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Today I put the winter blankets away in the loft above the stables, ready for another year, another lifetime. As I gently smoothed the green blanket into its plastic covering, I thought back to the day I first met my bay Irish thoroughbred gelding with the thumbprint star. “He doesn’t look like much now, but he knows how to jump,” my friend Grayson had encouraged as she pulled me along the side of the barn. “You could have him for back board—they don’t want him anymore, he’s too quirky.” I found myself braced against both the cool, crisp winter’s day and my friend’s enthusiasm as we reached the end paddock. We found the shaggy bay gelding standing fetlock-deep in thick mud with a wary look on his face. He was pressed against the far side of the fence, resting his hip uncomfortably. “He was born in Ireland, and was brought over as a three year-old—I think he’s ten now—but after he got injured, he hasn’t done much.” Grayson had shown me a picture of the bay as a glossy youth sailing over a huge white brush-filled oxer, so I knew he had talent. He had grown up grazing the emerald fields of Ireland until he was chosen as a traveling partner for a fancy rose-grey hunter on the journey back to the United States. Once home, the bay “companion horse” turned out to have tremendous athletic ability, with a jumping style so eloquent he would nearly hit himself in the jaw when he snapped his knees up over the fences. Always eager and willing to please, the bay was rapidly upgraded to ever-higher levels of competition. Then, he became injured, and like Black Beauty the inexorable downward spiral began. He remained intermittently lame and was unsuccessfully used as a school horse until he was “thrown out” into the muddy paddock where I first met him. We tacked the bay up for a brief ride since he was still recovering from injury and unfit, and I settled into the spare saddle and gripped the stiff web reins with only a mild curiosity. But, as we walked out to the arena, I began to feel an enormous sense of power. Despite his lameness, the bay gave the feeling of tremendous potential. “What’s his name?” I asked with more enthusiasm. Grayson shifted her course slightly around a mud puddle and squinted up at me with an embarrassed laugh, saying, “Fred. But that’s only his barn name—his real name is Shandygaff.” “Who, or what, is a Shandygaff?” I asked. “A shandygaff is a special, fizzy drink made from beer and ginger ale” she said. “It suits him really well, since he’s pretty forward once he gets going. How does he feel?” At that point, the bay was straining against the snaffle bit in an attempt to go faster. I tried a half halt which he ignored, rooting forward against my hand. “Well, he has no mouth!” I said. Grayson replied, “Yeah, they used to jump him in an elevator bit, so I guess that’s no surprise.” A couple of older women who kept their fancy hunters nearby stopped to comment on the bay’s little outing with derision. Mindful of his healing injury, I slid off and looked into his eye. He was gazing far away toward the hills, proudly ignoring all of us, and in that moment I decided, yes. Five hundred dollars later, he was mine. I insisted on a bill of sale, worried that once I had restored him to health and fitness his owner would want him back. She laughed at me, saying, “No, I would never want Freddie Fat Man back! But hey, if you ever get him to a horseshow, watch out because he’ll eat anything. One time I gave him some hamburger, and he even ate that! He’s gross.” Privately, I thought she was the gross one to offer meat to a horse.
The bay wouldn’t answer to “Fred.” He was very suspicious, and could not tolerate being restrained in any way. The moment he felt the crownpiece of his halter press against his poll he would retreat into a personal hell, frantically pulling back until he either broke free or fell down. His left ear was completely off limits, probably from being roughly twitched in the past. I spent hours quietly working around him, talking to him, and taking him for walks. His limp faded away, and I started to ride him slowly in the evenings after work. As the days gradually lengthened and his winter coat fell away under my insistent brushing, shiny dapples began to gleam through the clouds of muddy hair and the white of the star on his forehead and his two socks began to glow. The bay began to watch for me, his noble head expectant in anticipation of the undivided attention and the carrots I always brought for him. He was beginning to hope that he might be loved by his own special person. It was time for a new name. “Well, what do you want to be called?” I would ask him as we navigated the leafy lanes, the bay always moving quickly and purposefully now that his lameness had disappeared. I mused, “The name itself isn’t important as long as you know you’re safe and have a home for life. You’re leading the ‘life of Riley’ now you know!” The bay turned his head into the wind and snorted, and Riley he became. I found out later that the Oxford English Dictionary defined the phrase as “a comfortable, enjoyable, and carefree existence.” Perfect.
In flight.
Over our years together Riley and I competed throughout California in jumping, eventing, and even dressage. His buoyant character and zest for life prompted strangers to comment on his handsomeness, and the woman who hauled us to horseshows even named her frisky kitten after him. Competitive victories aside, Riley most loved to explore the trails after a storm had passed, when we would jump downed tree limbs with a flourish and canter on, eagerly looking for more. He would scream a welcome when he saw me, his tummy shaking with joy, and would send me flying with an exuberant head-butt. We went for picnics (Riley commanding his own peanut butter and jelly sandwich) and just hung out together, quietly drinking in each others’ company. As he grew older, Riley would continue to “ask” me to go for a short ride or to simply turn him loose in the barn aisle in order to boss the other horses over their stall doors, retaining dominance over his equine kingdom. My eyes swam with tears as I blindly patted the green blanket. After over twenty years together, Riley would never wear his blanket again. He had stayed with me until the grand age of thirty-one, and had passed into the next world with my arms cradling his head, my endearments whispered into his ears, and my broken heart streaming great tears of loss and loneliness onto his neck. He was the horse of a lifetime, the one that can never be replaced, and the green blanket will not be used again. -- Anne Ahlman
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Riley at home.
