Suck My Dick, PETA! (And Why I Hate Horses)
I’ve been thrown from three horses in my life. I’m 29. That means on average, I can expect to be thrown from a horse once a decade. I’m not in the rodeo, or the Royal Canadian Mounted Police; I’m no cowboy. And yet, as I round the bend into my 30s, I know my horse-disaster clock resets. Which means that any day now, I’ll be thrown from another horse.
The first time I fell off a horse, I was six. Father was conducting business in Europe that summer, and the rest of the family followed. We rented a small home in Annecy—a mountain town surrounded by serene lakes and rivers, known as “the Pearl of the French Alps.” I spent my days kicking a soccer ball with the Finnish boys from the house down the street. They stole my lunch often: peanut butter sandwiches made on that day’s baguette with a slather of milky, raw honey. The kind that looks cloudy and requires a knife for spreading. I’d never seen it that way, and it took time to accept that it wasn’t poison.
At twilight, we would walk down to the lake with our thermoses of grape juice to lure capricious swans near with crusts of bread. I’m ashamed to admit this now, but the goal was to dump the dregs of our grape juice on those salty birds like graffiti hooligans tagging the wings of nature. I don’t know why we did it. Perhaps it was because the swans were such assholes. They roamed the lake like entitled sentinels, expecting food but offering no thanks when you tossed them a crust. For a bird that looks like an angel, they sure are cunts. I managed to slosh their king one evening and it didn’t rain for a few weeks after, so he wore my insult with ruffled feathers and a wounded ego. It sure was easy to spot him. Fuck that bird, and fuck you PETA. Steve Irwin is a God.
My sister was a hippophile from the start. Can you believe that? Not that she loved horses, but that “hippophile” is the word that means “lover of horses.” I wonder how hippos feel about that. I’ll bet they threw a fit about appropriation but their lawyer was a crook who cared only about maximizing his billable hours rather than mounting the strongest suit to reclaim the term. And if you’re wondering, there doesn’t appear to be a term for “lover of hippopotamuses.” For shame.
Mom enrolled her in a riding camp once we’d settled in. Some days, I’d tag along to the stable because I couldn’t be trusted in the house alone (too many life-threatening appliances). I liked the smell and the sounds of barn life: I’d run my small bitch hands through the oat bins, or I’d hoist myself onto a bale of hay and squirm against the prickly surface. I’d laugh as a cascade of shit tumbled out of steed’s asshole. I liked the smell of the leather saddles and the staccato, sputtered exhales of the beasts. I loved the way their lips reached out to pry a carrot from my palm. They seemed like friends. Of course I wanted to ride one.
The pretentious French riding instructors refused on the grounds that I was too young. I don’t know why we told them my actual age. I was off the growth charts from my 14th week on this earth. I bought beer in middle school. Whatever it was, they wouldn’t let me saddle up in the riding ring. My mother, seeing that I was on the verge of a massive tantrum, asked if there was any other way. They told us there was a trail ride coming up that I could join. I was so excited that during the intervening nights, I barely slept ten hours.
On the morning of the big ride, they fitted me for a helmet. I didn’t like the fact that it was used. In those days, I feared lice the way that I fear herpes now. Next, an unqualified teenager outfitted my horse and cinched the stirrups to suit my 6-year-old legs. Even at that age, the rippling symmetry of my quads and calves was enough to alert these French horse handlers that I would one day front squat more plates than they would dream of loading for a belt-assisted back squat.
Finally, I was hoisted into the saddle. It was so much higher than I’d anticipated, but I was giddy. My first ride! I was so excited that I started bouncing in my seat, which caused my feet to flail a bit, which the horse took to mean “let’s rip.” I barely had the reins in my hands before we were accelerating out the door like a malfunctioning, ungoverned jetski. Thank God one of the instructors was on his toes, ran us down, and brought us back to the pack. It was a warning that my developing brain did not heed.
The riding trail weaved around trees and over streams. With each step, my confidence as a rider grew. I was one with the horse. Like when the blue aliens in Avatar link their ponytail entrails with those pterodactyls. A gentle tug on the left rein and we’d go left. A slight dig with the heel and we’d speed up. I was the master of my fate and direction and I hadn’t even learned to like vegetables yet. I was drunk with power.
But then I was also uncomfortable. The girth of the horse asked for a wider straddle than my shredded thighs could manage. I found myself standing in the stirrups to ease the tension on my hip flexers. It felt cool to stand. I always stood on the peddles of my bike in those days. It gave the impression of recklessness.
We came to a wider stream. I was towards the front now, having spurred my horse forward out of boredom. I was driving that thing like a New York taxi driver: dramatic accelerations followed by severe braking. Start, stop, start, stop. Hurry up and wait. Most children would have felt motion sickness, but my stomach was stronger than iron thanks to all the raw honey I was eating in those days.
My horse stepped into the stream. Then, things became a blur. I was later told that this first step unsettled a frog that was resting on a stone. The frog dove into the stream, which spooked my jittery horse. I’m not sure why they put me on the horse that was going through heroin withdrawal, but his nerves were fraying like a substitute teacher who believes in making a difference. We took off, hurtling through the trees. Paul Revere’s midnight ride was less dramatic. My first time ever riding a horse and we were galloping through a forest. I slid to the side but held on for dear life, screaming. Finally, after what must have been a ride of 20 yards, I fell to the ground and came to rest on the pine needles below. The berserk horse continued its lawless dash through the brush. I have no idea if they eventually caught it, but I can only hope they put it to sleep for the safety of the children.
I wept like the child I was. The stupid instructors tried to gather me and place me on the back of one of their horses, but I started throwing elbows. I would die before they placed me at the mercy of another evil beast. So we walked back to the barn, where I ran to my mother’s arms and swore I’d never ride a horse again.
Horses are not to be trusted. I enjoy the pageantry of race day at Saratoga, and betting the horses with Dave will always be a treat. But I’ll leave the riding to those tiny garden gnomes for now.