s papers, I started making calls to other stables and trainers—including the trainer we had initially worked with those first months. She immediately offered to bring Jack to her house where she and her mother worked with a few horses on their small property. They’d make room for him. When I told her about Jack’s refusal to load, she scoffed. “Not a problem.” The next evening, while I was home on the mountain, she and her mother got Jack in their trailer in less than ten minutes. How and why and What the hell?—I never knew. Perhaps Jack did know a good thing when he saw it.

We have since worked with Jack on trailering, and he has hopped in, though reluctantly. But those were on calm, clear days, free of chaos, smoke, or helicopters flying overhead.

Yet that fateful morning that I almost gave him away, it was a calm, clear day as well. And Jack wouldn’t budge. Whatever the underlying reason, I am thankful that he did not cooperate that day. Jack determined our future together, and for that I am forever grateful.

Always about the Horse

Our journey forward since then has not always been smooth. There were more moves, which I’ll talk about in Part 4 when I introduce Luke, and a couple more difficult trailer experiences as well. Besides two fire evacuations, we survived an accident when Jack spooked while I was walking him by hand. Startled by something behind him, he whirled around, knocking me down and stepping on my left leg. As I waited for help—with a broken arm and crushed calf—Jack stood by my side. After a few months, I recovered completely, left with only occasional twinges in my calf—and a smidge of PTSD whenever I walk him.

In 2019, Jack experienced a hip injury in his stall doing who knows what. Bucking against a stall wall? Tripping over a feed bucket and taking a fall? We never knew what or why. But one morning, he was standing cockeyed with his rear leg sticking out to the side. Dislocated hip, ligament strain or tear? To trailer him to a hospital would only lead to further injury. Best treatment was stall rest “for however long it takes” and anti-inflammatory medication. (Stall rest means keeping him in his 24′ x 24′  stall, still plenty of room to move about but no walks around the ranch or turnouts.)  

It took close to six months before he finally healed. Those months, I visited him twice a day, every day, to give him medication, sit in his stall, talk, play music, or sometimes read to him. His soft dark eyes would watch me closely until he dozed off. It was such a relief when he finally healed and I was able to turn him out and watch him run and buck and roll.

But in January 2021, Jack had a relapse. Once again, I came to the ranch to find him standing cockeyed. We returned to the previous treatment. Stall rest and anti-inflammatory meds. But this time he kept dragging his rear leg and wearing down his hoof—a death sentence, for certain. Without strong legs and healthy hooves, horses cannot bear their weight. Even one worn away hoof could lead to serious complications. We made the decision to sedate him and try putting horse shoes on all four hooves. If he didn’t end up pulling the rear shoe off as he dragged his leg, the hope was it would protect the hoof, let it grow back, and provide more stability. Not only was it successful, but Jack healed quickly—in three months that time.

Then, once again, this January 2023, a third relapse: he was leaning to the right, left rear leg extended. So I put him back on stall rest and meds. Unfortunately, the next few months brought heavy rain. Though Jack’s stall was partly covered and dry, he was still walking in the half that was thick with mud and occasionally dragging his leg. Moving him to a barn wasn’t an option–he’s claustrophobic and would go berserk closed in and could further injure himself.  So with the help of the guys at the ranch, I dug trenches to drain water as much as possible and bow raked the ground twice a day. It was a long winter and spring, but Jack made it through. While he’s still lame, he’s able to lie down, get up, walk about in his stall, and live a fairly comfortable life. In fact, he’s quite content.

Never about Riding

Because Jack and I have been through a lot, our bond has gotten even stronger. We’ve been together now longer than I was with Fire. We no longer ride, not just because of his injured hip, but because as I’ve mentioned before—it’s never been about riding for me, but always about my relationship with the horse. We used to ride around the property or in the arena, like I did with Fire, but I never enjoyed it—and neither did Jack. That’s why his owners sold him. After fifteen minutes, he was done. We tried trail riding a bit when we lived in the mountains years ago, but he was nervous and I was not an experienced enough rider to calm his anxieties—or mine. After all, there were black bears, rattlesnakes, and mountain lions to fear.

So instead, we worked on a few tricks at liberty in our small arena. Jack would follow me without a lead rope, stop when I stopped, back up as I stepped backwards, then follow again, keeping always at my shoulder. We did our own little routine that ended with him bowing his head and then, the best part of all—he’d give me a kiss.

Now, every day, after I spend the morning with him, Jack sends me off with that kiss. Guess you could say, I’ve sure been lucky at Blackjack.

Next: Part 4

Luke: A Father’s Last Gift