I've noticed time has a tendency to recycle people, take us for a loop and spit us out in somewhere in our past or send us through a maze of half familiar faces or events. Time can choose to make old triumphs glimmer again but it can also cause old scars to ache and fester.
Twilight has not broken her halter in ages, she has not pulled away from a tie or panicked. I hoped we had moved past it, the fear, the distrust.
But all it took was a small incident, the slip of a water bottle between my fingers to send her panicking. We were by the trailer, I had her loosely tied but she reacted lightening fast, I didn't have time to think let pull the quick release knot loose.
So Twilight snapped her head stall for the third time. I should be vexed simply because its an awful habit for a horse to have, but the halter was a gift from Margrith and Rosie for Christmas. Its made of a dark royal brown leather with a small elegant plate on the side strap that says Wild Black Lassie. Margrith picked those three words right out of my own mouth, and I didn't even know what she was using them for. She asked me one day if I could describe Twilight in three words what they would be and I said wild because of her tendency to be unpredictable and nutty. Black because of her coat color. And Lassie for two reasons;
1) because of Twilight's pedigree (she is a quarter shire)
2) I had a small part in a play at school which required a brogue accent which I would practice at random at the barn, and when ever I slipped into my Scottish warbling I would start referring to Twilight as Lassie.
So there is a lot of sentimentality in this halter.
Twilight broke it in a mere second, lunging backwards dropping onto her haunches with a loud bang as she was freed. She lurched to her feet, turned and ran. I stood perfectly still, my mind whirling to catch up. Mechanically I grabbed the rope halter I had purchased for instances like these and jogged after her.
I went passed David a man who has always reminded me of a lumber jack since I first met him in a plaid shirt with a thick brown beard and mustache. Of course the image doesn't quite fit since his voice is not deep and gruff but crisp and tenor.
"I don't want to know what you've done now... your horse is over going all out on the hay" he said, "but your hair looks great."
David always referred to Margrith and I as sisters or trouble. . .pretty much the same thing.
I found Twilight munching happily and I approached her slowly talking and slipped the halter over her head and walked her back to the trailer. I could feel tears burning behind my eyes, at least ten people had watch our little spectacle.
I could hear a voice in the back of my head this is one of those times I just want to quit. Get in the car and drive away and never look back. Aren't I suppose to be getting better at all this horse business?
Why do I do this anyway?
I've been reading a book by Pat Parelli called Natural Horse Man Ship and while Twilight and I were walking I remembered something I read.
"People get into horses because they have a dream. The dream starts off with them and their horses riding off into the sunset harmoniously. Then they get involved with horses and something happens. Eighty percent of people who get into horses get out in the first year. I estimate that 80 percent of the remaining 20 percent get out in the next 5. They do so for the six (only 5 actually) F's: Fear, Frustration, Feeling like a Failure, lack of Fun, and lack of Funds."
Now was I honestly thinking of getting out of horses at that moment? No, I was feeling the middle three F's. But hey I still saddled up my horse and went for a ride with David in the in door arena. Twilight and I may of had a rocky start that day, but hey by the end we'd had a great ride.
I worked on my cues with Twilight, signaling with only my legs and got to the point when the reins were slack on her neck, swinging as she trotted in circles at my direction. We even rode with only the halter and lead rope for a while. It was quite enjoyable. So time gave me a little reminder. It could shove the past back in my face, show me that my work with my horse was not always perfect, but that we have come a long ways.
I took the halter to a little leather shoe repair shop down town. The man who owns it is very old fashion, with large glasses and a dusty brown comb over, but he is very nice, calls me Miss Nelson. I brought the halter in and he immediately recognized me. "What kind of a beast are you riding?" he asked exasperatedly, "I've already fixed that halter for you."
"Twice" I added because I'm a masochist.
He had to create an entirely new head stall for me, and he took no chances on this one, three layers of leather, black on the bottom, reinforced shoe leather in the middle and a leather strap on the top to match the color of the rest of the halter.
As I went to leave another teenager walked in dripping with silver pierces, tattoos and sporting a spiked dog collar.
"Miss Nelson what would happen if you tried to bring him home?" the shoe man asked.
The shoe man chuckled, "Have a good day Miss Nelson, hopefully I won't see you again to soon."
Hopefully he won't, but time might have other ideas.
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