The Halloween Unicorn

It’s dark, I’m tired, Goose has had a week off. These factors combined with the event of him spooking at his own blanket on Monday are all adding up to be a recipe for disaster. Oh, and the chilly fall weather I love so much has finally reached South Carolina. It’s Halloween, I have a sugar headache, but I am determined not to give him another day off.

I get Goose from the field and manage not to be run over by the tank as he panics about the electric fence that isn’t even turned on. I put Goose on the crossties,  and decide not to bother brushing the wooly mammoth, choosing to just knock the clumped dirt off his girth area. Boots, saddle, bridle, check. Tall boots, gloves, whip, helmet. All in place.

There is a lesson going on in the covered arena and the dust lies thickly on the air. I look to the outdoor dressage arena. Only two lights work and the sandbox is bathed in shadows. Accepting my fate, I’m resigned to the fact that if his two brain cells aren’t sparking tonight, at least the footing looks soft and freshly dragged.

I hop on from the picnic table and double check my girth and helmet. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to keep a loose rein as I urge him towards the arena. His ears are pricked and his breath comes in short puffs, but he doesn’t balk any more than usual. We spook at a leaf. This is boding well.

We stop at the entrance to the arena and I just let him look, reminding myself to relax, shoulders back, heels down. Finally, after several minutes of standing stoically watching the woods and shadows, he takes a deep breath and drops his head, chewing at the bit. I release my own breath that I have been holding, ask him to walk off, and off we go.

Ears are pricked, body tense, but feet are moving. Nearing the scary end now. Inside bend, keep your reins loose, don’t make a big deal out of it. What was it that Dory said? Just keep swimming.

Made it one lap around at the walk, now one the other direction. Do we have steering? Yes. Bending? Another yes. Laterals? Good boy.

I gather my reins and ask him to come up and round. Across a diagonal, I ask him to step forward and then to stretch. He is alert and still nervous, but gradually relaxes as we settle into the rhythm of the walk through the crunchy leaves littering the dark side of the arena. I feel him start to spook and keep asking for that bend. We pick up a trot and he offers forward motion, stays on the bit and is waiting for direction. He gladly accepts my offer to let him stretch down, and he stays light and carries himself out and forward across the diagonal in a self-carriage that has me feeling like I’m floating. Where has my horse gone? The real one that doesn’t go forward? Back up in my hand, down the long side, serpentines now. Still light, light, light in my hands. Halt to stare at whatever just ran through the woods next to the arena. High alert at the acorns dropping onto the wooden stand, deep breath, big sigh, big pat on the neck, back to work.

Chant to myself, heels down, head up, heels down, head up. Finally, I relax. Dare I push it and ask for the canter? No turning back now, here we go. Bad transition, too inverted, too looky. Ignore the urge to get mad. Back to walk. Up to trot, and  now canter. Good boy. Forward is fine, that’s the right answer. Just. Don’t. Spook. Head is down, back is up, back to trot. No, Goose, trot not walk. Good boy. Across a diagonal, sit, ask, canter. I can smell that sweaty horse stench unique to only grey horses. He’s too furry and I don’t want him to get too hot. We’re almost done, back to trot, loosen reins to stretch. He goes low, low, lower, big circle, and walk.

He pays no mind now to the moving shadows and the breeze in the trees. He is relaxed, head low, ears pricked. Alert, but no longer feeling like his skin is crawling with the slightest movement beyond the arena lights. I breathe in the night chill, and am grateful for the relief from the incessant heat I’ve come to expect of the south. Cooled out, we walk back to the barn. My feet hit the ground as he throws his head down to rub on his leg, such a bad habit. He stands quietly now as I pull his saddle and boots, steam rising from the sweat along his back. He’s furry again, full on yak, and he will have to be clipped. I pull his bridle and watch the steam roll around his ears as he flings his head at me for scratches. His big dexterous lips reach for the cookies as I take them out of my pocket.

I stand quietly next to him in his field watching his vein throb in his neck. I love that he is grey and I can still see him perfectly, even in the darkness. The blasted fencing has scared him again, and I chuckle as he snorts in retort at the offending pop of the electric. His eyes wide and ears pricked, he still manages to beg for cookies. I know it’s a trick I trained him to do, but my heart melts a little as he kisses my cheek over and over in pursuit of the entire contents of my pocket. Tonight, as he so often does, he has exceeded my expectations. I hug him goodnight, thank him for being my horse, and beg him to make good choices. Tonight, he chose to be his best self, and for that I am grateful. We didn’t dress up this year, but he is my unicorn.