The next summer, Carol and Mite had another
episode which caused the kids much concern in regards to Mite's remaining with
us. Now two years old and almost fully
grown, Mite was a beautiful horse, her graceful long legs invoking visions of thoroughbreds
and racetracks. Still too young to be
ridden by adults, the kids could do anything they wanted with her. Often, as Mite grazed, we would put one of
the kids on her back - no saddle, just bareback - and they would ride that way
while she just kept grazing, content to have them close around her. Mite basked in the glory of their constant
love and attention. Even the kids'
friends loved this peaceful pastime. It
was a Mutual Admiration Society all around.
One time, with Carol on her back, Mite was
grazing beneath one of the countless maples on the yard. Carol caught a branch, holding it back. As Mite advanced, Carol let the branch go
which sprang back, slapping Mite smartly on the rump. Startled, Mite jumped. Carol was caught off guard and fell
backwards, landing on the hard ground, fracturing her shoulder blade. Poor Mite knew she had dropped Carol. Deeply concerned for her, she was nuzzling
the crying figure on the ground as we rushed to Carol's side.
Once more we loaded the kids into the car and
drove to see Doctor
Stephen in Dauphin, who shook his head from side to side and gravely
pronounced, "I think you should get rid of that horse." Once more the kids entreated him with
"It really wasn't Mite's fault. She
wouldn't hurt anyone on purpose."
The doctor x-rayed Carol's shoulder and told us
that he could only put Carol's arm in a sling that she would have to wear for
four weeks. By avoiding excessive or
sudden movement, the fracture would heal on its own. Fearing to mention that horse again in front
of those beseeching kids, he sent us home.
Mite hated intruders and jealously guarded her
family, dominating and demanding the attention she believed belonged to her
alone. One day, my nephew and his wife,
who lived in Florida, on their way to visit other relatives, stepped in to pay
us a short visit. They drove into the
yard in their snazzy little red sports car convertible, and the kids were, of course,
fascinated by this flashy vehicle. They
surrounded the car, admiring and inspecting its every detail.
Repeatedly, Mite tried to divert their attention
from the shiny red bug, but to no avail.
Victor offered the kids a ride in the car. He didn't have to beg. Thrilled, the kids eagerly piled into the car
and off they went, leaving Mite standing there alone. Dejected, she waited there sullenly until
they returned, but when they got back, they were still ignoring her, so
captivated were they by this fancy red convertible. After a thorough inspection, everyone retired
into the house without even a backward glance at Mite. By then she had decided that she definitely
did not like this big red beetle!
When we got up the next morning, Mite had had her
revenge. She had bitten off both aerials
that had perched so proudly on the two rear fender wings. She had
also managed to rip off both windshield wipers.
These appendages lay on the ground beside the car where she had dropped
them and Mite stood nearby, her head held high as if to say "So
there!" I guess it could have been
worse. At least she did not touch the
plush red velvet seats that were also exposed.
By next spring, Mite was ready to ride and we
wondered how she would train. We bought
a saddle and with the kids cooing to her, we put it on her back. As we tightened the straps, she flinched and
backed off. The kids kept talking to her
and she quieted down. We kept putting
the saddle on her back for the next few days and letting her graze with just
the saddle on her back, just to get her used to the feel of it. Then we put Connie into the saddle, holding
on to the child, ready to snatch her off if Mite bolted. She seemed reassured to have the child on her
back. We then tried it with Jim, who meant more weight, still ready to
snatch him off if necessary but Mite was taking all this in stride. She was used to having the kids on her back. She didn't resist when John or I mounted
either but she became skittish when anyone else would approach her with the intent to mount.
One day, a friend of a neighbour came by. He was immediately taken by Mite's graceful
figure and asked if he could ride her.
We told him she was very particular about whom she allowed on her back
but he said he'd ridden many horses and was quite sure he could manage
her. He was an experienced horseman, a
good man, and he loved horses, so reluctantly we agreed to let him try. She snorted when he put the saddle on and
since the kids were not home to quiet her down, I felt somewhat concerned. He kept talking to her though and eventually
she allowed him to mount.
Then she decided she didn't like him there after
all and suddenly made like a bucking bronco throwing him off in one minute
flat. That done, she stood back, quietly
looking down at him as if to say, "Want to try that again?" Feeling rather sheepish at having been thrown, the poor man got up, dusted
himself off and conceded that it just wasn’t worth the hassle and left Mite alone.
Mite was three years old now, taking her place as
a working member of our family. When it
came to herding cattle and Jim was in school, I would ride her, keeping stragglers
and wayward wanderers in check. She
seemed to enjoy this. It seemed to give
her a sense of power and authority and an opportunity to lord it over these
lowly creatures that annually invaded her territory and competed with her,
sometimes even successfully, for the attentions of Faline and the kids. If we needed to check cattle or pasture
fences, Mite was always called on to perform her duty and she became an
integral part of our livestock operations.
We had a wayward Charlais bull at that time that
had a nasty habit of going AWOL every so often, hopping over the fence to join
the neighbour's cattle and leaving our own herd unattended. It seemed like we were always checking up on
"Charlie" to make certain he was where he was supposed to be.
One particular day, after spending hours riding
through bush land, searching
for Charlie, I finally located him and Mite was brilliant as she cornered the
bull, separated him from the neighbour's herd and deftly coerced the reluctant Romeo back
across two miles of bush to rejoin our own herd. We were all tired after that long day, Charlie no less than Mite or I, since he had
fought hard to stay with his “new girlfriends”.
By the time we got him to our own pasture his tongue was practically
dragging the ground from exertion. After
securing the gate and making sure the fences were intact, we decided to let
Mite ride home on the back of the truck considering she had spent most of the
hot day working.
John backed the truck to a dirt bank and I walked
Mite onto the truck. Securing the end gate behind her,
we drove home. At home John decided
against backing up to the loading chute and instead backed up against an old
manure pile to unload Mite. The truck
was high and because of the slope of the pile, John could not back right up
against the high point of the pile.
Mite must have looked with dismay at the drop
below her as John vainly tried to coax her down. She stood her ground refusing to budge as
John first coaxed, pleaded, and scolded, then threw some unflattering names
into the bargain, with a voice that matched his foul mood by now. Realizing she was not going to win this
battle, Mite decided to jump. She
misjudged her distance and her front hoof hit John in the leg throwing him down
flat in front of her onto that cushion of soft manure below. I'm certain, she must have taken her weight
off that foot when she knew she had hit him because miraculously her hoof did
not break his leg but inflicted a deep bruise on the fleshy muscle about midway
between his knee and his ankle.
Wincing with pain, John got up and gingerly stood
up on the leg to make sure it wasn't broken.
Convinced that it fine, he led Mite back into the yard and we thought no
more about the bruise except to know that this would hurt for a while before it
healed. After all, it wasn't her fault,
it had not been a convenient spot and she had initially tried to refuse to make that jump.
It was almost a month later that a tiny scab
appeared over the discoloured area
where the bruise was. When John peeled
the scab off, it opened a deep hole from which oozed copious amounts of ugly
yellow pus. This scared me and despite
John's repeated objections, I insisted on an immediate trip to the doctor.
Dr. Stephen examined the wound and asked what happened. At the sound of the word "horse"
his eyes widened and this time with no kids to deflect his advice, he put on a
stern face and once again declared, "I told you before, and I'll tell you
again, and I know you won't listen, but you ought to GET RID OF THAT
HORSE!" We said nothing as we watched him
cleanse and dress the wound.
The wound had festered and destroyed a portion of the
flesh the size of a golf ball. As the
doctor cleaned it out and swabbed it with antiseptic, he told us how lucky we
were that the infection had not reached the bone. Had it done so, John would have surely lost
his leg. He gave us antibiotics and told
John to soak the wound in hot salty water for half an hour every morning and
every night "until that hole heals!"
We thanked the doctor and drove home.
The doctor's advice was heeded only with respect
to the care of John's leg, but "getting rid of that horse" was never
an option. After all, it had not been
Mite's fault, and besides she was now a very valuable working member of our family
and a beloved
one.
Many years later, we did sell Little Mite, to a
family with four young children all of whom adored Mite just as we had. We had sold the farm and Mite had to move to
another life. Many tears were shed as
she left our yard for the last time, but we took comfort in the knowledge that
she would be just as loved by her new family as she had been by us. She had learned to accept other people in her
mature years and even allowed total strangers to ride her. She was an intelligent horse and an asset to
any operation and we had no misgiving about her fitting into her new role with
a new and loving family.
Mite will always hold a special place in our
hearts and even now that she is gone to her heavenly reward, we remember her
with warmth and timeless affection - and her kisses with guarded prudence. She was truly one of a kind.
