Untitled - Campbell University

Gypsy suddenly reaches his head back, teeth bared, and I yelp and jump
backward, convinced that he’s trying to bite me. But no, he’s just scratching at an
itch on his shoulder, probably where a fly had landed. Satisfied, he straightens his
head and quietly waits for me to continue grooming him. My hand is shaking when
I do, fighting the urge to flee to my car and drive away.
“You’ve got to stop this,” I say aloud to myself. Gypsy’s ears swivel backward
to catch the sound of my voice. “You can’t keep jumping at everything. You’ll be
okay. Stop freaking yourself out.”
Easier said than done.
I set down the currycomb and start brushing his coat, lifting the dirt from
his body with short, brisk strokes. Gypsy snorts and stomps one hoof to dislodge
a couple of flies that have landed there. I flinch but don’t draw back, and I will my
heart to slow down as I continue brushing him.
I remember the first day I’d seen him. Rachel, my riding instructor and
owner of the ranch where Gypsy is boarded, had suggested I take a lesson with him
to see how we cooperated, and I’d been amazed how quickly I’d fallen for him. He
was obedient, gentle, and patient, yet he had a certain spunk that I couldn’t help but
admire. After that, he was the only horse I’d wanted to ride for my lessons, and on
my seventeenth birthday, my parents had purchased him for me. He was mine.
One month later, I’d fallen off.
Rachel had told me at the beginning of my lessons that every horseman falls
off. It just happens, and there’s no avoiding it. So I’d been half-expecting it.
But this fall…
Done with the brush, I grab the hoof pick and lift his left foreleg. I dig the
point into the compacted dirt and muck and scoop the mess out of the grooves, but
my mind isn’t on the task. It’s on the circumstances surrounding that day one month
ago. I see the arena before me, I feel the motion of my horse beneath me, and I
remember asking him to pick up a canter, something I’ve done a hundred times
before. And then…
Finally done cleaning his hooves, I start to tack Gypsy up. The brown leather
English saddle goes on first, and as I fasten the girth, my horse takes a deep breath,
ensuring that I can’t tighten the leather strap around his barrel. I chuckle. “You’re
too smart for your own good,” I inform him, leaving it loose for now. I will tighten
it later, once he has relaxed. It’s an old trick he does. You’d think he’d figure out that
I know about it.
Then it’s the bridle, a mass of thin leather straps and buckles all centered
around the metal bit that I slip into his mouth. I’m lucky to have a horse that
doesn’t fight the bit like so many others do. Truly, Gypsy is a blessing.
Then why am I so afraid of him
I put on my riding helmet – the gesture feels like signing my own death
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