The Colonel

 

Col. M. C. was a client who had served in the Army just after World War II.  He spent a great deal of time in Japan and had ridden with the cavalry.  In his youth he had played polo.  Now retired, he lived in the city and spent weekends in the country.  He owned four horses and boarded five other horses for friends on his 250 acre farm. 

Although M was retired from the military everyone still called him “Colonel”.  He used his horses for rides on his farm and in an adjoining state park, which provided miles of trails.  M cared for his horses and tack ‘by the book’.  The tack room was neat as could be, with the western saddles stored on racks and old broomsticks placed in the stirrups to position and train the leather as it would be when a rider was seated in the saddle.  The bridles were specially made with antique US Cavalry issue buckles and rosettes.  Feeding took place outside at a long fence, in buckets which were tied in place.  Each horse would stand by his bucket and wait to be haltered and then snapped to a short lead rope which was permanently affixed to the bucket.  All nine horses knew the routine and showed up at the appointed feeding time.

The Col. was a meticulous person who was always on time and prepared for any call I made to the farm.  He would have the horses caught and ready, which was greatly appreciated, as veterinarians usually only schedule the time necessary to do the work at the call.  Many owners wait to catch animals until we drive up.  Most horses know the smell of a vet’s truck and may make fools of their owners who can’t understand why they can’t catch the horse after we arrive.  This was never a problem at the colonel’s barn.

At the conclusion of every call M would invite me to go on a ride with him.  I have always been a workaholic and every minute of my day is scheduled, so to pause for a ride for a few hours was out of the question.  I saw these horses routinely in the spring and fall, and over the years the invitation to ride was always extended.

I am not sure just when or why I finally called in to my office one day to tell them to move all my appointments back two hours so I could ride with Colonel.  Perhaps it was seeing M, a man my senior by some 35 years, starting to slow down a little that made me wonder just how many years might be left to stop and enjoy his company.  Over the years we had become close friends and he had given me the benefit of his council on many subjects, from business to marriage and children.

So, on this lovely spring day to his surprise and delight I accepted his invitation to go on a ride.  The horses were quickly tacked up.  He rode his mare Babe, a large, dark sorrel Quarter Horse and I was to ride Yellow, a gaited Palomino gelding.  For years these horses only knew me as the guy who stuck them with needles, ran tubes up through their noses into their stomachs to administer dewormer and filed their teeth to remove sharp edges.  Yellow had a look of disbelief in his eye when I put my foot in the stirrup, and I must say I couldn’t blame him.

Of course, riding with the colonel was done a certain way like everything else:  he rode on the left, I was to the right, marching in a column of two.  As we rode up the drive by his house, he paused and said he needed to go into the house for a phone call.  He dismounted, placed his long reins over the saddle horn and turned Babe loose to graze while he went inside.  Just when M entered the house, Babe, who had taken a few bites of grass, raised her head and turned and looked at Yellow and me.  She suddenly pinned her ears flat on her head and attacked.  She lunged forward, spun around and kicked with both rear legs.  Seeing this coming, I turned Yellow away but still one of Babe’s hooves struck me in the back of the calf, but luckily missed my shin bone.  She continued her attack and I wondered if she was after me or Yellow.  I yelled for M but he did not hear me.  Just as I really began to fear for my life, Babe stopped her attack, lowered her head to eat, and M reappeared.  It was as if she knew she had only so much time.  My leg was bruised but I knew nothing was broken and Yellow seemed ok, so I said nothing and continued on as if nothing had happened.  I asked M if the two horses liked each other and he said they did, so I always wondered if I was the target of Babe’s hostility.

We had a wonderful ride and afterward ate lunch in the house.  M washed the dishes when we finished, which was done like everything else he did—with a routine of hot, soapy water and very hot rinse.  He would use the term, “Hot wash/Hot rinse” and today, years later, my wife and I often laugh and use the same term whenever we do dishes by hand.

I tried to ride with the colonel each spring after this.  I scheduled three hours for my visits and we rode and had lunch for the next four or five years.  Then M developed some medical conditions and could ride no more.  His family cared for the horses and farm for him.  I now regret that I didn’t ride more with him while he was able.  People older than ourselves are treasures who should be enjoyed now and not put off until ‘we have time’.