The vet's words were a gut punch. The radiograph revealed a grim prognosis. Her right fetlock joint was severely damaged, almost bone-on-bone. The long-term outlook was bleak, and our options for treatment were few. The news shattered the goals I had set for us. She could only perform light walk-trot work from now on, and the thrill of cantering was in the rearview mirror. I was grounded once again.
I leased Anna eighteen months earlier to ride regularly and improve my skills. I was excited to take her to a training-level show, off-property for a trail ride, or down to the local field for a hack—all things I could not do with Rudy. As Anna and I became more comfortable, I revived a childhood dream. The one of galloping through a field, my hair flying behind me, and exhilaration coursing through my body. It was a piece of the horse puzzle that eluded me thus far. And, with this news, this dream was dashed.
Six weeks earlier, I was riding Anna bareback, something I regularly did when I fell off her. I was working on cantering, which was more challenging for both of us. I needed to provide her with well-timed aids to successfully and smoothly change from the trot to the canter. It was more difficult for me without the support of the saddle. I will never know what caused the mishap. I have a theory, but it doesn't matter. The outcome was the parting of seas. I flung off to her left as she went right. Stunned, I pushed myself off the arena floor and sat there as I tried to understand what had happened.
How many more times could I crash into the ground? It was my first fall off of Anna. She was a calm horse with a sound mind, and her predictability allowed me to find the confidence that I didn't have with Rudy. The occasional behavioral anomalies that popped up with her over the past six months now made sense, given the degeneration in her leg.
Three weeks after my accident with Anna, Rudy and I were in the outdoor arena. He was nose to the ground, inhaling in the tantalizing scents when, out of nowhere, he slammed into me, knocking me forcefully to the ground. Something spooked him, causing him to leap laterally away from the scary thing. I happened to be in the way. Par for the course when working with prey animals. They react first and think later. Rudy is a pro when it comes to getting out of dodge.
Over the years, I learned to read Rudy better, to sense his unease, and to stay calm in his moments of heightened alert. To his credit, he rarely involved me in his spook episodes. But instinct had taken over this time, and he lost track of where I was standing. He was now several feet from me, head high, staring toward the monster with the lead rope dangling from his halter. I was barely on my feet as the tears streamed down my cheeks. My face was flushed, and I wanted to scream to God, the Universe, or whomever, "Why?! Why do I keep hitting the ground?! What is the message?"
Previous horse-related accidents flashed through my mind as I reeled with emotion. I saw myself flying over Rudy's head and felt the hard thud when I landed on my back. Another time, he spooked and leaped to the side. I was in a heap on the ground before I knew what had happened. I later learned I broke my fibula. The most traumatic fall from a horse happened when a trail horse jumped sideways, unseating me. I hung off his left side, clinging to the saddle as the horse spun around. Eventually, I couldn't hold on anymore and dropped to the ground. The horse continued to spin, and his hooves danced around my body. I felt them around my head and then a blow to my torso, followed by a sharp stomp to the inside of my left leg.
Over the past decade, I periodically considered training that would allow me to perform equine bodywork. It's been rewarding to see how much Rudy enjoys this therapy. I derive satisfaction from knowing I can give back to him in this way. When he first came into my life, some signs pointed to helping people with equine-assisted therapy. I deeply empathize with the challenges kids face as they grow up, and I would like to help.
While I love the feeling of moving as one with a horse, a part of me is conflicted about riding. As magical as sitting on an equine can be, doing so frequently causes problems for them. My desire to help animals goes back to childhood when I wanted to be a veterinarian.
At 59 years old, I believe, although it may not be accurate, there is a limited number of times my body can take the trauma of falling off a horse. My mind swirls with conflicting thoughts. These accidents or "groundings" may mean nothing, or perhaps the universe is guiding me down a different path.
I know I have a calling, and there is "work" that doesn't feel like a job—something that fills me with energy and satisfaction, is meaningful, and makes a difference. It's up to me to be open to opportunities, challenge myself to be brave, and not shrink in fear when presented with an opportunity that feels right.
By Diane R. Jones
June 22, 2024
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