Albert – Part two
The Introduction
And now it is time for me to tell you a bit about the stately beast himself. When purchased, Albert was an approximately thirteen-year-old, 14.3 hand (everywhere), palomino, old-style quarter horse type gelding. John Gilroy had purchased him sight unseen from the description, ” … a big, dumb cutting horse who’ll cut right out from under you … ” When asked if the animal stood sixteen hands, the dealer asserted, “Oh, easy.” John Gilroy thought he was stealing a large, agile animal that he could quickly turn around and sell profitably as a heavyweight hunter … and then there was Albert.
Nearly everything about Albert was titanic, that is everything except the length of his legs. He possessed a massive bone structure body-wide. #2 hooves planted firmly in a virtual square, Albert had little opportunity to lose his balance. When wearing his shaggy winter coat, Albert’s appearance was remarkably reminiscent of the short and stocky Thelwell ponies. Unfortunately, short, stocky, and upright also described the essential structures of his legs and shoulders. A feat of conformational engineering, this horse was not. What with the disproportionate length of back, shortness of legs, and insufficient acuteness of shock-absorbing angles, riding Albert delivered all the smoothness and comfort of sitting atop a jackhammer. However, these same physical flaws thoroughly negated the possibility of a hind imprint ever coming to within a foot of a fore imprint, thereby producing one of the shortest strides known to horsedom. He most certainly jammed my spinal column unrelentingly into the earth with every move, but at least he never created any lift beforehand. Thank goodness for small favors.
What the old man lacked in physical perfection, however, he more than made up for in attitude and mental acuity. In thirty-plus years with horses, I have ridden and encountered hundreds, perhaps thousands, of equine individuals. I can truthfully proclaim without hesitation that Uncle Albert was the most intelligent, proud, and stoical equine I have ever known. But the real key to the immediate and long-term success of our relationship … of our bond … lay in the fact that Albert and I shared a common psychological composition: we thought alike; we behaved alike; we reacted alike. Albert was the id of my ego.
Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s get back to the beginning of the horse and proud new owner’s life together. I now owned a horse with a halter (hmm … is there something missing here?). A trip to the tack shop seemed to be in order. To be honest, I cannot precisely remember who footed the initial bills for all those essential horsie supplies. My father was a pretty soft touch; it was probably him. I purchased grooming equipment, a lead rope, basic veterinary necessities, and a huge, dark green tack trunk (definitely my father’s doing). But there was still something missing, and it just so happened that one of the other boarders at John Gilroy’s had an attractive buck-stitched one with a matching headstall and breastplate for sale. Oh, Daaaad …
Apparently overwhelmed with guilt over my grandmother’s saintly contribution to the cause as well as my own ongoing financial commitment, my father just had to do what he could to help get things off on the right hoof. Either that, or I was just phenomenally spoiled. Either way, I soon possessed my first saddle; a cute little Tex Tan western equitation saddle. Did I mention that those many years of riding instruction I had taken up to that point were exclusively hunting seats and primarily aboard thoroughbreds? Did I also mention that poor Albert had never seen, much less worn, a saddle weighing less than thirty-five pounds or lacking a horn? There were certain adjustments to be made, and I was making the first of many.
You may have gotten the impression that my equestrian skills were decidedly low to mid-intermediate level at that time and that whatever momentary security I might have achieved in the saddle had a great deal more to do with my torpedo-length feet being wedged desperately into the stirrups and my vise-like death grip on the reins than any actual balance of seat and legs. Well, I’d like to set you straight, but unfortunately, you are straight. Now picture my dismay – my ignorant, then perplexed, then horrified dismay the first time I held western reins … one-handed, long (oh, so long) split reins. Where was his mouth? Where was my control? WHERE WAS MY SAFETY NET? This was not a happy experience. But then again, there was that horn … and those huge, reassuring stirrups. And lest we forget, Albert’s back really wasn’t all that far distanced from the ground beneath, he really didn’t cover much more than about eighteen inches at a stride (at any particular gait), and he really was quite spectacularly responsive to the very breath of a neck rein. Still, I never was altogether comfortable riding western.
Then at Christmas, Dad came through again. Those envelopes on the tree never looked quite as impressive as the mountain of gifts underneath, but we kids came to understand that those envelopes often held treasures too large or complicated for boxed presentation. Such was the case of the certificate for one new English saddle of my choice in an envelope marked “Laurie.” Now it was Albert’s turn to adjust. He did so far more readily than had I. In fact, he never actually seemed to notice the difference, or perhaps he just appreciated the absence of the long shank and curb chain and those extra twenty pounds on his back. Of course, this did mean that he had to increase his trot to more than two miles per hour to accommodate my attempts to post his otherwise upwardly immobile gait. The issue of “rein contact” made little impact. A direct rein was just as understandable to him as an indirect one, and he responded to it just as readily. And so the equestrian world had one more chunky little stock horse masquerading as the thoroughbred he would never be and never cared to be.
Now adequately outfitted, Albert and I and Beau and Lisa entered the next critical phase of our coupled education. Needless to say, Lisa and I spent every possible moment at John Gilroy’s. We made infinite discoveries of the possibilities, and the impossibilities, of equestrian adventure. We defined, stretched, and on one occasion in particular, broke boundaries of responsible ridership. I remember it well; Lisa would probably just as soon forget. It was a warm, though terribly muddy, Sunday afternoon; rain had temporarily turned the usually tidy outdoor environment of the stable into a formidable swamp. Lisa had prepared Beau for a ride and escorted him to the outdoor ring. I was still in the barn finishing up my usual meticulously executed pre-ride grooming duties on Albert (I’m not being facetious here; I really could just as contentedly groom Albert all day as ever get on his back). Working at the crossties, I was somewhat surprised just moments later to see Lisa wander dazedly through the door at the opposite end of the barn aisle and gaze bleary-eyed in my direction.
“Where’s Beau?” It would seem to be a reasonable question. The problem was, Lisa really shouldn’t have been the one asking it. As she approached, the distinct aroma of mud/manure wafted in my direction. She was bathed in it.
“What happened?”
“What day is it? Is it Thursday? I heard if you can’t remember what day it is, you have brain damage.”
“It’s Sunday (yeah, I know. So maybe I could have been a bit more comforting). What happened? Are you all right? Where’s Beau?”
“Where’s Beau? What day is it? Is it Thursday?” (Is there an echo in here?)
“It’s Sunday. I’ll go find Beau.”
“Where’s Beau?” Her panic was escalating. I left her briefly and found Beau standing unconcerned outside the barn. Lisa calmed somewhat upon seeing me lead him back in, but soon again we had to deal with the, “What day is it? Do I have brain damage?” dilemma.
I was beginning to wonder. Luckily, this was not my first encounter with a victim of a minor concussion (there was that time my younger sister had greeted my other younger sister with an enthusiastic, “Hi, Onion,” after suffering a tumble off her bike). This was, however, the first time I had to deal with such a calamity on my own. I no longer remember the exact circumstances; I can only assume it must have been a big horse show weekend, but I do remember that no one else was around the barn that day. I led Lisa into the clubhouse and left her again to call for reinforcements. Her parents were not answering. My mother did. She told me to keep Lisa quiet and alert (was it just me, or was there some small contradiction in those instructions?). Mom was on her way. Mom was also an interminable half-hour away.
I must admit that the “Beau … Thursday … brain damage” routine was starting to work my nerves a little. Lisa was also beginning to voice a desire to sleep. This could not be allowed. Something had to be done. The clubhouse sat at one end of the outdoor arena with a large picture window allowing visual access to all riding activities. I told Lisa I had a surprise for her; just sit tight, and DON’T GO TO SLEEP! I ran to the barn to get Albert. Then I did the unimaginable. I got on him bareback and rode him around the ring! Big deal, you may think, but for me, this was akin to Evil Knievel jumping the Grand Canyon without the motorcycle! I had always been terrified to ride bareback. Let’s face it, I had a history of falling off with absolutely no provocation even when firmly ensconced in a saddle. Riding bareback would seem to raise the question, “Why bother to mount at all?” Lisa had tried for years without success to get me to ride bareback. I was hoping this grand display of courage and dare-devilry would inspire her to remain attentive until Mom got there. It seemed to work. Either that or I was too busy watching my life flash before my eyes to notice her incoherent lack of interest. In any event, she was awake when my mother arrived.
We later managed to put together the events leading up to Lisa’s disconcerting condition. Apparently, she had been attempting to mount Beau in the unsure, post-rain footing of the ring when he slipped or spooked, or bucked, or ran off, or any combination thereof and deposited her unceremoniously in the muck. He was an Arab, after all, and prone to running off when so inspired. Not so, my trusty steed. Albert remained steadfast in his dependable and unflappable spirit. He would never run off. He would never buck, spook, or even slip. And there was that one other thing that he would never do …
End of part two – Continue to part three