One recent otherwise unremarkable evening, I received a phone call bearing unexpected and unwelcome news.
The unanticipated conversation not only jolted the day’s blissful routine enhanced by the post-ride high, but also captured permanent real estate in the selective gallery of life-long memories.
Absurdly cliché-like, the glass jar I had been holding slipped out of my hand, violently colliding with the marble floor, so shocking was the revelation. The splattered contents released the pungent odor of ginger, camphor and eucalyptus, a distinctive scent which I will forever associate with the pivotal moment.
I have yet to replace the bottle of muscle-soothing balm necessitated by a mishap associated with a previous short-lived and ill-fated lease.
On the other end of the line was the owner of the horse I have been successfully leasing for the last year. He is moving, he said, and his horse is coming too.
I should have been suspicious, or at least guarded, when he rang.
Our standard communication is a seamless exchange of messaging with updates about tack, grooming, health concerns, scheduling and riding. Almost anything that needed to be said was always messaged uneventfully, with no need for a call.
But out of either naiveté or stubborn optimism, I answered with curiosity, not alarm.
Since that moment, I’ve forced myself to quickly adapt to the idea that Quanty, my dependable and extremely lovable equine partner, will be gone before the month is up.
With forced grit, I resolutely reasoned that “my” beloved young horse is uninjured and perfectly well. He is simply moving to another good stable, a bit too far away for comfortable commuting. He will remain under the attentive care of his loving owner and will no doubt continue to succeed in their show jumping together. I can visit, and maybe even ride, at times.
All true, but it’s still a blow. A breakup not of my choosing.
I will deeply miss his eager greetings, his unfailing good nature, the post-ride slobbering all over my sweaty neck, his silly games knocking over everything within reach and his stoic nonchalance in face of every possible provocation. During several rides, a crop plane swooped directly overhead, scaring the daylights out of me, but my unflappable horse remained completely unimpressed. (Virtually the only times he ever spooked was in the proximity of a certain abnormally belligerent gray mare. His fear of her is entirely warranted.)
Despite all that I stood to lose, I quickly resolved not to wallow in self-pity, but to enjoy and maximize our remaining time together. Like after any other riding fall – including the painful ones – I promptly got up, brushed myself off, and got right back on again.
When the scheduling allowed for it, I squeezed in extra rides. I shelved a trail ride in favor of more ring time with the aim of advancing as far as possible before my one-ton Belgian warmblood friend moves on to new pastures.
It slowly dawned on me that – as with any riding setback – the unwanted breakup is the precursor to breakthrough: you emerge a better rider from the struggle.
“While my previous (and first) lease was brief and did not end well, it brought me to this family-run barn where I was fortunate enough to land this perfect arrangement with a wonderful horse, agreeable owner and good trainer,” I reasoned with myself. “Why wouldn’t this immeasurably more positive lease lead to another terrific experience?”
To that end, I started putting out feelers to line up the next promising lease. Nothing solid has materialized yet, but the networking has opened exciting new doors for me in the local horse scene.
The other day I was fascinated to learn that my instinct to make the most out of the end of our time together was vindicated by psychology research.
In his book Psych: The Story of the Human Mind, Professor Paul Bloom noted that the quality of the end of a particular experience has a disproportionate impact on how we later remember the whole experience. “The length of an experience has little effect on how we remember it,” he explained. On the other hand, the character of its final moments has a lasting impact. “Endings matter,” he said plainly.
That they do.
Following one of our last rides, I went to collect Quanty for his shower after releasing him to unwind in the ring. To my delight, I found him happily munching away with a bird compatibly perched on his back. The duo coexisted contentedly together for a good several minutes before Quanty eventually shifted position, and his new feathered friend flitted away.
The sweet parting snapshot of friendship joined the stockpile of life-long memories, the welcome addition an everlasting and soothing balm for the aching heart.
Amy Miller uses a pen name to write about her adventures returning to riding following a hiatus of more than two decades. Read more from Amy Miller here.
