Kai, p.8
Kai, page 8
What’s up? wrote Frankie.
Nothing much. You?
There was a pause, then a picture. I peered at it. It was brown, and . . . I tapped on it, and instantly regretted it as the picture filled my screen. “Oh no, Frankie! You didn’t!” I started laughing as I relaxed back on my bed, sipping my orange juice and munching my muesli bar.
Cannot believe you texting me pics of horse poo.
Just be happy we can’t send smells through phones, she replied. Zen’s farting is worse than ever. I figured I may as well ask the Poo Doctor before taking it any further.
That’s what she’d started calling me lately because every day last week, as I took the wheelbarrow and shovel around Monty and Jarrah’s paddock, I couldn’t help looking for a connection between their behaviour and wellbeing, and what I was cleaning up. There were a lot of connections, I realised. Shannon had even changed their feed compositions based on my observations.
How’s his appetite? I texted back. What’s the grass in his paddock like right now?
A) Sluggish B) Brown and dry, she replied.
Maybe I should include this in my school presentation, I thought, as I sat down at my desk and pulled out my homework. Somewhere between school and home I’d decided it would be good to know more about brumbies, and so if I had to do a presentation on anything, this wasn’t a bad choice. It wasn’t going to be about Monty, though. Today, at lunch, when I went over to the handball courts, I’d decided I wasn’t going to tell anyone at school about Monty. Especially not Josh.
I wrote the word “poo” in my notebook, and then I crossed it out. City kids and country kids are similar in many ways, I’d realised, during my time in The Pocket. In some ways, though, they’re different, and when it came to horse poo, or the way I felt about Monty, I decided, the differences mattered more.
Zen’s poo problem was a clear case of dehydration, I decided, as I walked through the early morning streets, and I posted a comment about it for Frankie in the Dream Riders’ group text, just before I turned into Monty’s street. His new home was in the middle of a row of terrace houses all jammed up against one another, just like in my mine, except here, halfway down, were the huge wooden doors and carved stone arches that marked the entrance to the stables.
“They built these stables thirty years before they built the houses,” Dad said yesterday. “Back then, this whole area would have been just a bunch of stubbly fields and paddocks, with a few farmhouses scattered around, like in The Pocket. People would have walked here from the city, or come in carriages, just to see the races. They would have dressed in their Sunday Best and had picnics on the grass.” It was a funny thing to think of, now that this area was called the inner city and the paceway had moved way out west.
It was five minutes to six when I knocked on the big wooden doors. Ginger was already putting a billy on over a little campfire he’d made, with stones and corrugated iron, in the corner. Monty was watching from the round yard, and as soon as he saw me he whinnied and trotted over.
“I hope you like damper,” said Ginger, as he levered a foil-wrapped lump out of the coals. As he unwrapped it, the smell of freshly baked bread rose into the air.
“I love damper,” I said, scratching behind Monty’s ears.
“Get some of this into you, and then we’ll get started,” said Ginger, handing me a mug of tea and a thick slice of damper slathered in honey.
“Started on what, exactly?” I asked nervously, as I took a cautious sip. This had all been Jingy’s idea, and now, without her here to tell me what the next step was, I realised I had no idea what she’d signed me up for.
“You want to ride horses don’t you?”
“I guess so,” I said, through a mouthful of damper. “I mean, really I just want to be with Monty.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Well, I mean . . .” I had never liked the idea of riding before, but Storm thought I should do it. “Yes.”
The sweetness of the honey and the softness of the hot bread went perfectly with the strong, dark flavour of the tea. Not to mention that the mug was warming my hands, and suddenly riding Monty seemed like a great idea. I hadn’t been here for more than five minutes, I realised, and I already felt a one hundred percent better than I had yesterday.
“We’ll get him used to his surroundings, and into a routine,” Ginger was saying. “Get him and Muffin feeling good together. Muffin will like that, won’t you?”
As though he’d been waiting for his cue, Muffin stuck his head over his stable door and whickered.
“And then I’ll break him,” Ginger said.
I almost choked on my tea. “You mean you’ll gentle him, don’t you?” I said.
“It doesn’t matter what you call it,” he shrugged.
I took another sip of my tea. Obviously they used different words in the trotting world than in the natural horsemanship world, but Shannon had heard good things about Ginger – he was a little bit famous in horse circles, apparently – so hopefully it was going to be all right.
“I’ll get him started,” said Ginger, “and then it will be your turn. In the meantime, you and Muffin can get acquainted.” He handed me a bridle and gestured over his shoulder to where Muffin was still leaning over the door, his ears pricked forward curiously.
I wanted to say I had no real experience with horses, and that maybe it wasn’t the best idea for me to just walk in and put a bridle on a horse I didn’t know, but Ginger was bustling around, dousing the fire and talking in a low voice to Monty, so it didn’t seem like I had much choice.
I cautiously opened the stable door. Muffin was a big horse, but he lowered his head helpfully as I reached up to slip the strap over his head, and stood patiently as I fumbled with the knots. As I turned him around to lead him into the yard, he nibbled me lightly on the shoulder and nodded his head exaggeratedly, as though he was trying to be encouraging.
“He’s very friendly,” I said to Ginger, who was standing with Monty, waiting for us.
“He’s been lonely.”
As soon as we got close to them, Ginger turned and began leading Monty down the passageway at a brisk pace.
“Wait!” I said, my hands tightening on Muffin’s lead rope as Ginger opened the wooden doors. “You’re taking Monty outside into the street? Won’t that be a bit much for him? I mean, he’s a brumby, don’t forget, and it’s only his first day!”
“We need to build his confidence,” said Ginger, patting Monty’s neck and beckoning me and Muffin to join them in the middle of the street. “He needs to be out and about in the world, if you’re going to be riding him. You need to be able to go places with your horse. Besides, what else are these two going to do all day? Stand around in the yard?”
Suddenly there seemed to be cars and dogs and prams and garbage bins everywhere. Muffin was obviously a pro at this, because he took everything in his stride, including a big dog on a lead who was staring at us as though he’d never seen a horse before. Which, quite possibly, he hadn’t.
Monty, on the other hand, was jumpy, shying at things and starting, but Ginger just ignored it and kept walking, as though nothing was happening at all.
“This is where you’ve got to show leadership,” said Ginger, as we walked past a particularly scary-looking set of bins. I’d never realised bins could be scary before, but today I realised they were bright and huge and kind of weird the way they stood so tall and packed together in creepy groups like that.
We turned the corner, and the big block of land where the races used to be opened out before us – with four lanes of roaring traffic in between.
“Keep going, keep going!” called Ginger as a car slowed down behind us, and another one pulled out in front. Monty’s steps had been getting slower and slower as we approached the main road, and now suddenly he shied, pulling his head so fast that his halter rope almost slipped out of Ginger’s grasp.
“Oh no!” I cried from behind, clutching Muffin’s lead rope so tightly it felt as though my knuckles might break.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” tutted Ginger, pulling lightly on Monty’s lead rope and glancing around at the cars, which were bunching up now in a long, snaking queue behind us. Monty looked as though he wanted to jump right out of his skin. But just when I thought he might be about to, he abruptly started walking again, and we continued on to the paceway.
“That was bad timing,” I said, as we walked past a security guard, who lifted the boom gates for us, and then on through a massive carpark.
“No, it’s good timing,” said Ginger. “It’s good for little issues to come up. It helps to build Monty’s confidence, and keeps him from getting caught up in the fear and surprise that he’s feeling. You’ve just got to show leadership, and stay cool and calm and collected, like you just did.”
I thought I’d been panicking; I was glad it hadn’t looked that way to Ginger.
A moment later we had crossed the tracks and were standing in the middle of the paceway, on what seemed to be an enormous green field.
“And here we are,” said Ginger, unclipping Monty’s lead rope and giving him a slap on the rump as he trotted away.
My hands were shaking as I unclipped Muffin’s lead rope. I felt exhausted, but Muffin and Ginger didn’t seem to have been through anything. The odd thing was that Monty didn’t seem to be stressed, either.
“Looks they like each other,” I said. Muffin had trotted off a little way and was eating some grass. After looking around wildly for a moment, Monty was doing the same, standing as close to Muffin as possible as they grazed.
“I could tell by the way they were in the round yard together yesterday that they were going to get along. Muffin took one look at your Monty here and thought ‘my new best friend’.”
“So what do we do now?” I asked, after a little while.
“Nothing.” Ginger was leaning with his arms folded on the edge of the fence that went right around the enormous paceway, whistling though his teeth. Although I could see and hear the big city roads on either side of the paceway, in here it felt almost as peaceful as being in The Pocket. There were no other people around, just us and our two horses. I could see why Muffin might have been finding it lonely. I could see why Ginger might have been finding it lonely, too.
“How long are we going to be doing nothing for?” I asked.
“For the next two weeks, at least.”
“Two weeks!” Just the thought of doing nothing for the next five minutes was making me feel slightly edgy.
“We need to get Monty used to things, and you need to get used to them, too.”
“But what about Muffin? Won’t he get bored?”
“Muffin’s in heaven, just having a friend again.” Ginger sighed. “He’s been mourning his old mate, Mimi. She was a beautiful horse. A good runner, too, and not lazy, not like Muffin. They were such good friends, for so long. Muffin hasn’t known what to do with himself since she died.” Ginger took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, waving away my sympathetic look. “You’re always missing someone. It shows you cared.”
“Had you had them for long?” I asked curiously, as I thought about that. It made sense of how I’d missed Jingy, even though I’d been so happy in The Pocket. And how much I was missing Frankie – and everyone in Mullumbimby – even though I was so glad to be living back with my family again.
“Only thirty-five years.”
Thirty-five years! I didn’t even know a horse could live that long. That meant I would be in my forties when Monty died.
“I got them both when they were young things. Took them on, broke them in, and trotted them until we all retired.” He sighed, and shook his head. “There used to be horses everywhere, but the herd dynamics change most dramatically when you go from two to one. That’s why I put up that ‘Horse Wanted’ sign.”
“Did you get many other applicants?” I asked, making conversation while I tried to imagine what my life was going to be like for the next thirty-five years with that responsibility slung around my neck.
“We had lots of applicants,” said Ginger. “There are loads of people around here who fancy the idea of a horse. The trouble is, they’re too picky about things. They want a dressage arena, and a this and a that, and for it all to look nice. They want to bring their own instructors and maybe have a jumping arena as well.” He snorted.
“Are there places like that in Sydney?” I asked curiously.
“Oh yes. Where the horses are kept in a stable all day on their own with no one visiting them. They’re in purgatory. They can’t go anywhere. They can’t do anything. It’s in a horse’s nature to move and graze, but these ones just stand in a stall 24/7, waiting for their owner or someone their owner’s hired to come and take them out. It’s like prison. Ugh!” he shuddered.
“So this is what we’re going to be doing, mainly?” I asked, just making sure.
“For the next two weeks, at least,” repeated Ginger comfortably.
“And this is all a part of his training?” I said doubtfully. Shannon had said Ginger was famous, but this seemed to be particularly low key.
“Some trainers can do it fast, but I don’t see why there’s any rush. I call it ‘no agenda time’, which is the lazy person’s way of getting a horse to trust you.” He went over to a little shed in the corner of the paddock and dragged out two chairs, which he unfolded. He sank into one, patting the other, encouraging me to sit. “I also find that it’s best accomplished sitting down.”
I laughed, but then I realised he was serious, and sat down next to him. The horses looked much bigger, and the grass much higher, from here.
“You’re less threatening seated than when you’re standing,” said Ginger, “and staying seated also restricts your mobility. The horses know that. Those horses know how we’re feeling and how fast our hearts are beating. They know everything about us that there is to know.”
I looked at Monty and Muffin, who seemed to be grazing peacefully. Ginger stretched his legs out and rested them on the plastic bucket which, I realised, he had placed the perfect distance away.
“Every fear of human is caused by a human,” said Ginger, yawning again. “We want to make sure, from the beginning, we never give our horses any reason to have any fear, and that begins with us teaching them how to relax.”
On my way to school that morning, I put my tongue behind my teeth and tried to whistle through them the way Ginger had, but all that came out was a funny rustling sound.
From then on, we spent a lot of time sitting in those chairs, but somehow, I never got bored. We talked about trotting and brumbies, mostly, with long, comfortable stretches of silence in between.
“They’re tough and good horses – those little ones,” said Ginger, one day. “They were heroes in the First World War, as much as any soldier. If I had my way, they’d march in the Anzac Parade.”
It was hard to imagine Monty in a war, when at that moment he was nosing around our chairs, hoping for some alfalfa, which yesterday Ginger had put a tiny bit of in their hay, for a special treat.
“Were you there, Ginger?” I asked curiously.
“No, boy! I wasn’t born until twenty years after. I’m not that old!”
Another time he told me about the brumby he adopted when he was just nine years old. “Fly, I called him. He was brought to the abattoir near where I lived. He was a little fella, and he just flew over the fence. He saved himself. So I took him home with me.”
Monty had started coming right up to us every day by then, to hang around next to our chairs, and Ginger reached out to scratch him on the spot he particularly liked, above his eyes.
“Within six weeks I had Fly jumping around a course. He was a natural jumper. My family became his group, and he just loved being with us. He used to get upset if we went to shows without him, so in the end we took him with us everywhere, even when he wasn’t jumping.”
“What happened to him?” I asked idly, watching Muffin’s gait as he came ambling over.
“I had to leave him behind when I moved to the city, didn’t I? He lived out in the paddock behind my parents’ house until he died. But I missed him. I missed him a lot.” Ginger sighed.
“I’m sorry, Ginger,” I said.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face. “As you get older you learn it’s all about missing.”
“You’re always missing someone,” I chimed in.
He smiled, as I let him say the last bit on his own.
“It shows you cared.”
That night I texted for a long time on the Dream Riders’ group text with Frankie and Storm and Violet. They updated me on what Jarrah was doing, as well as Morning Mist, and Zen and Paris. I updated them on Monty. Although apart from telling them it was more fun than I expected hanging around together in a field all the time, I didn’t have much news.
“Ginger, I’ve been thinking,” I said, a few days later. “What happened to the trotters you didn’t want any more, once they finished racing? I know you couldn’t afford to put them all out to pasture, and not everyone found a home, did they?”
“And so?” Ginger looked at me, for the first time ever, with the slightest bit of hostility.
“It’s like what happens to the brumbies who get taken out of the national parks, isn’t it?” I struggled on. “The ones who don’t get adopted.”
“They get taken to the abattoir and killed for dog meat,” said Ginger shortly. “It’s not pretty.”
“But . . . didn’t it make you feel bad?” I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say, except that I wanted Ginger to tell me something that would make it all seem all right. “I mean . . .” My voice trailed away. I had never been to an abattoir, but I knew – from a few searches I’d done online – that I never wanted to.
Ginger shook his head at me and then looked away. “There’s plenty you need to look at, son, if you want to see life as it is. As long as they’re killed properly, that’s the most we can ask for. There’ll always be too many horses in the world. You can give them a good life and a good death. You can be kind, and you can be responsible.”
