by
Sharon Bachman
I remember sitting high up in the bleachers at the NCHA horse
sale in Fort Worth, nervously watching my husband, Bill, bid on number 59. It was painted on both sides of
her hips like the tattoo of a holocaust survivor. She was Friday's
Statement, a little, plain sorrel cutting mare, intended just for me.
The auctioneer's sing song voice
sounded like a rap song playing as I watched her work a cow. My husband bid.
Each time he raised his hand a spotter hollered, “YUUUP” interrupting the song.
From where we sat, I could see her muscles quiver as she perfectly
mirrored the cow. She
floated across the pen on unseen wings, mane and tail flowing freely in the
breeze she created. Her red
body glistened under the lights like a finely waxed automobile. A small white star graced her forehead. A simple stamp of approval, the
only white on her body.
I nudged Bill and told him not to bid any higher. He ignored me and raised his
hand again. A chill ran down my spine as the auctioneer's voice
reverberated in my chest. SOLD! I
heard the gavel drop with a thud on the wooden podium. A murmur ran
through the crowd, then silence. It all started again as the next horse
stepped into the pen. It was as if the crowd had already forgotten number
59.
I signed my name to the purchase
agreement, hands shaking in rhythm with my heart. The runner muttered a
congratulations, at least that’s what I thought I heard. I couldn’t wait
to see her up close. By now her rider should have her cooled out and back
to the stall. Unable to contain myself any longer, I jumped up, stepped
on Bill’s foot, excused myself and briskly made my way to the barn area.
As I counted down the stalls, I got the same feeling I had as a child waiting
to see what Santa left under the tree—61, 60, 59. I stepped up to the
stall door and peered through the bars. There she was, so tiny in
comparison to the big, raw-boned ranch horses I grew up with. I would
christen her Friday. I
stepped through the door to appraise my gift. She had a delicate, chiseled
head, like a fine piece of art. She looked at me with big, brown, kind
eyes. Satisfied with what she saw, she slowly lowered her head and stared
back at the floor of her stall. There was a sadness about her. Heavy,
half closed lids hid any sparkle in her eyes. If only she could talk. I
wondered if she’d like Nevada.
I reached out a hand and gently touched her forehead. She took my gesture
as an invitation to step forward and place her head on my chest. Someone had
loved this little mare. I was overwhelmed by her kind and gentle nature.
I was in love. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a treat. I
picked the fuzz off and handed it to her on an open palm. Trainers scoff
at treats, but she knew exactly what it was and gently took it from my
hand. Crumbs fell shamelessly from her mouth as she munched.
Our short, but passionate, relationship had begun.
Texas is a long way from Nevada. Our plane touched down long before
Friday arrived. December in Northern Nevada is bone-chilling. Even
with a heavy blanket, her teeth chattered as she stepped off the trailer into
the brisk winter air. Warm Texas winters were only a memory for Friday
from now on.
Winter finally gave way to spring. I had faithfully ridden all winter and
Friday introduced me to her world of cutting. Cutting evolved from actual
cow work in to a very disciplined sport. Friday patiently put up with my wrong leg cues, bad cow choices and
bad judgment calls, and we still prevailed in the cutting pen. She was a
beast in the cutting pen, a lover outside. She fulfilled my dreams of
learning to cut and nurtured my soul with her kindness. She whinnied when
she saw me and followed me around the yard when I let her loose to graze on
green grass.
We did many small shows to hone my skills. We finally clicked. We
worked together with the precision of a well-oiled machine. We were ready
for our first big show, the Utah Cutting Horse Association’s first show of the
year in Farmington, Utah. I remember that day with great emotion and
thinking, “I’m almost up, it’s
almost my turn. Isn't this
the reason I came? I have
waited all day for this moment and now I am nervous?” I watched as team after team of horse and riders entered and left the
herd. I loped her with calm
intent, warming
up every muscle. I sat deep
and uttered “whoa." She slid to a stop. I sat deeper and she backed. She
was ready too. Was this all
just foreplay leading up to a glorious climax? Her ears twitched as she heard the
cattle rustle in the herd, it became real for her too. I saw her pulse quicken as a
vein danced in her neck. My heart fell into rhythm with hers. The sweet smell of sweaty horse
bodies reached my nostrils and soothed my frazzled nerves. I stepped off, checked the cinch and ran my fingers slowly along her smooth neck. She turned her head and looked directly
into my eyes as if to say, "I've got this covered.” I stepped back on, pushed my hat
on tighter, and entered the arena. We were up.
Time seemed to stand still as we
slowly approached the herd. I drove up through the herd. Together we picked the perfect
cow. The others fell around
us and made their get-away back to the herd. Friday
locked on. Eye to eye,
horse and cow faced off. I
dropped my hand to her neck. I had to trust she would do it without any
guidance. We fell into a perfect rhythm, like lovers locked in the throes of
passion, as we perfectly mirrored the cow. The
cow gave up, defeated, and stopped dead in her tracks. Only then did Friday give her permission to join the
herd once again. It was
another perfect cut. True perfection. The
buzzer rang. People's
clapping brought me back to reality. Friday and I walked out of the cutting
pen in a glow of pure ecstasy. I reached back and patted her rump for a
job well done. I dismounted
on shaky legs and loosened the cinch. Her sides heaved and sweat dripped
off her athletic body. She turned and looked at me once again as if to
say, "I told you to trust me, I had it covered.” That day repeated itself many times
over the next year and a half.
One fresh, sunny, spring morning
in March, I gave her a holler to come for breakfast. She ignored
me. She always came. I could see her standing by the neighbor’s
fence with her head down. Their horses stood watching her, ears alert,
sniffing the air. They knew something was wrong. Looking back, I
guess I knew too. As I approached her she raised her head and looked at
me. Those big, brown, soft, kind eyes held the same sadness they had the
first time I saw her. But, the sadness on that first day vanished with
the first cookie. She was covered in dirt. Rabbit brush stuck in her mane
and adorned her head like the a crown of thorns. She felt sweaty even in
the cool morning air. My heart sunk. There was a lump in my throat
so big I had difficulty swallowing. Colic. It had to be colic. Time was
of the essence. Did I catch it soon enough? Had she twisted a gut
by rolling? She obediently, but ever so slowly, followed me back to the
barn. Her breath was labored and her gums were pale. The vet was on
his way.
Hands shaking, I called Bill. The minute I heard his voice, I burst into tears.
Through sobs I told him what was going on. He too was on his way.
As I waited for them for what felt like eons, I held Friday’s little head against my chest
and stroked her cheeks. My tears spilled onto her face and snot dripped
from my nose. I reached up and wiped my eyes and nose with my sleeve as I
saw the vet truck roll down the driveway. Dr. Lybert greeted me with a
hug and went straight to work. Friday didn’t even looked up. Living in a
small town has its advantages, but an equine surgical center wasn’t among
them. Salt Lake City, a four hour drive, was our only hope. As the
vet stabilized Friday for the drive, Bill arrived. He only stopped long enough
to wipe my tears and kiss my forehead. Loaded with painkillers and
attached to an IV, Friday jumped on the trailer. She loved to
travel. I wondered if she had any idea we weren't going to a show. Miles
and minutes crawled by as we proceeded on our four hour marathon. Bill and I
spoke few words but many tears fell. Bill held my hand most of the trip.
South Valley Vet Clinic was expecting us. We unloaded Friday and were greeted by at least
half a dozen people. They took vitals, drew blood, and did paper work. They
made up a stall and changed her IV. After a few minutes, the vet called us into
his office. Friday wasn’t
a candidate for surgery. She had an elevated white count and was running
a fever. Not typical of colic. After much convincing, I agreed to leave
her. If anything went awry I would come back.
Friday laid her head on my chest one last time, and as I started to walk away
she raised her head, looked me right in eye and gave a soft little
whinny. I didn't know if she was telling me it was ok to leave or please don’t leave. Whatever, it ripped my
heart out. As I walked away, I couldn’t help but stop and look back at
her. She was still looking at me with those beautiful, big, brown eyes
sunken now from the pain. That Thursday was the worst Thursday of my
life. But, not as bad as the Sunday following would be.
I received a call from the vet around
5:00 AM on Sunday. He told me surgery was a must at this point, she was
throwing herself on the ground in pain. Her heart was racing and surgery
was our only hope. Through tears, I gave my consent and again
called Bill. I waited for the vet to call and tell me the surgery was a
success. When I answered the phone I knew it wasn’t the news I was hoping
for. Friday had thrown a blood clot. It had cut off all the circulation
to her lower bowel, killing that part of her body. The vet had put her
down on the surgery table.
I hadn’t even told her goodbye. I felt a wave
of nausea sweep over me as my heart broke. I was unable to ask what he
had even done with her. My little Friday. My little soulmate
horse. I felt guilty she had died without me. I felt totally alone
as I hung up the phone. An eerie quiet engulfed the house. Not a
dog or a cat was anywhere in sight. Once again, I called Bill and
robotically repeated what the vet had told me.
Without hesitation he asked, “Want
to go pick her up? I’ll leave work right now. Be ready when I get home.” I
felt a calm come over me just knowing she would at be buried at home.
A four hour drive to pick up an old friend who has passed is a haunting drive.
I didn’t cry anymore. I had no tears left. Pulling up to the South Valley Vet
Clinic, we were waved around back. I needed a little time with Friday. I
stood over what once had been a vibrant, athletic being, so full of life.
I reached down and stroked her neck. My tear drops clung to her hair and
sparkled like tiny crystals in the sunlight. I rubbed her forehead and branded
the image of her beautiful little head in my memory for fear I would somehow
lose it. Her tiny red body had lost all the luster. It had vanished with her
soul. She was peaceful— totally
calm and still. The trip home was much the same as the trip there. I was
thankful to have her with me, knowing she wasn’t going to be buzzard bait in
some God-forsaken land fill, or cremated in a group heap. Her grave would be a
place I could go to kneel in the dirt and remember my little friend, or shout at the heavens, or
weep softly like a gentle spring rain.
I was devastated. I couldn’t eat
or sleep. If sleep did find me, it brought with it haunting nightmares. I
had suffered a loss far greater than I could have imagined. Weeks
passed. I cried daily. Bill was not only mourning the loss of
Friday, but the loss of his wife as well. He called everyone he knew to find
another horse like her. No luck. He called her trainer, Terry Clifford, in
Texas, asking if he had another like Friday. He didn’t. Friday was one in a
million Terry said.
Months went by. I still cried daily. I rode but only because I made myself. I
competed, but only for Bill. In December we decided to make the long trip
to Texas, once again, to the NCHA futurity, and attend the same sale in which
we bought Friday. The day before we left, I walked out to her grave. I knelt in
the snow and prayed. I selfishly prayed to find another horse like her. I must
have been there a long time because the tears in my hair were frozen and my
pants had melted through the snow and froze to the ground below. It was as
through Friday was holding me there. As I pulled my pants free from the ground
which held her little body, I bent my head and ask her to help me.
“Please, Friday, I know this is selfish of me to ask for something for myself,
but I need a little help here. I miss you. If you can hear me, and if you have
the power, give me a little guidance in finding the right horse.” I shuffled through the snow back to
the house. I was chilled to the bone.
Texas is warm in December. We were surrounded by friends. We sat high up in the
bleachers watching to see who would make the finals. I was excited thinking
about getting another horse. It had to fit our criteria—older than six, won
money by a non-pro like myself, and affordable. Giggling with a friend, I didn’t
pay much attention when Bill’s phone rang. When he hung up, I glanced at him.
His skin was as white as a ghost. I gave him the what’s up look.
He hesitated a minute and then blurted out, “That was Terry Clifford.”
“And…,” I said.
“He has a horse he wants you to try.”
“Oh that’s awesome! I can’t even believe he remembered us,” I mused, “It has been nine months since you called him,
and he has probably talked to hundreds of people wanting horses since then.”
“Yeah,” Bill said flatly, “But, I shouldn’t even tell you this.”
“WHAT,” I wasn’t in the
mood to joke about this.
“It’s Friday’s daughter,” he said
looking at me hesitantly.
At that instant, a hush fell over our group. Tears welled up in everyone’s eyes
as they all looked directly at me. I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat
remained. Afraid to talk, lip quivering, all I could do was shrug my
shoulders. Bill reached over and put his arm around me. I lowered my head and
cried. Looking up towards the sky, I quietly gave thanks to Friday. It was as
if she had said, “This is all I
can do for you. This is as close to me as I can find for you.”
Nothing about Friday’s daughter
fit our criteria. Bill made sure to tell me to think with my head instead of my
heart. As I walked down to the practice pen, I reminded myself I had never
followed directions very well. Bill knew it too. Sneekapeekloo, later
christened Sneekers, stood watching me as I opened the gate and walked in.
Terry Clifford introduced himself and a couple others to me. I couldn’t tell
you their names or what they looked like. My eyes were focused on a little roan
mare with the same big, brown, kind, eyes as her mother.
I have heard that eyes are the portal to the
soul and it was absolutely true in this case. I stepped toward her
and reached out and touched her forehead. She took my kindness as an
invitation to step toward me and place her head shamelessly on my chest. Apologetically,
Terry pulled her back. I stepped back up to her and took the reins from
Terry and let her once again rest her head on my chest. I gingerly put my foot
in the stirrup and stepped upon her back. I drove up through the practice herd
and parted out a cow. Sneekers locked on and worked with the same grace and
elegance of her mother. I knew I was in love again.
