Trinity

Her dull chestnut coat was dusty and matted with mud. Her stringy mane hung down her neck limp, and full of tangles and shavings. The small slope of her withers gradually gave way to a low swayed back, one of the worst cases I’d ever seen. She had no markings on her front legs but two small irregular socks on her hind legs were barely visible through the layer of dirt. She was a lousy example of a horse. Her stride was lazy and she was heavy on her forehand. In her 30 years of life, the mare had picked up many bad habits. She would refuse to lift her hooves when a child went to pick them out. They could spend well over 30 minutes trying but in the end most gave up and called for a trainer. She enjoyed tossing her head and pulling on the bit while standing or walking. This inevitably caused the rider much distress, making them pull back. A game of tug-of-war would begin. The rider would either give up or flip over her neck. When she accomplished this, she was satisfied.

Young girls came to camp looking to ride an athletic Thoroughbred, beautiful Arab or adorable white pony. Trinity was often ignored by the campers, because she wasn’t pretty. Her slightly mean personality often put people off, and caused her to be one of the few horses not ridden during camp sessions. I have to admit, when I first saw her, I was unimpressed. Yes, I was barely a pre-teen and not exactly very knowledgable in horse confirmation yet. But to me, she looked like a neglected pasture ornament. I was assigned to her. She pulled all her tricks on me and after trial and error, I learned what she was about. Despite her first impressions, this horse was full of personality. I remember fondly of going to her stall in the morning with her tack to being getting her ready for our morning ride. She would be laying down her eyes half closed and snoring contently. I’d try to get her to stand up, but she looked at me and clearly said “No”. I could almost see the sly smile in her eyes. While pulling her mane once, I tripped over her leg and fell down, landing directly in-between her chest and head. I was attempting to get up when she laid her head on my lap and closed her eyes. She sighed deeply. Since that moment, I’d always return to the barn at night and lay in the stall with her. The smell of the barn was comforting and her disposition was that of a mare caring for her foal.

I fell in love with her. I’d spend extra time with her after rides, grooming her and talking to her. I could look in her eyes, which were, surprisingly, anything but dull. The irregular star on her face gave her an almost quirky look to her. The mare was also humorous. When I turned around she enjoyed butting me with her head, making me fall over, often into a fresh pile of manure. When turning her out, she would follow me even after taking off her halter. When fetching her from turnout she’d trot circles around me, snorting delight. People would look at her and assume that she was an old school horse, void of personality and talent. But yet when we rode cross country courses, you could tell she was in her element. She could barely jump 2 foot anymore, but at every fence she pricked her ears, raised her arthritic legs as high as she could, and give it all she got. Inbetween fences she’d lift her head high and lengthen her stride. On occasion she’d give a playful buck that had at one point, made me fall off. But I smiled because the joy in her heart was almost over whelming.

I rode Trinity for two straight years at camp. She taught me more than any other horse has. Not only about riding and working around horses, but how to interpret their behaviors and actions. I can’t remember much about the night I heard she had died. I had stumbled home around 12, slightly tipsy from a friends party. I logged online and received an Instant Message from a friend who lived near the camp. Trinity's heart was failing her. A vet had been on his way to put her down. One of the trainers was walking her out of the barn when she went ballistic. She reared, causing her handler to fall down and loose her grip of the lead rope. Trinity had run like mad up the dirt road to the pasture where her friends were grazing. By the time the vet and staff found her, she was dead already. Laying down under her favorite tree with her friends grazing by her side. I cried. My drunken stupor didn’t help my actions. I went to my room and held the lock of her mane I had kept. I smelled in her horsey scent and remembered how amazing my time with her was. I fell asleep with it in my hand and my love for her in my heart.
I awoke the next morning with a slight hangover, more from the crying than from the booze the night before. I returned to my computer and stared at my desktop picture of her for awhile. I looked back at the Instant Message from my friend. “Her heart had failed her” she had said. Impossible I had thought. That mares heart had never failed.