Clifford Excerpt

Clifford

Of Drummond Island

By Nancy J. Bailey

Chapter One

"My beautiful, my beautiful!

That standest meekly by,

With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck,

And dark and fiery eye!"

-- Caroline Sheridan Norton (1808-1877)

It was a mission only a horse person would understand. Driving six hours in a car, all the way to Rockford, Illinois, when there were plenty of Morgans in Michigan, might have made no sense to some people. Indeed, I had "shopped" around Michigan, surveying countless equines, their soft muzzles, their sharp sweet horsy smell, their wispy manes and eyelashes. I looked at legs and feet, disposition and movement, all the while never finding the intangible Something which fueled my search.

As I watched the cornfields rolling past, I pictured my first Morgan, Sharolyn, with her bittersweet coat and cresty neck, and her gentle, walnut eyes. I leaned back in my seat and remembered with gratitude and sadness this mare who had introduced me to Morgans, and horses in general.

Thirty years I had waited. Thirty years of dreaming; of countless horse drawings, paintings; dreams of velvet skin stretching over bone and sinew and muscle; of riding like a prairie fire with the wind in my face. Despite my fantasies, though, I knew I was green, green, green. I needed a horse that could teach me everything. I’d decided right away on a Morgan, because I liked their reputation for versatility and I figured a Morgan would have the temperament to endure my beginner's mistakes.

It was February 1994, and to my surprise, when I started looking, I saw a lot of horses that didn't look like Morgans to me. They were beautiful, but tall and rangy. Most of them were missing something. I wanted a horse like Figure, the original Morgan stallion who had started the breed back in the 1700s.

Figure had been bay, and according to legend was short and sturdy. He’d belonged to a New England schoolmaster named Justin Morgan. The horse was ridiculed by many because of his size. But he could work all day in the lumber camp, then go into town at night and win races. He competed with thoroughbreds and all kinds of other horses that had been bred for speed, and he won every race he ever ran. His most distinctive characteristic, though, was his ability to reproduce his own traits. Every mare he was bred to went on to produce a foal that was a carbon copy of himself.

I loved the story of Figure; loved the fact that the Morgan was the first breed of horse produced in America.

During my search for a Figure of my own, I finally was referred to Kelly Batton. She was giving lessons at a barn in South Lyon, which her mother had sold to new owners. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Batton’s Farm was legendary in Michigan, and now a crumbling dynasty of old Morgan bloodlines.

Kelly told me about a mare that was for sale, and invited me to come and start taking lessons there. That way, even if I didn't like the mare, I could learn to ride on Morgans. This seemed like a great idea!

I was in the middle of my first lesson, bouncing along the rail on an old mare named Cinnamon, when someone led a black horse into the arena.

"Nancy," Kelly said, "This is Sharolyn."

The next few moments were like a dream. The girl got on this equine vision, and proceeded to ride her around the arena. That horse, Batton's Sharolyn, stood like a carved ebony chess piece, then suddenly exploded into motion. Her knees and hocks flew up in the air and she arched her neck and pranced and snorted. Because I was an artist, I knew she appealed to my esthetic senses. But there was something more. Angels sang when I looked at her. That horse wasn’t just pretty. She twinkled. She shimmered.

I later learned that Sharolyn was sired by JJ's Monarch, out of a mare named Highover Coralyn. Sharolyn had been bred in Illinois, by Sharon Harper of Kerry Morgans. But Coralyn, her dam, was sold to Battons and brought to Michigan before she was born. Sharolyn was nine years old, and seal brown, not black, but her winter coat was very dark. And she was my horse -- it was like I had known her in a past life or something, and had been looking for her. Even more strangely, it was like she knew me too.

A couple by the name of Jerry and Sue Page had owned her since she was a weanling. They’d decided to sell her because they weren’t spending enough time with her.

She had earned a reputation for being hot and difficult, which I resented, because that was not true at all. She moved high, was snorty and proud and sensitive, but she had perfect ground manners. She was bright, patient, willing and wonderful. She stood still when the saddle slid underneath her belly because I didn't tighten the cinch enough. She stopped and waited for me when I fell off. She took carrots gently from my hands. She nickered to me when I arrived.

Though I had always loved horses, I'd harbored a notion that they liked to eat, and weren’t much interested in anything else. I had never been around horse people much, or known a horse on a personal level. I had read countless horse stories but had put them off as fanciful tales. I wasn’t expecting much from horse ownership, other than a lot of one-sided affection and some great trail rides.

Imagine my utter delight and infatuation when I discovered that this mare was more like a dog! That she would come to me, follow me around, nuzzle me and blow in my hair!

She was a dream come true. And she was beautiful. Very up-headed with an arched and cresty neck, she resembled a Friesian in miniature. And could she trot!

The Pages came to visit us a couple of times, interested in how Sharolyn and I were getting along. Jerry showed me how he had taught her to "park out", or stretch in a show pose. Sue brought me a pewter picture frame with horses engraved on it. They were kind people and I could tell Sharolyn had come from a good place.

I found myself withdrawing from the real world. I existed to ride that horse. Every morning I’d get dressed in my riding clothes while my German shepherd, Reva, would whine and groan with excitement. She’d ride out to the barn with me. She’d wait while I saddled Sharolyn, then I’d say, "Reva, go get my helmet."

Reva would go flying out of the barn. She’d leap into the back of my pickup, a red Sonoma dubbed the "Revabus". She would grab my helmet and bring it to me, holding it high with the straps swinging down.

We’d be gone all day. The world consisted of Reva and Sharolyn and I.

A few weeks after I bought her, I moved Sharolyn to a different barn where she and I could go out and trail ride. When Kelly loaded her into the trailer, she said, "This horse won't go on the trails. She hasn’t been out of the arena enough; she’s only been on the roads a few times in her life. Be careful."

Our first ride took us on a trail through the back of the property, walking among the trees, swishing through piles of wet brown leaves. Sharolyn’s head was high, and she smelled the air, blowing a little snort with every breath. Reva trotted by Sharolyn’s right rear leg, occasionally breaking off to investigate some odor in the damp ground, then returning to her position.

We rode for hours that day, through woods and fields, along the river, walking through the mud and the hushed brown grass of early spring.

Each day we explored the vast state trails, scaring up birds and brushing past budding twigs. Once, my husband Bruce came with us, walking behind the horse. We had gone a couple of miles when the path rose abruptly, running up a long, steep hill. The trees at the top towered far above us.

"It would be easiest for you if you’d just grab her tail," I called. "She’ll pull you right up there."

"She might kick me," he said.

I shrugged and rode on. To my knowledge, she had never kicked anyone, and never would. Reva remained in position with the mare, and we trotted up together, leaving Bruce to struggle up on his own. At the top, without my bidding, Sharolyn stopped and turned her head to look back.

I gasped. "She’s waiting for you!"

She did that for the rest of the afternoon. Every time he fell behind, she knew it, and she would stop and look back, waiting patiently for him to catch up.

I was spending hours with my new friend every day; brushing her, combing her mane and talking to her, feeding her carrots and apples and smelling her sweet smell. She would greet Reva and me when we arrived, and was always willing and eager to do whatever I felt like doing. I imagined taking her to Morgan shows, and had fantasies of all the future ribbons we would win in the English Pleasure classes. I needed to learn how to ride saddle seat! And I couldn’t believe she had never been bred. I envisioned a little Sharolyn baby, high stepping and up-headed and snorty; a carbon copy of its dam.

People gushed over her. I would meet other riders on the trails, and they would literally stop to stare as we went charging past. "She is awesome!" they would say. "Look at her move!"

Then one day, she was a little lame in her hind legs. I didn't ride that day, thinking she must be sore from all the activity. The next day, she was no better, and I called the vet. He got out of his truck, took one look at her, and said, "This mare has EPM."

"What?"

"Equine protozoal myeloencephalitis. A parasite has gotten into her bloodstream and munched through her nervous system."

"A parasite?"

"There’s no preventative. They think it is spread through bird stools. It affects some horses, not all of them."

I had never heard of such a thing. This couldn't happen to us. Surely she was just a little sore, and she would be fine in a few days.

But she worsened. Despite our treatments, she was wobbly, stumbling as her hips swayed and listed dangerously, first in one direction, then the other. Five days after her diagnosis, she was down and couldn't get up. The next day, she could not raise her head.

That day, when I walked into the barn, I had my friend Gina with me. All was still, and as we entered the aisle, Gina said, "Where is she?"

"Down at the end, there." When I answered, I heard Sharolyn begin thrashing violently in her stall at the sound of my voice. It was time to get up! We had places to go!

I knew at that moment that I couldn't force this mare to lie there while we tried in vain to cure her. She had too much heart; too much spirit to lie quietly waiting to die.

The stall door was open, and she lay on her side rolling her eye back, trying to see out. I went in and sat down next to her. Her nostrils flared, blowing shavings across the floor. I began stroking her smooth, warm neck. "Don’t worry, Sharolyn."

Her eyes softened, and I could feel her begin to relax as I spoke to her. I took a deep breath, and explained to her that she would have to go on ahead for a little while; but that she would be able to run and play. I said I’d be along someday and we would do great things when we met again. I didn't cry, because I knew she would sense my emotions and it would upset her. Dr. Cawley came in and injected her quickly, and I sat there with her as she died.

I had owned Sharolyn for eight beautiful weeks. I have never forgotten the lesson she taught me -- that horses are as capable of love as we are – and how they will blossom if someone believes in them.

I didn’t expect the colossal grief that followed her death. I could not sleep. I could not eat. I would just sit and stare out the window, while Reva sat with her head in my lap.

One day I had a phone call from a woman inquiring about art work. She let slip that she had owned horses for years. I suddenly found myself pouring my heart out to this person I barely knew. "I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I can’t function. I’ve lost pets before, but never like this. I lost a human friend once, and this is actually closer to that experience."

She sighed. "When you lose a horse, you lose a part of yourself. It’s because you become physically one with that animal. It links you in a different way."

I pictured myself as a centaur, the mythical creature; half man, half horse. Despite the bizarre imagery, I realized that in a way this was really true. I hadn’t owned her for long, but during our many hours together, Sharolyn and I had become physically and spiritually linked.

Sue Page called me, saying Jerry was out of the country but he would call me when he got back. "I’m so sorry," she said. "It’s so unfair that you would lose her right after you bought her."

"I’d do it all over again," I said.

When Jerry did call a few days later, the first thing he said was, "I want you to get another horse right away."

His voice triggered something in me, and I immediately began to sob, uncontrollably and embarrassingly, into the phone. "Oh, no, Jerry. I just can’t."

"Yes. Make yourself do it, right away. Because if you don’t, you’ll make a martyr out of her, and you’ll never own another horse. And someone like you should have a horse."

At first I couldn't even consider his suggestion. The thought of replacing Sharolyn seemed like a betrayal, a dishonor to her memory and the bond we had shared. But after much agonizing deliberation, I realized that he was right. I didn't know what else to do with this terrible space that had been carved in me. Besides, Reva was depressed, having lost her new companion and the daily ride she had so fiercely loved. If I couldn't do it for me, I could do it for her.

As I reluctantly began my search, I wondered where I’d ever find another mare like Sharolyn. It made sense to go back to the source. Her breeder, Sharon Harper, was still producing Morgans in Illinois, with the help of her daughter Shannon.

And that was what had brought me here.

Bruce turned the car off the highway, and when I saw the sign that said, "Kerry Morgans", a surprising thrill of anticipation ran down my spine. As the car rolled up the shady driveway, we were heralded with a loud equine beller. I opened the door and stepped out. The early spring air smelled like mud and new leaves. There was a big, roughened old red barn. I knew it was full of Morgans, beautiful Morgans, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a tingle of hope.

Chapter Two

"Ask me to show you poetry in motion, and I will show you a horse."

-- Unknown

Serendipity Aries B was nothing short of equine royalty. He marched forth from his stall with an air of benign interest, his head up, gentle eyes shining, tiny ears perked. I admired his wide chest, short back and straight legs, and the beautiful bay coloring; dark mane and tail. He stood quietly while I patted and stroked him. "Can he have a candy?"

"Well, some stallions you can’t do that with," Shannon said. "But he’s okay."

He took the peppermint from my hand, his lips barely whispering across my palm.

He was obviously very attached to Sharon. Though I had given him the candy, he didn’t beg for more, content instead to stand quietly by her side. Sharon was tiny and stout, with a face weathered by things unknown. Her expression was reminiscent of someone who might have crossed the prairie in a covered wagon, enduring hardships and wind and sun. Her hair was like a thatch of straw across her forehead. Her shoulders were square, her arms thick and capable. Her roughened hands ran gently along the horse’s neck. "He’s twenty years old," she smiled proudly.

"You’re kidding!" I stepped back, searching the regal stallion for signs of graying, a sag in the backbone, anything.

Just then, a loud clatter sounded from the row of stalls. I looked up to see a blazed face peering over the top of the stall wall.

"Get down!" Shannon and Sharon shouted in unison.

The face disappeared.

"Who was that?"

Sharon smiled. "We’ll save him for last. I’ll show you the mares now."

My heart ached to look at them. Each one was so lovely, and so obviously pure Morgan. They came out of the stalls like lambs, but when Sharon turned them loose in the paddock, each became a creature of the air, a dancing, leaping vision, trotting to a silent beat and snorting like a locomotive. Aries B had produced a number of daughters with the Kerry mares, all of which had wonderful creative names honoring their sire: Kerry Ariel, Kerry Arabella, Kerry Aria. Each one had the bay coloring, the high light motion, and the sweet disposition of Aries B.

Kerry Xcaliber, a yearling colt also sired by Aries, was led into the arena and released. He was the picture of rhythm floating above the earth, his short black mane blowing, his tail waving high. Even at this young age he was muscled and looked powerful and masculine, yet his legs were refined and elegant, his dished face sweet, with an innocent expression. I could imagine that this must have been close to how the original Morgan, Figure, looked at that age. Shannon was shaking a milk jug that had some gravel in it. The rattling spurred on the little colt’s movement. Finally, she called, "Cal!"

He stopped and looked at her with his ears up.

"Cal! Come here!" she coaxed. But she was shaking the jug, rattling the stones while she called. He stood with his long front legs thrust forward, leaning back hesitantly, an exquisite picture of indecision.

Sharon laughed, took him by the halter and led him back inside. I hated to see him go. I felt I could have watched him for hours.

Then Sharon came out leading a dark bay mare, with a filly trotting closely by her side. "Here’s Kerry Hallelujah."

"Oh!" I exclaimed. This was mare I had most wanted to see, because she was a daughter of Sharolyn’s full sister. But any fantasies I’d had about Hallelujah dissolved when I saw that filly. The newest daughter of Aries B, Kerry Airatude was four weeks old, with a soft fuzzy coat, the eyes of a fawn, and legs that went on and on. She trotted next to her mother with knees and hocks that flung themselves skyward. Her tail stood straight up, and her tiny hooves never seemed to touch the ground. I was smitten.

The pair was led away too soon. My head was swimming with visions of beautiful bay Morgans; their black manes and tails blowing, their black legs and hooves flashing in movement.

Then Sharon approached the stall where the ruckus was coming from. "This is Buckets."

"Buckets?"

"Yes. His mother had no milk when he was born, and he was bucket-fed for the first few days of his life."

Buckets had obviously never been properly weaned. He thrust his nose out eagerly, snuffling me, searching for goodies. Sharon stepped over to him and held up a warning finger. "Thump, thump," his lips snapped together. She slid the stall door open and hooked the lead rope onto his halter.

He stepped lightly out next to her, a shining red chestnut with his blazed face pointed curiously in my direction. "It was a little hard getting used to all that white on his face," Sharon said. "Most of our Morgans have little or no white."

I followed her outside, carrying the camera. I thought the least I could do was take a video of this young gelding that she obviously wanted to sell. He walked quietly with her to the outdoor arena. His flanks gleamed red in the sun, and his long yellow mane was a mass of disheveled curls. She closed the gate behind her and unhooked him. She clucked to him softly, and he trotted in a circle. He moved lightly and freely like the rest of her Morgans, arching his long neck proudly, purring happy snorts. But he was not overly cooperative about showing off. He was quite intrigued by the camera and kept coming over to stick his face in it.

"He’s friendly," I said.

"Oh yeah," her reply was casual, offhand. It soon turned out that ‘friendly’ was an understatement. Taking pictures of Buckets was an exercise in the Macro sense of the word. I got pictures of his nostril, pictures of his whiskers and the white diamond on the end of his nose. I got a good shot of his leering, rolling eye as he shook his mane wickedly and spun away.

Hoping to impress me further, Sharon led Buckets out and put him in a bitting rig. She fed him peppermints as he stood in the cross ties, which he crunched greedily. She then led him off and proceeded to longe him around the arena. I continued to film. I had to admit that he was very cute with his blinkers on. His neck arched prettily, his hocks moved high.

"What’s his registered name?" I asked.

"Kerry B Proud. His sire is Serendipity Aries B, his dam is Kerry Pride ‘N Joy."

I could see how the name worked out. Aries B + Pride ‘N Joy = B Proud. And it was fitting. The little horse was obviously full of himself.

Still, I could not get the high-stepping filly out of my mind. I knew she was going to be another Sharolyn. After Buckets was put away, I followed Sharon into her house to look at papers, and then spent the next hour begging her to sell me that filly.

"Do you want her shown? I’ll show her!" I wheedled.

"She’d probably fit in your trunk, Nancy," Shannon said laughingly.

I didn’t mind the fact that Airatude was a baby. I knew she was supposed to be my horse. But Sharon was firm. Those Aries B daughters were not for sale. No way, no how.

Sadly, I followed her back out to the barn while she did the evening feeding. I walked over to Buckets’ stall and looked in at him. He thrust his nose out and thumped his lips at me. I looked at his long mane, which hung down over his eyes. He was chestnut – not what I wanted. He was a gelding – not what I wanted. He was a two-year-old – probably not what I could handle. I hadn’t imagined giving up my dream of an elegant bay mare, especially for a mouthy chestnut colt named Buckets. But I needed a horse. He was a son of that wonderful stallion, Aries B. His dam was related to Sharolyn. And anyway, maybe it was better to get something different than the mare I still mourned. If I came home with a mare or filly, maybe my expectations would be too high.

"Okay," I said. "I’ll take him."