Lori and Frankie
Day 1
September 10, 2014
A moderate two hours of hunting and I have been fighting to stay awake the past four hours. My brain is pooped. I feel like I carried Frankie around the fixture rather than vice versa. Emotionally I guess I did. A shower helped but I did have a bit of a shock when I thought I was bleeding under my arm. It was a just piece of red fuzz from my polo shirt.
Having finally cracked my ten-year-old Wintec leathers through to the nylon core (probably still strong enough but not confidence inspiring), I purchased the only pair I could find yesterday—in black. No way am I going to buy leather ones for a hundred dollars only to swim in them all summer long. The fact that they were not more traditional brown didn’t bother me. Riding a glow-in-the-dark pale horse with bubble gum-pink skin and transparent eyes, no one is going to notice the color of what my stirrups are hanging from. Sporting his new hunt bridle, I figured at least he would look the part. My philosophy: even if you fail miserably it is somehow better if you are dressed appropriately.
Frankie was allowed to eat a corn stalk at the first check, hoping it would occupy his busy mind. In truth, the fact that our barn is crawling with cats, chickens, and the most annoying goose alive on the planet probably helped him more than the distraction of a corn stalk. You can rarely even load a horse on our place without chickens exiting the trailer in a huff.
Frankie did not lead Second Field—my job description—so much as follow First Field, but it was a good first effort. We even managed to pop a small log preceded by a mild expletive on my part.
Jan’s friend Karen was out again on Diesel. She told me she never rides outside the ring. Her lesson this week consisted of nothing but going up and down hills to prepare her for today. She has never jumped and said she just grabbed her martingale strap and trusted her horse to do his thing. In one way or another it is pretty much what we all do. For some of us the risks and stakes are higher but we all still hang on and make that leap of faith: that which we lack in skill, luck or bravery, our horse will complete with character.
Day 2
September 17, 2014
Beggs Road
Where to begin? Lots of members showed up today, especially for a Wednesday. There were kids, guests, new horses, and green horses, one of them mine. Green horse I mean. Things started normally enough. Introductions were made and a plan of action discussed. Things looked promising. The weather was perfect again—cool and clear.
Hounds were started in the usual way in the covert that splits the fields across the road opposite the little trees. Then we crossed the road and hounds worked the strip of woods that separates the farm field from the nursery field. Hounds could be heard but not seen. At the trailers Paula viewed a fox crossing back over the road. Hounds were collected and put into the woods with the road behind us. A puppy hovered between the horses too unsure to pass even with horses standing quietly and given ample room. Now the horn was a different story. The sound of the horn provided the incentive needed to work her way to the huntsman. Every covert was hunted the same way—enthusiastically by the pack as a whole from one end to the other and back again.
When we crossed back over the road again I felt a mood switch in fat Frankie. Wanting to turn back, not wanting to lead is usually the signal that his brain is filled beyond capacity, he is overwhelmed, and his attention span has expired. Today’s fixture is a bigger fixture than his first time out, and being only halfway through it left me wondering how to get through the other half. Alive. Regardless of the fact that he has only been under saddle since March, and progressing quite nicely, it is high time for him to develop a work ethic.
If all of us went home when we wanted to we would never put down the remote. My Thoroughbreds will work until they drop. And then some. Frankie on the other hand, with his measure of cold blood, has elevated sloth to an art form. Tucking myself behind Carol’s OTTB (who was behaving as an absolute gentleman his first time out) we made our erratic way, in fits and starts, while Frankie had a mobile tantrum. Behind me, I may be mistaken, but all appeared to be quite tranquil. Thank goodness, it would be a shame for my horse’s bad behavior to ruin someone else’s day. Especially since my job is primarily to do my best to provide the Field with the best day possible.
Meanwhile I was positioned between good cop Em and bad cop Carol. The bad cop encouraged me to administer a good spanking (to put it mildly), even offering (begging) to do it for me while the good cop diagnosed Frankie with mental exhaustion and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Myself I did apply a little crop to his ample backside and a lot of patience to the rest of him. Even though everything inside me screamed to give him a few good whacks upside the head. That would have made my friend Carol so proud of me.
After negotiating the edge of at least one hundred miles of beans with millions of hounds popping out of everywhere, both Frankie and Carol’s OTTB were broke to hounds. Well, that is something at least. After heading in the direction of Lemmon Road and passing the Cat Barn on the right we crossed the creek and checked alongside a bean field. People ahead calling out the best side to approach the creek crossings which my horse plowed straight through the middle of. One good thing about a drafty horse: they just plow through everything. The fallen tree encroaching into the bean field? Everyone went around it, I went right through it. Without pause at a brisk trot.
Carol handed her horse off to me while she disappeared for a nature break. She asked me if I thought I should. Sure I said, no problem. That appeared to be the last straw for Frankie. I threw her horse’s reins in the vague direction of Em as Frankie began to flip around like a marlin on a hook. Stepping off when my saddle lost purchase on his overstuffed torso—going positively horizontal—Frankie fully immersed himself in a full blown “moment” and simply keeled over in the beans. Flat. As a pancake. For a moment he lay in the sea of beans like Moby Dick. Regaining his sea legs he headed in the direction of Carol’s hiding place. She returned him to me with her breeches at half mast. Now that is a true friend.
Heading back to the trailers by way of the Sullivan Road side we had one more run. I think. Maybe two. Busy enjoying a much more placid post apocalypse, Frankie and I may have dozed off. Our last creek crossing was deep and muddy and Frankie barely dragged himself through it. On the way home we fortified ourselves with a 32-ounce fountain coke, Little Debbie Krimpets for Frankie, and a 2014 AL Champions Oriole’s Tee shirt for hubby. (How did they already even have them today? What would they do with them if they had not won? A mystery of commerce I am not privy to.) There is nothing you cannot get at that gas station by Dairy Queen. I hope everyone had half as much fun as I did today.
Confident, still, that Frankie will settle into his new role after another visit from the dentist and a little more thought regarding bits, martingales, and some carefully timed spankings. Today’s witnesses, maybe not so much convinced. Have faith.
Two Years later
September 22, 2016
A New Ballgame
Ozzy lost a shoe, so Frankie was pressed into service. Amiable and pale as the underside of a mushroom, Frankie is a terminally cheerful little chap. Frankie has hunted a limited number of times but his introduction to the sport was complicated by the fact that he had to lead the Field from the very first instant he came out. His progress was inconsistent. Frankie by nature is a follower who does not have the desire required to go first. As a member of the Field this could be his day to shine. Or not. Either way he was going. Bless his pudgy soul, he self-loaded right into the dark trailer. Alone.
This is not easy. Not that I thought it would be. Put in perspective, “this” does not come anywhere remotely near the difficulty presented by illness, unemployment, divorce, loss, global warming, or any of the myriad disasters that can impact us individually or as a planet. “This” is merely the transition from my long time hunt club to a new one. In the end the decision was not difficult; the main difficulty is in the mechanics of transition.
Knowing how important this is to me personally would be laughable to most normal people. However foxhunting is a tremendous part of my life and what makes me happy. Huge. Plus, no one has ever accused me of being normal. If something truly important went wrong in my life this whole issue would quickly drop right off the radar. Luckily, on many levels, this is not the case.
Still trying to figure out the traffic patterns to fixtures new to me at Oh-Dark-Hundred, I arrived with a mere five minutes to spare. My GPS had a big flashing red dot in the general vicinity I was headed for. Attention: Significant Delays! While negotiating Carroll County I never saw the flashing red dot unless it was attached to a school bus or the endless road work on Route 27 on the way to Westminster. Several times I decided I would just turn around and head back home. My disappointment has a flare for the dramatic; I may as well just quit hunting entirely!
Luckily there was no easy place to turn around with a trailer in tow so we rolled on. The traffic lights were in my favor, and as I negotiated the traffic circle I spied a bright spot on the horizon—another horse trailer! With any luck I may not be the absolute last to arrive. If I could just arrive on someone’s tail it would somehow be better. Unfortunately the only parking spot was right up front where the Masters, staff, hounds, and the prompt members were already assembled. As my good friend Jan would say with her pretty Southern accent, “Oh, crap, balls.”
As I backed Frankie off the trailer in full view of everyone, he unloaded with his saddle setting perfectly sideways. Oh, double-crap, balls. Frankie was not at all phased. As quickly as possible I hustled him out of sight behind the trailer while Frankie craned his neck back trying to catch at least a glimpse of where he had landed. The beauty of Frankie is that I was able to lead him within a few feet of the trailer, clamber onto the wheel well while using him as a handhold, and fling myself onto his back like an ape with absolutely no reaction from him. Ozzy, the Thoroughbred, would have sensed my anxiety at arriving late, multiplied it in his head times infinity, and been a balled-up mess poised to explode the instant I touched down in the saddle. Bless rotund lazy Frankie who is not bothered by…..anything. He just quietly joined the others and stood with his blue eyes slowly blinking.
Frankie started out wringing his head a little in impatience but settled pretty quickly. The head-wringing thing is not new, and he is now mature enough that he no longer tips over when he does it. That is progress. We practiced our staying back and our slow trot. All good except for the reappearance of the “cart horse jump.” This involves heading towards the obstacle at a good clip with me vigorously urging him on with voice, heels, and arms pumping. Doing everything but carrying him over personally. Despite my encouragement Frankie comes to a complete stop, steps oh, so delicately over, and resumes his previous speed. In my head I imagine that he is stopping to give me time to lift the imaginary “thing” he is still pulling for the Amish, over to the other side. Previously he had been jumping nicely with a lead so I hope that his style backslide was a result of simple fatigue.
Second Field this day was five shades of pale. We had three greys, a dilute pinto or paint and cremello Frankie. On the way in, Frankie’s surprisingly fast walk kicked in, as did his impatient neck wringing. Since he always does it to the right I am thinking that with some work I will be able to eliminate the habit entirely. Like, duh, pulling on the left rein. Overall I was so proud of Frankie. He exceeded my expectations. Not that they were that high. Sometimes success seems to be simply a matter of finding a job that the horse enjoys doing, and allowing him to do it. Give him a chance to succeed. Attempting to force a square peg into a round hole just frustrates everyone. And often fails anyway. Sometimes spectacularly. Find another job for the horse, or another horse for the job. The Field only needs one leader but needs lots of good followers. And Frankie seems to have the makings of a champion follower.
Midway into the morning, huntsman Ally was stung in the bottom lip by a bee. If the simple thought of that does not make you wince, the impressive swelling he was sporting certainly would. The swelling also rendered him unable to blow the horn. That probably hurt him the most.
The day was pleasantly cool but my wool coat still quickly smelled like a wet sheep. Back at the trailers, an informal tailgate was being set up in the shade. Everyone took care of their horses and headed to the picnic table with crackers, cheese, fruit, wine, and even sweet rolls. Nothing fancy. Just my favorite stuff of all time. Cheese and crackers. Fruit. Chips and dip. Cinnamon rolls! If I was on death row that would be my request as my last meal. Several riders schooled their horses over fences in the ring alongside. My first inclination was to rush home, even though I had nothing pressing going on. I am glad I overcame my innate anxious urge to run. Encouraged by the fact that I was solidly blocked in by other rigs. Every single person I met took the time to greet me, introduce me, and include me. If there is a more pleasant way to end a morning of hunting, at the moment it escapes me. This was less a tailgate and more a casual visit with lady friends. Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought.
Posted November 8, 2016