Elegy for a Gelding
He was tallish, dark, and slender, and in his late twenties when we met. Sports Theory was a former racehorse, and the schooling horse I rode for my first couple years back at riding lessons. Sport, as he was known around the barn, had belonged to the mother of my gymnastics teacher growing up. Miss June had ridden him into her 70s and gifted Sport to my trainer, Rich, during the pandemic. That Rich accepted the cost and responsibility of an additional horse when his livelihood was precarious tells you everything about his heart.
At first I had trouble getting Sport to leg yield through a line of cones at the trot. I worked at it through the summer, struggling to coax Sport to maintain forward speed while moving from to one side to the other in front of each cone in the line as I sat facing straight ahead. Eventually Rich had us set that exercise aside. When we picked the exercise back up over the winter, I was delighted to find we breezed through it at the trot. I’d gotten stronger and gained coordination, improving my communication with Sport. By summer we were navigating through the cones at the canter.
Sport could be stubborn and mischievous, often sluggish at the trot and a runaway train at the canter. He had a keen feel for any lapse in a rider’s concentration or effort, which taught me to work constantly at maintaining the ABCs: awareness, balance, and connection. And to never forget that my mount has a mind of his own. I was grateful that eventually Rich had me drop the reins over jumps and hold my arms extended out to the sides. This exercise taught me to keep my own balance and to avoid leaning on the horse’s neck when I hinged forward at my hips in jumping position, so that on the day Sport decided to slam on the brakes in front of a jump I didn’t go sailing over his head.
Under Rich’s coaching, Sport had taken me from rusty former rider to as skilled as I’d ever been. I was ready for new challenges. MJ, a classically pretty (and fiery) young chestnut mare with a blaze and four white socks, became my new lesson horse.
Sport was then leased for a season by a girl who decorated the front of his stall and groomed him to a new level of handsome. He looked happy, and this made my heart swell. I’d still give Sport a treat when I saw him in the barn. Occasionally I’d meet him at the paddock’s edge with a sweet, juicy apple in my palm.
A couple weeks ago Rich told me that Sport had passed. One morning after his grain, Rich had let him out into the paddock with his buddies. Sport turned to look back at Rich, shuddered, and collapsed. Just like that, Sport was gone. It was as quick and merciful a death as one could hope for.
The day I heard, I entered Sport’s empty stall. I stood there for a few minutes remembering his scent, the contours of his body, the way he nickered softly and sniffed my pockets after each ride, anticipating a treat. Then I spoke aloud the words I’d said to him after every lesson: “Thanks for the ride, Sport. I hope you had fun.”
Who have been your key teachers?
This reminds me of the day I had to put down my dog phoenix… an Akita. ‘Nuff said. And then of the day I had to gift my other dig, Buddy, when I was moving from California to Paris. As I was about to drive off , I looked up the driveway and there was Buddy looking at me as if to say: “don’t worry, I’m gonna be ok here.”
Not only did Buddy teach me to start loving dogs, but he also taught me unconditional love.