Animal Magnetism

Pretty Is as Pretty Does

Horses, like women, dazzle. The result: brains fly out the window. Even experienced horsemen can lose their composure. You pay for beauty. How men can afford mistresses, I don’t know. A stay-at-home wife costs plenty (not that she doesn’t do her part), but if a man had to pay for all her services it would roll up the annual bill over a hundred thousand dollars. Thirty-some years ago Ms. magazine totted up the cost, and it would have been sixty thousand, if memory serves.

Same with a horse. A bad one costs as much as a good one to keep. As to initial purchase, that, too, can be influenced by emotion.

My farm outside Charlottesville was a piddling thirty-four acres. The barn needed work. The stall floors sported potholes that would have made a New Yorker feel right at home. This is the result of horses pawing and owners not filling in the holes and tamping them down tight. Rather than fool with potholes, I just dug out the stalls three feet down and releveled them. At the bottom, I put in six inches of number-five stone. That’s stone about the size of a shooter marble. Helps with drainage. Over that I poured pea rock, dirt, and finally, on top, rock dust, which I watered and rolled. Over all this I put a layer of masonry sand. Rolled that, too. Six stalls gave me a good workout. If I could rent five and provide care, I figured I could own my first horse.

The farm, tidy and bright, showed well, as a real estate agent might put it. I hung out my shingle and in one week I had those five stalls filled. I had put up new fencing, the paddocks were spacious, and the pastures were in pretty good order. Naturally, one overseeds every autumn. At least if you’re smart in central Virginia you do because our climate swings wildly, not just in terms of temperature but in terms of rainfall. Central Virginia is the transition between a southern climate and a northern one.

Baby Jesus, sixteen now, watched me work perched on a bench in the garden. Her sidekick was a Great Dane puppy, black as coal, named India Ink. I never had to train the puppy. Baby Jesus did it for me. India was one of the best-behaved dogs I’ve ever known. I can’t say the same for Baby, as she was a tyrant.

Once the boarders were in the barn she’d saunter down, not a trace of arthritis, visit each stall, and hiss great big hisses. Then she’d turn and saunter out.

The horses blinked. A few stopped chewing hay to study the skinny old cat with the luminous green eyes. Occasionally, she’d climb one of the support beams and drop down onto a stall door. The old boards, thick oak, would cost a fortune today. Back then it was castoff lumber. The boards rose up to five feet. Above that, a mesh screen made of wire about half the width of your little finger separated the stalls. Wouldn’t do to have one horse reach over to take a hunk out of another. Even horses born together can get into it, and my boarders had to learn to get along with one another.

Baby would drop onto the stall door just to prove she could do it. Her chest swelled with pride if she scared the occupant enough to bolt to a corner or run outside (I usually opened the back door of the stall so they could come and go as they pleased). If they needed larger turnout, I’d walk them to one of the big pastures.

India tagged along, falling over her giant paws. This always elicited a snotty comment from Baby, whose tail would stand straight up as she delivered her sarcasm.

I knew hardly a soul. Sure, I knew a few merchants, but I mean real friends. Baby, India, and the boarders were my buddies. I did know one friend from high school. However, he had two small children, taught full time, and was on overload. Still, it was nice to know I could pick up the phone if necessary.

He told me who the reputable horse dealers were and whom to avoid. If you think about it, the horse business is the original used car business. Lucky for me, I knew something about horses. I knew enough to stop myself from buying a great beauty who had a screw loose. Instead, I bought a horse that was so ugly he made your eyes water. A bay of nondescript breeding with a common clunky head, he needed groceries to put some meat on his bones. He had an old low bow on his left foreleg, little knots and windpuffs on the others. I liked him. He was a survivor. The vet listed his blemishes but told me what I hoped to hear: he was serviceably sound. I looked at X-rays of his front hooves (always a good idea when you’re buying a horse) and he was okay.

A word of caution here: You can read perfectly clean X-rays and the horse can be dead lame the next day. On the other hand, you can read X-rays that horsemen say have “changes” and learn an important thing or two. You might see the beginning of navicular or other conditions affecting the hoof or the bones just above it. Think of the horse’s hoof area as somewhat analogous to the bones in your wrist. Not a perfect parallel, but it will give you an idea. When a horse jumps, the pressure per square inch on the foreleg and those bones is tremendous. It is when you jump, too.

This fellow was ten and he had no name, or none that anyone could remember. I called him Major and I owe him a great deal. For one thing, he tolerated Baby Jesus, even neighing to her. She’d saunter (Baby rarely walked—it was always the Mae West saunter) to the fence line, where she’d climb a post and wait for Major to trot over to her. Then she’d rub against his face. That hateful cat just loved Major. It was mutual. They had the longest chats. I’d see them together when I went in to muck the stalls, and when I was finished, forty-five minutes later (I have a good speedy system plus the good stall floor helped), I’d find them in the same spot, still thrilled silly with each other’s company. Meanwhile, the ever-growing India stayed underfoot. What a sweet, sweet dog.

My boarders paid on time. They rode around the farm and loaded up their horses to foxhunt, usually with Farmington Hunt, though one boarder hunted with Keswick. Albemarle County is one of the few counties in America to host two foxhunts, both very good and therefore very competitive with each other. Each pushes the other onward and upward. As Keswick was founded in 1886 it can look upon Farmington, founded in 1929, as an upstart. Each club has had wonderful masters, and a few who should have stayed in bed. And each club has a well-mounted first flight with people who can ride and ride hard.

I’d wistfully watch my boarders drive off. I was dying to hunt and I knew Major could do it because he had the jumping gene. I needed a lot more work than he did. Still do. One must always keep learning, keep the legs strong and the hands soft.

To hunt I’d need a truck, at least a three-quarter-ton, a trailer, and the money to pay for the gas. My vehicle was an old red Toyota truck that rattled the fillings right out of your head. It was distinctive since my neighbor’s goat had once feasted on the interior.

One of my boarders, a giant fellow with a booming voice, Dr. Jimmy Turner, invited me to hunt with him and his wife, Alice. They loaded up Major, hauled me to a Farmington fixture—a fixture is a specific place where one hunts; a fortunate club has many fixtures—and Jimmy being Jimmy, he paid my cap fee, fussing terribly when I attempted to repay him. I rode second flight, fearing I’d make a fool of myself in first flight. Plus, when first flight contains people like Ellie Wood Keith Baxter, who won the Medal McClay in 1937 and also won at Madison Square Garden before World War II and again after, I had good reason to be scared. Eventually I moved up and, of course, provided hilarity for all.

Major took care of me. I’m much more of an athlete than a rider. I’d never had a riding lesson but I had balance. I didn’t care how stupid I looked or how ugly my horse: I was in heaven. A few people deigned to nod toward me. Pat Butterfield, now Master of Foxhounds there, who was my high school friend, and his wife, Kay (another hell of a horseman), Jane Fogelman, and Gloria Fennell all welcomed me.

My boarders paid my horse expenses and a bit of the mortgage; the farm wasn’t very expensive. But I just couldn’t swing the truck, the trailer, and Farmington’s annual fees. All far beyond what I could do. I had no job. I’d come back with what I’d saved from Hollywood, which was a lot since I lived close to the bone out there, investing my earnings in real estate, which paid off.

Here I was, thirty-one, at the prime of my life, I thought (wrong—my prime is right now, and I’m not kidding), watching every penny, working from sunup to long after sundown. Loved that. Can’t work outside enough. I had a quarter-acre garden full of sweet corn, white corn, asparagus, you name it. I thought I’d earn a little off the crops, and did. The asparagus was snapped up before I could even cart it to the outdoor market.

Still.

Baby Jesus suggested I write another novel. Something with sex and violence. I did. High Hearts, set during the War Between the States. Enough money came in that I could finally buy a truck and trailer. I met Art Bushey, the Ford dealer, who was, and still is, crazy (in a good way). I loved him, of course. Art made sure that that truck could pull a house off its foundations. I bought a dually instead of a three-quarter-ton truck on his advice. He was right as rain. That extra set of wheels can save your hindquarters, and your horse’s, too, should you drop a wheel over the edge of an uneven road. Kept the old Toyota since I’d have gotten only five hundred dollars in trade. That truck breathed its last when 300,000 clicked over on the odometer. And it wasn’t the engine that died. The body just rusted out. Japanese steel is better now. Used to be cheap crap.

My beloved Major did not ride in the two-horse gooseneck trailer until I could back up with no problems and take a tight turn. Finally, I loaded him up and off we trundled to another FHC hunt. Most hunts allow three caps a year. This was my second. What a corker. Second flight was led by Dr. Herbert Jones. This was the first time I saw the man who was to become my best friend, my moral compass, my second skin. Foxfield was the fixture. What a glorious day, filled with crisp, long runs. Herb put us in the right place every time. I’ve never seen so many foxes or a man so commanding without appearing to command. Herb had women fall over him throughout his life, even when he ran to fat (which I so kindly pointed out to him daily). I joined “Herbie’s Harem.”

Major seemed amused by all this. He loved hunting. His ears swiveled to capture the hounds’ voices, the horn. He always saw the fox before I did. If I bobbled, he managed to shift to that side.

Jimmy Turner’s youngest teenage daughter, Doodles, started giving me lessons. Thank God. And when she went back to high school, I landed on Muffin Barnes’s doorstep at Gloria Fennell’s barn. Poor Muffin. She did her best, and over time it paid off. I have the Barnes leg. She gives you a really strong, good leg and it has saved my nether regions on countless occasions.

Money concerns eased up. Hollywood is a strange place. If you’re available, they don’t want you. Remove yourself and everyone wants you. I’d fly out, pick up a movie of the week to write, fly home, and then deliver it. Meanwhile, my novels would climb onto that “New York Times Extended Best-Seller List.”

Major now had everything a horse could want. Beautiful English leather tack, a bridle with a sewn-in bit, a Baker blanket, a cooler, carrots, peppermint candies (his fave).

India and Major got along fine, but Baby Jesus was the horse’s boon companion. Sometimes as I’d walk up toward the house she’d linger, coming up with the fireflies. He’d nicker goodnight.

This friendship deepened. But Baby had years on her, and at eighteen her health took a turn for the worse. I would carry her down for her sessions with Major. He knew, of course, and he’d place his muzzle on her flank but wouldn’t push. The day came when I knew I’d have to put her down, and the most wonderful small animal vet, Chuck Wood, actually drove out to my farm so she wouldn’t have to be frightened by the drive or the smells of his office. What a kind man. She did not leave this earth peacefully, I might add. Tyrannical to the end. When Chuck came through the kitchen door she tried to escape, and then she was not easily held. She so wanted to live, but her systems were shutting down. The greater cruelty would have been to pump her up with steroids or whatever for a day or two. It really was time.

That cat loved me when I lived on five dollars a week in New York City, when we slept rolled up in blankets with my old pea jacket thrown over us for extra warmth. She now sits on the top left shelf by the fireplace in my workroom in a Thai funerary urn in the shape of a red cat. When I go down, Baby is going with me. We’ll be commingled ashes.

I thought about taking the body to Major so he could smell her but decided against it. He watched as I buried her under the weeping cherry tree. He knew anyway. When I moved to the big farm where I now live I disinterred her and had what was left cremated.

How he mourned. He dropped weight. His eyes lost their luster. I did my best to keep him in shape, and God bless him, he did what I asked. Finally, I turned him out to heal in his own time.

A month after Baby Jesus died, a pregnant stray wound up in the barn. The result: a pregnant stray now enjoyed the benefits of health care and proper nutrition. Four beautiful kittens came into this world. I kept all of them.

I’d made a whelping box in the tack room. The mother cat wasn’t suited for house life. I could catch her, with difficulty, but she wanted to be in the barn. One day I opened the door to Major’s stall after he’d walked in from his back door. He stepped out, stopped, opened his nostrils wide, then walked to the tack room. He ducked his head inside. The kittens, eyes now open, were wobbly. The mother wasn’t at all sure about this big boy. She was transfixed. Major didn’t move. So I just worked around him, then put him back.

He picked up weight. He always wanted to visit the kittens, and as they grew older, out they tumbled into the center aisle. Once they turned eight weeks old I brought them up to the house. India knew her place where cats were concerned. No problems there, plus they knew one another from barn visits.

Every morning, the kittens would follow me back down to the barn. The mother cat struck up a friendship with Major. He was getting a few years on him, too, but he came back strong, and when fall rolled around, we applied for membership at Farmington. There is a trial period. We both passed.

Love does work miracles. It’s such a hackneyed thing to say but it’s true. Once people experience it, they no longer snicker behind their hand or roll their eyes that one could be so sentimental.

Pretty is as pretty does. Major took care of me. He taught me, as each of my animals does in one form or another, the power of love. But he also taught me the power of birth and rebirth. The kittens brought him back to life.

Should you be reading this, if you’ve gone through a deep loss, be patient. Like Major, you’ll be reborn. Some of your friends may not understand if the love of an animal pulls you through or brings you back to life, but I do. And Major would, too.