By: Melinda Maloney

My lip trembled and I started to sweat on that fateful morning. I heard the nine horrible words, but their meaning was only registering in a very distant part of my brain.
“Melinda, Trigger’s going to have to be put down,” my trainer said with a sad look in her eyes. Somewhere, something in my mind clicked. The most accurate description of the pain was that for the rest of the day I felt like someone had ripped out my heart and crushed it beneath their feet. Worst of all, I didn’t feel comfortable telling anyone about my feelings.

So, I floated through my last classes. All I remember of that day was one of my friends saying “You look upset, Mel,” and hearing myself reply numbly, “My horse is dying.”
After school, I climbed into the passenger seat of mom’s car and pressed my face into the seat. The seven minutes to the barn were hell. On the way there I tried to pull myself together but couldn’t. This is my last afternoon with the horse who I was riding when I won my first blue ribbon, and who took me to my first combined training. There will be no more blue ribbons for me and him.

I won’t hear “1st place goes to Melinda Maloney on True Grit” ever again I thought woefully. I remember that summer I cleaned stalls . . . every time I walked by his stall he whinnied and that made all the hard work seem worth it.
Soon we arrived at the farm. I ran down the lane to the barn, ignoring the “Don’t run around horses unless you’re on fire” rule. My gait slowed to a walk as I entered the barn. Gripping my hand on the stall door handle, I pulled it open. As I gazed up at Trigger, my eyes became a blood of tears. I reached out my arms and hugged him – or came as close to hugging him as I could (I was only 5 feet tall and the time and Trig was 16.2 hands high!). My mom stood quietly at the other side of the barn while I pressed my face into Trigger’s soft, bay coat and wet it with my tears.

I had come prepared to make his last moments good. Out of my pocket I pulled a bag of Cinnamon Life cereal, which was Trigger’s favorite food, and fed them to him piece by piece. I guess I thought if I fed him slowly enough, I’d never have to leave. Unfortunately. I found out that’s not how life works, and eventually it was time to go home.
I could still taste my salty tears as I gave Trigger a final hug and kiss and walked out to the car. I glanced back to the barn once and I remember so clearly whispering, “Goodbye Trig.

I love you and I’ll see you again someday.” After saying those final words I strode to the car.
The next days and even weeks were painful. People would ask, “How’s Trigger doing?” Biting my lip and turning my face away so they wouldn’t see the pained look on my face, I would have to reply, “He had to be put down.” Trig’s death was my first experience with true grief.
My trainer wouldn’t let me mourn too long though. I’m thankful for that, because if I could have, I probably would have stayed locked in my room for a year! Although I was still hurting, my wound wasn’t an open gaping one anymore. It was healing. It was time to search for a new horse. My trainer wanted me to get a pony.

Because of my wonderful experience with Trigger, I was drawn to big horses, but because I was only around five feet tall, I agreed to look for a pony. We were looking for a young, green one for me to train and show for two or three years and then sell. The age desired age range was between four and six, although I did look at a three year old.
After a few months of searching and traveling as far south as Virginia (my home is Pennsylvania) we finally found a pony. I rode him once and had a great time. A week later we returned to his farm with a trailer and brought him home.
With Duke (my new pony), I learned very quickly what having a green pony was all about. I couldn’t wallow in self-pity with him those first few months; he’d take advantage of me right away. And I always had to RIDE him.

I couldn’t (and still can’t) just sit there. My trainer, my mother and I all agree that he pulled me out of morning.
Duke is everything you would expect a 6 year old greener than grass pony to be. He’ll act like a “point and go” or “made” pony one day, and like a hot 3 year old the next. Duke has multiple personalities and is almost too intelligent for his own good. No matter how mad I get at him, I take a look at the lightening bolt blaze in his bright chestnut face, and his comically tilted ears, and I forgive him.

It’s hard not to – he’s the most talented horse I’ve ever ridden! If I’m in a bad mood at the barn, Duke seems to know it, and makes me laugh with a cautious nibble on my shirt.
I’ve only had him for a year and Duke has already taught me more about riding than any other horse. I’ve learned to deal with spooking, bucking, refusing, rearing, spinning and more. But I’ve also learned the joy of galloping over a stadium course with ease when no one else thought we could do it. Yes, these lessons are all important (especially the last one), but the most important thing I’ve learned from Duke is a simple one. I’ve learned that even through the rain, there can be light. Trigger’s death was my rain. Duke is my light.