Written by Caleigh Smith
The jumps and arena shrink in my peripheral vision for the last time this break as I consider the long drive back to school the next morning. The bobbing head and neck of my dutiful chestnut mare, Bitsy, dip and rise in front of me as I squeeze her on over the narrow ditch between us and the barn. My hips swaying with hers, we climb the gravelly hill to her halter, dangling from a bar to the left of the barn.
“Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.” Her hooves patter a short beat as we come to rest on the faded black rubber mats. I scratch between her ears and tell her how wonderful she is before swinging one leg over her to match the other and hopping to the ground with a louder “thud.” My coach walks out of the barn.
“You did great today,” she says. I hide a prideful yet shy smile behind my horse.
“Thanks,” I mumble, returning her upheld hand in a high five over Bitsy’s back.
She puts up one stirrup as I do the same on the opposite and undo the girth. She removes the saddle and I hand her the bridle. Bitsy nudges me, making her lead rope clasp clink like a muted bell under her chin. I scratch the seam between her lips and she raises her head, pulling back her upper lip to reveal young, strong teeth. I begin currying her fluffy winter coat, pulling wads of hair from the comb and dropping them to the warming spring earth.
My trainer comes from behind me in the barn and I hand her the comb as I finish currying my side. She begins on the other. I grab the hard brush and repeat the process. We brush and comb and detangle and pick in silence, Bitsy occasionally nickering to her companions in the pasture below. My trainer hands me a slightly wilted carrot that I hold out. Bitsy takes a less-than-polite chomp.
I pull the loose end of her blue fading lead rope and collect a loop to lead her back to her friends. She dutifully follows and nudges my back pocket for another carrot. “Sorry babe, you ate the last one,” I tell her, scratching her jaw. “You never stop, huh?” I ask under my breath as I wipe a clump of hair on my breeches. She nudges my arm as if to reply and I smile.
We crunch, scrape, and chatter our way back to the pasture where her friends Milo and Walker whinny for her urgent return.
“Don’t forget to put on her fly mask!” My trainer yells to me from the barn.
“Okay, Mom!” I yell back. The smile remains as I give Bitsy a final rub and release her, fly mask and all. They canter and buck and crow hop away as I attach her halter to the gate.