Falling off of the babysitter
The cold February wind whips up behind Caprichosa’s hocks along with two raggedy dogs who are ambushing us from their hiding place behind the doublewide trailer. More than the usually-bomb-proof-babysitter-mare can tolerate, her hindquarters ratchet up beneath her and she springs forward one, two, three, four spooked strides (no more thank God) while my nine-year-old daughter, terrified, freezes in the saddle and forgets how to ride. Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler rushes after the interlopers. I’m yelling, “J., pull back on the reins and sit down in that saddle,” while the surprised little girl leans forward, hangs precariously to one side, and topples off onto the ground.
Caprichosa carefully lifts each hind hoof up over my prone daughter as she begins trotting down the trail towards home, loose reins flopping from side to side, nose in the air, tail arched in a question mark. I jump off of my own horse, pulling the appaloosa behind me while panting, “J, are you OK? Are you OK?” punctuated by yelling Cap’s name as if the Andalusian horse is a large dog I can somehow keep from cruise controlling all the way home.
J. is fine, but shaken. That’s a long way to fall, and her first fall from her trusted Cap. Four uncontrolled and fearful strides on an animal 20 times your size—even a good spook in place—can be daunting for a child. I am immediately thankful for the helmet fastened securely beneath J.’s chin and the over-stuffed goose-down vest I insisted she wear because it probably cushioned her fall. She’s trying not to cry, but the tears squeeze from her eyes and roll down her cheeks. She rubs her nose with her sleeve. Sniffles. I hug her tight.
There’s a train track in between here and home. J. knows this too. I tie my horse to a tree and call to Cap one more time. The excited mare is sniffing the ground, not quite certain what to do with her unexpected freedom. One ear cocks towards me. I hold my breath. She lifts her head, then swings back into a trot in our direction. She halts when she reaches us, standing quietly while I pick up the reins
“Good Cap,” I say, petting her neck, overwhelmed with relief. The horse stares at me with liquid black eyes, not seeming to understand what all of the fuss is for. I tie her to a pinon as well.
Through the pines, the wind sings a high thin tune. Jessie and I sit together in the buffalo grass and catch our breath. The dogs that jumped us are nowhere to be seen, thanks to Matilda-the-tenacious heeler, I think. When she’s ready, I pick J. up and boost her onto the back of my much shorter appaloosa mare. She will feel slightly safer at that lower elevation for the return ride. In fact, I walk, leading everyone home.
J. and I ride again on Sunday afternoon without incident. Caprichosa is in full babysitting mode, and there is no big wind to stir her up. Not that it necessarily would anyway. She is generally impervious to fear.
Not me.
Matilda and I keep a sharp lookout for dogs. I try not to be an overbearing mother and fight the temptation to look back at J. and Cap every few minutes or ride back to circle around them. I only talk a little bit about maintaining your seat and not getting too cozy up there in the saddle, no matter how much you trust your horse.
My little girl is one gritty kid.
Flickr photos: http://flickr.com/photos/nikkisioux/97984879/>nikkisioux; nikkisioux; nikkisioux
