There comes a few times in your life when there’s such a special horse that truly touches your life. For me, one of these horses was a plain grade chestnut named Red.
Red was an ordinary looking horse in every sense of the word. He was an average colored chestnut with a stripe and two hind socks, plus a foresock. His head was plain and he was a common 15.1 hands high or so, but it was his personality that set him truly above the rest of the equine world.
It was the last week of camp and Norm the horsemanship director asked me if I had a preference in what horse I wanted to be assigned to for the week. I didn’t exactly have a preference and left it up entirely up to Norm to match me up with an equine partner. On Monday I was surprised to see I was assigned to a horse named Red. I had not the slightest clue who this horse was or anything about him, which was terribly surprising as I knew most of the forty or so horses at camp, but soon I would learn much.
A wrangler helped me find Red on Monday, picking his drab form from amongst a group of seven or eight chestnuts which quietly socialized. I slipped a halter over his muzzle and I just couldn’t figure out anything that set this horse apart from his counterparts. He was just so plain and boring in appearance. I flashed Norm a questioning look, but said nothing as I guided Red out of the corral gate and tied him to a hitching post. Amongst the vigorous strokes of the curry, I learned, indeed, appearances don’t tell all. His manners were perfect and he was a perfect gentlemen, responding to my requests for him to move over and lift each of his hooves.
I was surprised at his excellent behavior, as I had come to not expect this in horses. The last two ranch horses I had been assigned were Desert Pete and Nevada Cloud, an aggressive herd patriarch and Bureau of Land Management mustang respectively. They were hellions in each of their own ways and Red’s angelic nature was a real treat.
His manners were not just limited to the ground. Under saddle, he was willing, listened well, and I felt as if I could trust him. Nevada Cloud and Desert Pete had been experts in the field of rearing, but I found no vices within Red. I was assigned to Norm’s riding group and I knew this would be a week to remember.
The scent of pine trees was rich and mingled with the warmth of the summer days that Red and I spent together that week. There were the games of fox and the hound, in which Red joined in the spirit of gaily running through the sun-dappled woods searching for the hidden rider. I remember my struggle to finally conquer the evil lead changes, but somehow Red understood my confusing signals. He was as dependable as the rising of the sun in the horizon each day, painting the whole world with his personality.
If every man and beast had the heart that Red possessed, I truly believe there would be peace on Earth. He strived to perform what I asked of him and never fought my decisions. Absolutely, without a doubt, Red would have walked off a cliff that week if I asked him. Our hearts would be intertwined that week and I truly loved Red for all that he was and I saw beyond that drab chestnut coat into the vivid heart that lay beating within his great chest.
But alas, a week cannot last forever and as the summer ended, I knew that my time spent with Red was not enough. On Friday I went to take my blue horsemanship test. I had failed it twice before on my poor prior mounts due to circumstances beyond my control, but I knew that I could achieve what had eluded my grasp before with Red beneath me. He was perfect and went through the exercises flawlessly, easily switching gaits and making my riding look flawless. I now knew what it was like to ride a good horse.
That night when the blue scarf was tied about my neck at the campfire in success, I wished that Red were standing there besides me, for I would have affixed that scarf to his bridle, as he was one half of the victorious occasion. The following morning was full of mixed emotions. The end of the summer was here, terribly abrupt like a mountain in the middle of a smooth landscape, but I was yearning for a return back to my scholastic life. It had paid off in the end that week to trust Norm’s judgment and for that I am entirely grateful, for Norm’s simple choice of matching a horse and rider made an impact on me for my life.
The following summer I returned to camp as staff, but Red was not there as a riding horse. He was there, yes, but had a terrible case of thrush and could not be ridden. He was constantly being treated with a medicated packing, but it didn’t seem to help. The wet soil of camp didn’t help his condition any and I wished that he would recover so once more I could feel what it was to fly without wings. Fortune wasn’t on my side and I did not have the opportunity to ride him that summer, but instead just gave him a gentle scratch or two.
A year passed and in habit I came back to camp. I sought out my beloved Red, but it hurt to see his condition. He still had reoccurring thrush and his hooves were taped to attempt to seal in more medication to help him heal.
I still recall the one day when I was muddy from chasing horses around the corral and catching them for the farrier. I couldn’t find Red, but then I went around to the side and saw him resting in a shelter. Upon looking into those giant melancholy eyes, I wondered if he too remembered better days. His manners were still perfect despite his two year vacation and easily was easily lead to where the farrier waited. The farrier started picking out his hooves and I saw it: the tiny trickle of red blood that was possibly an indication of infection within the hoof. I was crestfallen. Not my Red. He had never deserved to be sidelined for so long and didn’t deserve the ongoing thrush and definitely not an infection.
I wish I could say he got better and is grazing out in the pasture with the rest of his chestnut buddies atop camp’s Victory Hill and overseeing all of the landscape around him with a mouthful of grasses half chewed. But I cannot.
The last day I saw him was when I was coming down after lunch. My jeans were muddied from the rain and soil, but the sun was out and beginning to dry the filth. I kicked a rock when I reached the parking lot and then I saw the trailer. It was a huge stock type trailer and certainly not the small two-horse trailer that camp commonly used. It was the horse dealer’s trailer.
The horse dealer trades horses with camp. He would come every year or so and trade camp horses and pick up horses in return. I hated the horse dealer as I despised having to see any of our senior citizens leave camp’s grounds, but I was not prepared for what I saw next.
Red, along with three other horses, Zach, Mandy, and Henry, were being lead up the hill’s stairs towards the trailer. They were taking my beloved Red. I slipped through some side trees to avoid being seen and hid within the tack shed. I couldn’t come to terms with my overwhelming emotions to say a proper goodbye. I would never be certain of Red’s future, as the horse dealer often sold horses at auction and I knew the fate of many of these auction horses. Red didn’t deserve this fate. He was a quiet, willing horse in the prime of his life, but with a terrible case of thrush. If I had had the money at the time, I would have purchased Red on the spot. He was worth his weight in gold, but I didn’t have the money to pay his ransom.
Inside the tack shed, I found little to console me. There was a small photo of Red taken several years ago in his full winter coat, barely resembling the horse that had left just a few minutes before. I traced the outline of the photo and blowing the dust off of my fingers. I then glanced upwards and saw the wall before me. Whenever a horse at camp was sold or died, his or her tack nametag was hung up there. I solemnly walked over to Red’s old tack rack and pulled the laminated diamond shaped tag off and rubbed his name, as if I could wish him back. I found a thumbtack and hung his name up on the wall and barely could contain the tears. Heather, one of the new horsemanship directors, had come inside the tack shed and asked me to move Red’s old saddle onto the rack where unused saddles went. I picked up the saddle and it weighed me down, as if made of lead. My terrible grief was contained to save face and I gingerly laid Red’s saddle down upon the unused rack.
My attention was then caught by the new horses and pony wandering around in one of the smaller corrals. I felt bitter and angry towards them, even though I knew it wasn’t their fault that Red was gone. They were just animals being shuffled around due to the whim of humans and couldn’t even plead their cases. I lost the malice towards them, but the sorrow remained.
Later that day, Red’s old rack was taken over by the feisty pony dubbed Napoleon and the little pony saddle soon took place where Red’s tack had sat for so long unused. I then realized that I was probably one of the last people ever to sit astride Red, to feel the wind in my hair, and to learn all that he had to offer.
That night Red was in my dreams and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Being the authority figure, I could not be weak and cry in front of my campers, so I cried in my dreams. I dreamt of the heart that Red possessed and that perhaps someone could guide him along the way and that he would not suffer. Maybe, just maybe, someone would take a chance on a plain colored gelding and look beyond the thrush and the looks and find what a heart he truly had.