Perfect Riding In Dreams Only | A Horse Story

By: Gayle Carline

As my horse pulled and thrashed in a wild attempt to get away from the fence where she was trapped, I thought, “I’m not ready to own a horse!” I had tied her to a sturdy metal post in order to wash her at a makeshift washrack. My trainer had warned me about tying her too close to anything, as she is a skittish young filly and could get frightened. In my desire to follow instructions, I had tied her loosely… too loosely. While I was wrestling with the hose and shampoo, Frostie had looked down at the ground to see if there was any grass she could eat, then lifted her head to look at a passing horse. Unfortunately, she came up on the wrong side of her lead rope, trapping her head against the fence. I had tied the lead rope in a series of slip knots that would have been easy to pull out IF the end of the rope hadn’t tucked itself inside one of the knots. When Frostie pulled back, the entire lead rope collapsed into one tangled ball. In one brief instant, Frostie was in a panic and I was clueless and alone.

I was forty-six years old and had never owned a horse. As a girl, I was obsessed with horses and knew all of the breeds, all of the colors, all of the body parts. My mother did not want me around them, however. I think part of the reason was that she worried about my physical safety, but mostly it was because she didn’t understand why I wanted to be involved with horses when she did not. So for eighteen years I was kept away from horses, until, like bitter grapes, I learned not to want them.

Sometimes horses would appear in my dreams, beckoning to me to go for a ride. Even in my dreams, though, I couldn’t ride them. My conscious mind told me that I didn’t know how, overruling my dream state that said I was free to do anything I chose. My dream and reality selves would fight until at last reality won and I would find myself on a stick horse, galloping about like I did as a child.

When I bought Frostie as a 3-year old, I had been riding for about a year and a half. My trainer seemed to think that we would be a good match. I was fearful of the responsibility, but my desire to own the little chestnut Quarter horse burned white-hot in my heart. I leased her for awhile, I think in an attempt to convince myself that I didn’t want her. The owner finally gave me an ultimatum: either buy her or she would try to sell her at the next show. When I told my husband, he handed me a check the next day. She was mine.

So there we were, at a horse show in Huntington Beach, California; Frostie bouncing off of the fence in a frenzy and me with my heart fluttering in my throat. When she first got caught, I reached up quickly to try to help her, but my movements frightened her even more. Stepping back (and muttering “oh god oh god oh god”), I decided that one of us needed to calm down, and that maybe it should be me. Breathing deeply, I relaxed my body and just kept looking at Frostie. Her large brown eyes were opened wide enough for me to see the whites as she looked back at me. I began to whisper, “it’s okay… it’s okay.”

After a few seconds, her expression started to change as she continued to stare at me. Her body softened. Her eyes got smaller and gentler. Finally she stood quietly, still looking right at me. Slowly, without taking my gaze from hers, I reached up around her head and pulled the lead rope over, freeing her. She immediately relaxed and put her head against my chest. Untangling the lead rope, I stroked her neck and told her what a good girl she was. We finished her bath, then I led her back to her stall. Standing in the doorway, watching her eat, I wondered at the communication between us. Had I really somehow convinced her that I would save her from her predicament? Or was it just some animal instinct or exhaustion that made her stop struggling long enough for me to extricate her?

It’s been two and a half years now, and I’ve decided that she and I do communicate. I can tell by the way she puts her muzzle up to my mouth for a kiss when I greet her, and the way her eyes crinkle with worry when I discipline her. When I ride her, I can tell when she’s in a good mood, or when she’s angry, or frightened, or playful. Sometimes I catch her wanting to be mischievious and, as I correct her, her head drops in a way that says, “Dang! You caught me!” Sometimes we fight, but we always make up. One day, I was putting her back in her stall after a particularly awful lesson; I could tell I was making her angry and frustrated with my bad riding. As I took off the halter, I told her, “I know I’m not the best rider you’ve ever had, but I’m the one who loves you the most. Please be patient.” As if in answer, she laid her head against my chest.

And perhaps best of all, when she visits me in my dreams, I know how to ride. So I do.