M A R K J. BA R R E T T
Two-year-old Haley Jerkins tugs on her grazing pony Misty.
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MY FATHER CLAIMED to have entire conversations with horses. As horse whisperers go, he was an unlikely candidate. He was a gambler first and a horse breeder by necessity. His whole life revolved around gambling. His daily routine was a gambler’s life: up at four in the morning to go watch the horses train, a three-hour poker game starting at 11 a.m., back to the racetrack in the afternoon, blackjack at the casino every evening, and sometimes an after-hours bridge game. But underneath the tough Damon Runyon façade was a deep love for horses. He could not tolerate any mistreatment of horses and forbade the use of crops unless absolutely necessary. In the 23 years that I knew him, I only saw him get into a single knock-down fight. We were driving in the country and he saw a man beating a young horse. He stopped the car, jumped out, and without ever saying a word, punched the man. He then threw down a wad of money and ordered his chauffeur to walk the horse back to our barn about a mile away. The horse was a two-year-old mare named Esmeralda—not a good racehorse name, but my father was superstitious about horse names and never changed it. I think she won a race or two. Sometimes, when we found ourselves at various racetracks, he would dispense with the statistics, facts, and figures about a horse’s past performance and announce that before he plunked down any money on a horse, he would have to go talk to it first. He would then claim that a favorite could not possibly win because the horse was having a bad day or that an unlikely candidate was his choice because the horse told him he felt like running that day. He was never
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wrong. He was so sure of himself that he would buy the winning ticket and announce that he had bet on a different horse. He would then surprise everyone by pulling the winning ticket from his pocket after we’d thought he had finally lost his touch. I first talked to horses a few years ago when I was confined to a shed in the middle of a sudden and violent rainstorm with a couple of Argentinian polo ponies. They were the kind of horses people seldom bond with, part of a large string with a number branded on their rump, bred to win polo games and seldom rewarded (most polo ponies have to be taught about carrots—they’ve never seen one before and won’t open their mouths). As I stood under the shed roof waiting for the rain to end, I don’t even know why I opened a conversation with them. “You’re such nice horses, you really should have names instead of numbers. If you were my horses, I’d give you names and carrots.” The horses were so curious at the tone of my voice that their anxiety over the weather and being kept in a strange shed disappeared. They spent the rest of the time trying to get closer and closer until they blew warm air on my face. Although they don’t talk back to me as they did to my father, I’ve been talking to horses ever since. I say hello to them, I talk to them when I mount them, I thank them as I get off. I once stopped a runaway horse by talking to him in a loving way. It’s clear that all horses like to be talked to. Maybe we are all horse whisperers. Maybe some of us are even lucky enough to be talked back to. Try it the next time you meet a horse. —J. C. Suarès
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That night as he lay in his cot he could hear music from the house and as he was drifting to sleep his thoughts were of horses and of the open country and of horses. Horses still wild on the mesa who’d never seen a man afoot and who knew nothing of him or his life yet in whose souls he would come to reside forever.
BOB LANGRISH
A herd of mustangs.
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M A R K J. BA R R E T T
Gypsy Vanner Horse colt “Turly” leaps, rears, and plays with enthusiasm.
The Maltese Cat
P H O TO G R A P H E R U N K N OW N
RUDYARD KIPLING
et’s see,” said a soft, golden-colored Arab, who had been playing very badly the day before, to The Maltese Cat, “didn’t we meet in Abdul Rahman’s stable at Bombay, four seasons ago? I won the Paikpattan Cup next season, you may remember.” “Not me,” said The Maltese Cat, politely. “I was at Malta then, pulling a vegetable cart. I don’t race. I play the game.” “O-oh!” said the Arab, cocking his tail and swaggering off. “Keep yourselves to yourselves,” said The Maltese Cat to his companions. “We don’t want to rub noses with all the goose-
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rumped half-breeds of Upper India. When we’ve won the cup, they’ll give their shoes to know us.” “We shan’t win the cup,” said the Shiraz. “How do you feel?” “Stale as last night’s feed when a muskrat has run over it,” said Polaris, a rather heavy-shouldered gray, and the rest of the team agreed with him. “The sooner you forget that the better,” said The Maltese Cat, cheerfully. “They’ve finished tiffin in the big tent. We shall be wanted now. If your saddles are not comfy, kick. If your bits aren’t easy, rear; and let the saises know whether your boots are tight.” CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO POLO PONIES.
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Polo is thought to have originated in China and Persia around 2,000 years ago. Here, British men play the sport that was brought from India to England in 1872.
R I C H A R D T . N OW I T Z
A mother and foal Chincoteague Pony stand along the shore of the Chinoteague National Wildlife Refuge, Virginia. The Chincoteague Pony, a registered breed, is a feral horse that lives on the island of Assateague. Legend holds that a violent storm destroyed a 16th century Spanish galleon bound for South America near Assateague, a barrier island off the coast of Maryland and Virginia. A herd of Spanish horses escaped from the hold of the ship and swam the roiling waters to the refuge of the nearby shore. Others claim the herd to be descendents of horses turned out by 17th century colonial farmers who wished to avoid fencing laws and livestock tariffs on the mainland. Either way, the horses naturally bred down to a pony-sized breed through a combination of the island’s harsh conditions and a distinctive diet.
When I die, take my saddle from the wall Place it on my old pony, lead him out of his stall Tie my bones to my saddle and turn our faces to the West And we'll ride the prairie we love the best —VERSE FROM “I RIDE AN OLD PAINT”, A TRADITIONAL COWBOY SONG
R I G H T:
BOB LANGRISH
A cowboy in the western plains of the United States. OVERLEAF:
N O R M A N M AU S KO P F
The Santa Anita in Arcadia, California
K I T H O U G H TO N
The 1984 Olympic silver medalist in the three-day event, Karen Stives of the USA takes Ben Arthur over a jump.
There is no way to tell non-horsey people that the companionship of a horse is not like that of a dog, or a cat, or a person. Perhaps the closest two consciousnesses can ever come is the wordless simultaneity of horse and rider focusing together on a jump or a finish line or a canter pirouette, and then executing what they have intended together.