Little Horse of Iron by Lawrence Scanlan

Author:Lawrence Scanlan [Scanlan, Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-36421-0
Publisher: Random House of Canada
Published: 2002-10-22T00:00:00+00:00

Dali on his last day at Blue Haven.

CHAPTER 12

“HE’S SO QUIET …”

LAKEHEAD STABLES, OCTOBER, 1999

A bruise the size of my hand and the colour of a ripe plum has formed above my buttocks.

A companion bruise, bigger but fainter, has formed on my right buttock. It’s all quite arresting, and I find myself at bedtime nude and twisted around before my dresser mirror to monitor the strange, almost autumnal progression of the colours.

September 21, 1999

IT IS STILL EARLY DAYS with Dark Fox Dali, and no shortage of issues to be resolved. The business of the feet loomed large for a time, as did mounting. It seems, in retrospect, that Kathi and Gilles were both right. There were matters of respect and trust to be resolved.

Today, as I twice readjust his girth, he curls around to see what I am up to. I gently but firmly use my hand to suggest he best look to the front. I also, as Gilles suggested, lower the left stirrup by three notches. This proves a great help in mounting, for I am a stiff old bird trying to get up without using a mounting block. Since I no longer strain to get that left foot up into the stirrup, my right foot has spring as I launch into the saddle. Once up, I readjust the stirrup.

I also heeded Kathi’s advice. Yesterday I shortened the lesson and afterwards hand-grazed Dali for about five minutes. Alongside the outdoor ring is a right-of-way where the grass grows thick. Dali tore into it like a child surprised with ice cream on a hot summer day.

Today, perhaps, pays a few dividends from such gestures. I give Dali more rein, and he responds in kind. This late September day, the canter comes, despite complaints, ears back. But at lesson’s end I have a relaxed, contented horse, one perhaps anticipating a walk in the grass.

September 22, 1999

The phrases “killing with kindness” and “We are the authors of our own destruction” come to mind. Today, I tighten the girth only to the fifth hole. It seems secure, though I had it at six yesterday. This is my first mistake. I also forget to secure the throat latch on Dali’s bridle. And while I do shortly notice the latter, dismount and attend to it, the girth almost comes back to haunt me.

I noticed the saddle loose and sliding left early in the lesson, but out of laziness and a worry that a third mounting would disinter that troublesome business, I let it go. I simply shifted my weight to centre the saddle. Barb was issuing orders in the middle of the ring—“Come down the centre in a trot, turn right, then canter all the way around”—when the saddle began to lurch dangerously to the left. I was leaning over Dali’s neck, saying “whoa” in a pleading, mewling sort of way.

Early in the lesson, he had scooted several times in one corner, almost unseating me. Pride bade me act as though it were nothing. But when Dali began to scoot as the saddle slipped, I thought we were in trouble.

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