By JULIE MADDOCK
Life is tough.
And some days are worse than others. You know the ones I’m talking about—those mornings when you’d rather stay buried under the covers because you know it’s going to be an especially difficult day. One that promises to leave you with a nasty scar.
Today was going to be one of those days.
My father-in-law has been battling Alzheimer’s for over eight years. He and his wife, Judy, have been married for over 68 years, raised six children together, and have one of those almost-too-good-to-be-true love stories that have endured the test of time. And the family has worked tirelessly to keep Dad at home for as long as possible.
But Alzheimer’s doesn’t care about true love. It doesn’t care about separating a husband and wife or parent and child. It’s a cruel disease that eventually rips away the person’s dignity and memories of who they are and who they love.
Today was the day—the day everyone knew would eventually come. The day we had to move Dad to an Alzheimer’s care facility. It was the right thing to do. It was the right time to do it. But nothing felt right about today.
I knew my husband’s heart was aching. I knew the family was struggling with the decision. And although I would be there to support them in any way possible, I felt so utterly helpless. I had absolutely no control over this situation. I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t make it better.
And I hate not being in control.
So I did the one thing that I could control: I headed to the barn—my refuge, my happy place—and decided to get in an early morning ride before joining my husband and the rest of the family.
Wyatt, a Morgan cross, is a horse I’ve recently begun leasing. And he is a darling boy. From the moment I met him and got on for my first ride, I was a smitten kitten.
But Wyatt isn’t perfect. He’s cute as a button, but he has definite Wyatt-isms. Sometimes, he gets a bit crazy—okay, full-on crazy. Like rolling his eyes to the back of his head, snarling his lips back, and baring his teeth at anyone passing by while he eats his grain in a near frenzy (likely due to food insecurity from his previous life before being rescued by his amazing owner, Amy). Or he makes bad choices like biting and ripping holes in other horses’ blankets, earning himself timeout in a private paddock.
A favorite Wyatt-ism is when he starts panting as if he is going to die right out from under you, and his third eyelid presents (which makes his eyes look bloody). Of course, you immediately think the worst—but then he stops and is back to being perfectly fine. The vet has thrown every test at him, but nothing pops up. Just Wyatt being Wyatt.
So, although I can control when I want to go riding, Wyatt still controls how our ride will go. I’m working on becoming a more confident rider, but I’m not quite there yet. Wyatt has big feelings and loads of toddler-like attitude that keeps me on my toes. To be honest, I still have some anxiety every time I walk into the barn and go about getting Wyatt ready for a ride.
Thoughts swirl through my head: How will he react to the birds flying around us in the arena today? Will he face the sound of the riding lawnmower like a courageous lion or jump up like a kangaroo on crack? Will he let me pick his feet as if he couldn’t care less, or is this the day he demonstrates a perfectly executed kick?
I may be wearing spurs, but I’m shaking in my boots. And Wyatt knows all of this.
He can feel my heartbeat when I’m sitting on his back. He can read my tension, fear, excitement, and joy. We are still getting to know each other, learning how to communicate, and deciphering each other’s body language. He’s super smart and well-trained. He knows exactly what the aids mean… but often chooses to ignore them because I ask inconsistently.
So, as I drove to the barn on this difficult day, I had no real expectations of having a productive ride. I was in a fragile mental state and emotionally depleted. My head just wasn’t in the game. I questioned whether I should even bother tacking up. But our first dressage show was coming up, and we needed the practice. However, I wasn’t sure I had it in me to convince Wyatt that we needed to work on our canter transitions again.
Just two days before, we had struggled to transition from a forward trot to a smooth canter. He just wouldn’t respond. I could sense him saying, “Yeah, I know what you’re asking. But I just don’t feel like cantering today. And the sooner you come to grips with that, the happier we’ll both be.”
I decided to simply indulge him in a relaxing grooming session, offer some pears and carrots, tack up, and lazily walk around the arena for an hour. This I could control.
But Wyatt had other plans.
A horse’s eyes hold exceptional power of perception. It’s like they can see right through to your heart. Their eyes engage you, welcome you, heal you, never judge you, and even whisper, “I understand more than you can imagine.”
I swear Wyatt took one look at me and knew I was struggling. He could feel my anxiety, my sadness, my frustration at not being in control. And he showed me a new Wyatt-ism and bestowed on me an amazing gift.
Wyatt demonstrated his superpower of reading minds and hearts. He sized me up, identified my vulnerability that day, and told me exactly what I needed to hear… maybe not with words, but in his own compassionate way.
He was as good as gold as I worked to remove dirt and mud and detangle his mane and tail. He surprised me by lifting each foot for the hoof pick before I could even ask. He didn’t pull at the cross ties nervously. He accepted the bit like it was pure sugar about to melt on his tongue.
Wyatt gifted me confidence.
We headed into the arena and began walking. No problem. No spooking at sounds or sights. So we trotted and got to work. We had the arena to ourselves that morning, and we practiced our dressage tests.
Wyatt blew me away! He responded immediately to my seat and leg aids—no having to beg him to go forward. No bumpy, fast trot instead of a canter. We were in sync and nearly perfect in executing our transitions. It was amazing! At one point, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and realized I had a silly grin on my face—it was pure happiness and the feeling that a weight had been lifted off my chest.
And that is the power of horses. Wyatt looked me over that day and knew exactly what to do to make me feel better. To feel in control. And I love him for it.
That day was one of the roughest days of my life. And my heart goes out to everyone who is navigating Alzheimer’s care for their loved ones.
But it was also a special day—with moments of pure joy—that I will never forget. All because of Wyatt’s gift to me—the gift of unconditional and clearly intentional love.
I firmly believe horses can teach us life lessons—we just have to be humble enough to listen. They can step up when we need them the most. They can build our confidence when we are doubting ourselves. They can show compassion and make us feel loved. They can remind us that some days will be a good ride and some days will be a lousy ride, but in the end, we have no choice other than to hop back in the saddle and keep riding. Because giving up when life gets tough just isn’t an option. And horses, like Wyatt, will never give up on us.
This was a 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.
