Читать книгу Heathcliff Redux - Lily Tuck - Страница 26

I care a lot about horses and about horsemanship. The way someone rides, I think, tells a lot about that person. For instance, Charlie is a good rider. He rides primarily from strength. I don’t object to that as long as he does not abuse his strength. Charlie rides with his thighs while I ride with my ass. I ride from empathy. I try to second-guess what my horse will do and anticipate it. I don’t wear spurs or use a whip. I’ve ridden almost all my life—at least since I was five years old. I feel good on a horse and the horse usually knows that.

The first horse I rode was a pony called Freddy. Like a lot of ponies, Freddy was mean. Because of a Napoleonic complex, or what? Freddy did his best to buck me off, or he would reach around and try to bite me while I was mounting him; a couple of times he would get down on his knees and start to roll, but I always managed to get off him in time. Funnily enough, none of that meanness bothered or deterred me. After Freddy, came Delia, a palomino mare who was gentle and kind and on whom I learned to jump. I had Delia for seven years—grooming and feeding her and mucking out her stall every day. I loved her dearly. Then one day while we were out riding, she shied a few times for no discernible reason; later, when I let her out in the field, she ran smack into the fence. She had contracted what is commonly referred to as moon blindness and officially known as equine recurrent uveitis, for which, unfortunately, there is no known cause or cure. I was heartbroken. My next horse was a tricky black colt named Balthazar—Balt for short. I had to train him—lunge him, get him used to the saddle, me on top of the saddle, the whole nine yards. I learned a lot.