A Devil Named Dancer

A Devil Named Dancer

      The greatest privilege of any kid under 12 who rides at Lasting View Morgans is when Rollie, the instructor, tells you to "go grab Dancer instead today." For me, those magical words were spoken in my second lesson, and I thought I would burst with pride. All novices started out on an old mare named Temptation. Though not a bad little horse, she never promised a very exciting ride either. I doubted she would flinch at the sound of a small bomb exploding at her hooves. No, I believed I was prepared for more of a challenge.
      That day, as with many other days to follow, I passed by Temptation's paddock and instead ventured on to the next field to catch Dancer. In technical horse terms, she is best described as a bright bay, but in 4th grade I knew her as,"the reddish-brown one with the black mane, tail and legs." Unlike Temp, whose normal expression consisted of dazed sleepiness bordering on comatose, Dancer was the very picture of alertness with small, black-lined ears pricked, black eyes wide and curious, and a small stripe of white on the end of her nose. Thrilled, I slipped the halter over her deceivingly delicate-looking face, and proceeded to walk her back to the barn with a confident one-handed hold on the lead rope, as I'd seen the older girls do. Reveling in my superior horsemanship, I was taken by surprise when a sudden jerk on the rope sent me flying onto the turf. I looked up, astonished, to see Dancer calmly munching on a tuft of grass about five feet away. Determined not to let her get the better of me, I got up and tugged at the rope. I pulled. I yanked. Finally, I got a running start and threw my whole weight into her shoulder, bouncing off and almost falling over backwards. The pony raised her head to give me a slightly miffed look before I took advantage of the situation and dragged her toward the barn. I already had sweat beading on my forehead, and we hadn't even tacked up.
      I faced many trials that first day. So unlike Temp, who robotically responded to even the weakest of clues, Dancer preferred to test me at every opportunity. I learned to wrestle a stubborn hoof off the ground, how to stick my fingers in her mouth to prize her mouth open for the bit, and how to trick her into letting out the breath she always tried to hold in as I tightened the girth. And that was only the preparation for out ride.
      I swung up into the saddle, ready for an exciting lesson. Rollie instructed us to walk on down the rail, and I tapped Dancer's sides lightly with my booted heels. Nothing happened. I pressed harder. Nada. Finally, I gave her a colossal kick, like the cowboys do in the movies. Needless to say, it didn't have the same effect. Rollie just handed me a crop. Eventually, we built some forward momentum, my legs screaming in protest within the first ten minutes. Sure, Dancer looked like the one carrying me around, but I'm sure I was working twice as hard.
      After a few weeks came my first canter, the biggest achievement since the posting trot. I prided myself on being the first of the three riders in my 5th grade class to canter, though I'm sure my first time was significantly more eventful than theirs. My instructor got on first and gave me a demonstration of what the canter looked like. It was beautiful, poetic. I could just see myself cantering bareback along the beach... I positively bubbled with excitement as I mounted up again. I quickly realized however, that cantering itself is not nearly, not even a fraction as hard, as getting the canter in the first place. I felt like a rodeo cowboy, reins gripped fiercely in one fist as the other wielded my crop. Luckily, I'd been advised to stand in the stirrups, otherwise the string of bucks she let out in protest would have sent me flying. As it turned out, we made it halfway around the indoor arena before passing the massive mirror mounted on one wall. Thrilled with my success and relishing the speed at which we flew down the rail, I didn't see the warning as Dancer's ears started to pin flat to her head.The next thing I knew, I hit the sand in a cloud of dust, looking up in bewilderment to see Dancer craning her neck to look back at me. Her expression clearly said, "What the heck are you doing down there?" Fighting a laugh after realizing I was all right, my instructor explained, "I think she just hates her reflection!" I rolled my eyes and mounted up again. This time, I had a sweet battle scar on my once shiny black helmet.
      Over the years, I grew stronger and smarter. As I matured, Dancer seemed to increase her level of attacks. When I finally learned to jump, she discovered the joy of refusing fences and dumping me over the other side. Never once did she fail to amaze me as I would watch her trot calmly around the arena with a complete beginner, yet buck and rear with my instructor on board. Eventually, the all-out evolved into a sort of game. With each passing week, I began to win more and more often, until the day came when Rollie approached me just as she had years before.
      "Why don't you ride Breck today?" Those words were bittersweet. I'd come to love the adorable Dancer, even with her devious mindset. We'd worked out an agreement of sorts. I'd respect her, and in turn, she would respect my leadership. We set a barn record for the number of bounces jumped in a row, and astounded younger children with stunning displays of rodeo acrobatics. It never occurred to me that I would have to once again move on. But move on I did. Breck and I were the perfect pair. He was a much fancier horse than Dancer, and had been better trained. I had grown into an accomplished young equestrian, my balance and strength honed by one devil of a school horse. Together, Breck and I progressed steadily until our trainer decided we were fully-fledged eventers ready to enter the world of competition.
      About a year after I began riding Breck, I leased my first horse. Though I loved Scooter with all my heart, I always had a soft spot for the little bay in the last stall. Even after I lost Scooter, and moved on yet again to a new horse in a new barn, I still worked once a week at Lasting View, and always remembered to bring an extra peppermint. To this very day, I see Dancer on a weekly basis. She no longer gives me any trouble at all, content to follow me meekly out to her pasture. I'd passed her test. Like old rivals turned friends long after the competition is done, we now look forward to those calm Sunday mornings.
      Of all the many horses I've ridden, Dancer doesn't even rank in the top ten most fun. We never won any ribbons together, nor did we make the most graceful pair. However, I know now that I would never be here today, riding a massive, athletic, obstinate young gelding like my current project without the skills given to me by that one little bundle of fury. Without her, I might have given up on horses altogether, as a tight budget often means getting the free -- and most quirky -- horses. So thank you, Dancer, for being a devil, as well as the best teacher I've ever had.

THE END