By BREANNE PALMERINI
The Skittles bag crinkled in my coat pocket as I reached in to fish out a small handful of the candies. The sound usually provoked an enthusiastic reaction from the fellow on the other side of the door. But not today.
I slid the stall door open, the same way I had a thousand times before, normally greeted with an excited whicker or chuff. But not today.
He was standing in the back corner of the stall. His eyes half closed and his head down. He lifted his gray head when I stepped in. There was a flash of recognition in his liquid brown eyes as he slowly walked over and gently pushed his head into my chest. On a regular visit, I would grab my tack and we would go out for a ride together, whatever the weather. But not today.
For as long as I can remember, horses have stirred something in my soul. There’s a club; you’ll know if you’re in it. Horse people. You probably remember that girl in school who couldn’t stop talking about horses, every project was about horses, you might even still think of her today when you see a horse, though you haven’t talked for years. Horses are strange like that. Something about them captures the imagination in a way I can only scratch the surface to describe. Horse people will say it’s something we are born with, something in our blood. When it starts, it doesn’t matter your socio-economic background. Horses don’t care where you came from—if you’re in the club, you’re in.
When I was young, my family didn’t understand it. I was born in Jersey City and I had never even seen a horse. Horses are expensive! Nevertheless, I carried around horse books and My Little Ponies wherever I went. My kindergarten teacher asked about our family farm to my mother’s bewilderment. I used to have a stable of fake horses, pictures cut from magazines hung on my walls, fake documents indicating their breed registry and names, carefully stuffed in my sock drawer. I would spend my days running like a horse, jumping like a horse, neighing like a horse. I ended up excelling in high school track at the 300-meter hurdles thanks to all of that practice.
When I finally was able to take riding lessons at the young age of seven, I remember feeling like I had been waiting a lifetime, but horses are expensive, of course. The yearning to feel four legs underneath me and share that power with another being was so strong, I can still remember it clearly more than 30 years later. That bittersweet longing. Even after that first riding lesson, I knew it was never going to be enough. Just riding wasn’t enough, now I had to master the skill, to be the best. I needed my own horse, a partner to share my soul with, to whisper in his ear like in the movies, and ride o into the sunset with. It was like having an unquenchable thirst, while living in the desert. Horses are expensive.
That price is one you will pay and pay if you’re a member of the club. It is isn’t just calculated in dollar signs. The thing you strive for will always just be a little out of reach and there will be pain.
I remember the first time I was really hurt riding. I was in 3rd grade on a lesson horse at an English riding barn, learning how to jump. I remember aiming the school horse named Traveler at a small cross rail and the next thing I knew, paramedics were strapping me to a stretcher while my arm was screaming in pain and bent in a place it shouldn’t bend. Suddenly, my future included emergency surgery, a multi-night hospital stay and a long road of physical therapy. The doctor told my family my left elbow might never be the same again, and I might have limited usage depending on my physical therapy. I remember people said, “Oh what a shame. She loved horses so much.”
I remember asking how long it would be before I could ride again. I went back. I got hurt over and over through the years. I paid the price with physical pain, from broken bones, more hospital stays, chipped teeth, to a multitude of bruises. Then the emotional pain: I lost a horse I rode to colic, I lost a horse I rode due to lack of nances, I lost opportunities to ride because I didn’t have the means. Horses will break your heart and your body, but that crazy bunch of us will just keep coming back.
Now, standing here, looking at this horse, standing in this stall, this was the horse at the end of that road of heartbreak. This was the horse I dreamed about as a kid, to ride off into the sunset with. This was the horse I had worked my way up the career ladder to afford. I offered him a handful of fruity candy, which would normally be greedily devoured, but instead he politely opened his mouth, in what seemed like habit, lipped the candies and they mostly fell onto the ground, into the shavings of the stall bedding.
“Hey, handsome prince,” I breathed into his neck. The tears starting to prick my eyes. We had about one hour. The pain I was feeling should have been familiar, but it was so hot and tight and I couldn’t get my thoughts around it as it caught in my mind and my throat. I buckled the halter around his head and he appeared to perk up at the prospect of going on an outing.
Robby raced 14 times, a Texas-bred Thoroughbred. He won one race at Lone Star Downs, with the victory circle photo to prove it. I came into his life when his racing career was over. I answered an online ad and made the drive to Texas. When I met him, on a beautiful sunny March day years earlier, he was waiting alone in a small round pen at the end of a long gravel drive.
I stepped out of my car and I saw him and I finally believed in love at first sight. There he was. Yes, it does exist. For a girl and her horse.
We worked and trained on a daily basis. I transformed Robby from a racehorse into a sport horse. The kind people pay big bucks for. It took years of practice and perseverance. We rode our way through cross-country courses, big and small. We learned how to navigate the rocky road of life.
When I was getting divorced, when I was moving to new cities for work, when I felt like I didn’t have much of a family to depend on, I could always go to the barn. I always had Robby. When you ride just one horse long enough, your body and your movements become theirs. It doesn’t happen all at once, then, one day, you can’t remember when it wasn’t so. Saddling up is like putting on your favorite outfit. The one that makes you feel the most you.
I remember a boyfriend told me that once. He said the first time he came to the barn to meet Robby with me, he could see something different. The way I walked, the way I carried myself. I was more me. I was always more me when I was around horses. I was home when I was around Robby.
I can still feel the excitement when the announcer would call, “Three… two… one…have a great ride!” We would explode onto the cross-country course. All of the doubts and fears from life, about the course ahead, would melt away.
Robby was the most alive in those moments and so was I. The triumphant feeling each time we cleared a fence. Each time I faced down a demon, the lingering thought somewhere in my head: you can’t do it, you’re not good enough, you’re not brave enough. Every galloping stride, every massive fence, defeating these thoughts.
Robby already knew. He already knew we could do it and he never questioned it. I led him out of the barn into a cold rainy March day, much different from the one we met. Our last hour.
Robby already knew. He already knew we could do it and he never questioned it. I led him out of the barn into a cold rainy March day, much different from the one we met. Our last hour.
I tried offering another handful of Skittles, but again, he took the candies and they just fell out of his mouth into the grass. The grass he was eating, but without his usual gusto. I knew the longer we stood and grazed, the more tired he would become and the more the pain would show.
I looked down at my phone. The hour was nearly up. Tears began to mingle with the wet, rainy mist on my face.
I leaned onto neck as he continued to graze. Scratching his favorite places. Breathing in his damp horse scent. Trying to forget the reality of the present moment and what was about to come next.
I started to lead Robby back into the barn, out of the cold and damp. He barely protested, a true sign of the pain he was battling.
The vet was already inside, waiting patiently.
“Are you guys ready?” he asked. I nodded.
“Let’s head into the arena,” he said. “There’s more room in there.”
We followed him in.
“Alright, are you going to hold him?” the vet asked.
“Yes,” I replied, while tears continued to silently stream down my face. For the last several months, we had been trying to find out what was ailing Robby; something was off. He was getting sicker and sicker. Eventually, we discovered it was a tumor, slowly killing him and his control over his body. Now, there was nothing else that could be done for him.
“Okay, you’re going have to make sure to keep his head up, while I have the needle here in his neck. Also, make sure to get back quickly. He’s not going to have control of where he falls,” the vet instructed.
With one last kiss on his nose, one last loving scratch on his neck, I said, “I love you, handsome prince.”
He looked into my eyes. His beautiful brown pools that sometimes shone with humor when he was up to mischief, shone with excitement when he was ready for a ride, but now, shone with a dullness, the pain he was trying to hide. I could see the trust in his eyes, whatever was going to happen next, I was there, it would be okay.
The vet slid in the needle. The injection went in quickly. Robby’s eyes closed. He fell to the ground, all twelve hundred pounds collapsing down.
I felt my insides falling to the ground, my soul shattering in just the same way.
Epilogue:
Every equestrian has paid this price, in some way, the true cost of horses. Robby’s death spurred me to make some changes in my life and go for some dreams I had been keeping on the back burner. My husband and I decided to buy a small hobby farm. I tracked down not one, but two of Robby’s half-brothers. One is a yearling, and the second is off the track. We’ve also added another OTTB mare and a mini to round out the herd. I am still working on making it back to competing at higher levels, but every day is an adventure, and horses are always humbling. Robby taught me so much about resilience and going after what you want. I didn’t let his death be the end of the story; rather, the beginning.
This was a champion-winning submission to the 2024 Equestrian Voices Creative Writing Contest sponsored by The Plaid Horse. The goal of the contest is to promote fine, literary prose involving horses and the equestrian experience. This contest is open to writers of fiction and non-fiction, regardless of any previous publications, and awards 16 prizes. To learn more about the 2024 contest click here.
