A Little Paint Pony: The Tiny Dream Carrier

I wish I could remember the name of the stable. Though I’ve searched the archives of my mind a hundred times over, the stable’s name has long disappeared into the foggy recesses of my memory. But I can still see it, pictured down the last detail. I see the big doors of the tan and white metal barn open wide as if an invitation to come further. I can see the long line of stalls on either side of the wide, concrete aisle way. I can feel the sun on my back as I pause in the doorway to catch my breath after running from the parking lot. Waiting for the rest of my family to follow me, I inhale the smells of horses, new hay and pine shavings freshly spread in the stalls. The shadowy interior felt like an embrace. There must’ve been at least forty horses in that barn, each of them sticking their heads out of their stall doors to face me as I walked inside. There were tall, sleek Thoroughbreds, shiny Arabians, muscled Quarter Horses, graceful show horses, and seasoned trail horses. But I didn’t ride any of those.

No, our lesson horse was a short, plump, crossbreed. To say he was slow would be kind; to call him lazy would be a bit more accurate. He had some Paint in him - his coat was covered in brown and white patches. He looked like a pony, but he may have been a small horse. And with all the show-stopping horses in the barn, some might think that this 12 year-old-beginner would be disappointed that I had to start with him. But to me, he was perfect. 

His name was Chemo - looking back I realize what an odd name that was. But at the time, it just didn’t matter. He was mine to ride! He never really had a smooth coat; he was always fuzzy like one of my plush toys come to life. I was over the moon. 

My older sister, one of my younger brothers, and I took lessons together. My Mom would stand at the arena gate and watch with our two youngest brothers. Together they would wave and cheer us on as we took our turns riding Chemo. It was a chilly April that year so we started out in the indoor arena. There, our riding instructor, Jessica, started us out on a lunge line where we learned how to sit correctly, how to hold the reins, how to direct a horse, and how to ask for movement and stops. I was soaking it all in. Those hour lessons just didn’t last long enough; I would’ve stayed there from sunrise to sunset if I could. Over time, we began riding on our own, making turns and figure-eights. And oh, the day Jessica said we could start trotting! 

As warmth came with the month of May, we moved to the outdoor arena. There, we did so many of the things I’d always dreamed of doing. We trotted over poles, learned to post while trotting, and even went over some miniature jumps. All the way, cute little Chemo took us along. His steps were slow, his temperament patient. Getting him to trot took some work - sometimes a lot of work. But you never had to fear that he’d bolt or run. All the things that would spook most horses never seemed to faze him. He was as fearless as he was slow. He was the perfect little horse for young riders starting their horsemanship journeys. Each hour we spent there was a thrill. The hours that came afterward, not so much.

You see, usually just as we’d be leaving my dream world suddenly became painful. My eyes would begin to water and then swell, and within minutes I’d be looking out through narrow slits. My chest would become tight, and my throat scratchy and swollen. It could become difficult to breathe. Back home, I would rush to shower and change clothes, tears dripping from my swollen eyes. I remember the hopeless feeling that would come over me. How could my life be about horses if I couldn’t be around them for more than an hour at a time?  It felt like my dreams were suffocating.

I know it scared my family. I heard my parent’s concerned whispers. Saw the worry in my Mom’s eyes as she brought me another cool cloth to lay on my face.

“Honey, I think we should stop going…” 

“No, I can do it, really. It’ll get better.” I bit my lip to keep from crying. “Please, Mom,” I whispered. “I want to go back. I need to go there.”

So we tried everything to help. But no matter what I took, did, or tried, there seemed to be no improvement. My horse journey might’ve ended there. I might’ve been the girl who always talked about that one year of taking riding lessons and who grew up to watch horse videos non-stop while only admiring them from a distance. But there were the occasional times when my allergic reaction only lasted for a few minutes or better yet, didn’t happen at all. We couldn’t seem to find a rhyme or reason to it. It left us all puzzled; it left me frustrated. It left us all wanting answers.

Turns out that little Chemo’s laziness brought us to the answer, in a roundabout kind of way. We were doing our lesson in the outdoor arena that late summer Tuesday evening. We’d gotten a late start that day. My brother and sister had already ridden; now it was my turn. Climbing into the English saddle, I tried to get Chemo to walk and trot. But he just kept stopping, not out of spite, but just in his looks-like-a-good-time-for-a-nap-don’t-ya-think? attitude. 

“Encourage him more. Tap him with your heels.” Jessica called from the center of the arena. 

I kept trying and we finally made a few laps. But he just wouldn’t trot. It was tempting to get a little irritated by it, but he was just too adorable to actually be mad at. I did finally get him to trot the pattern. Jessica opened the gate and we all walked back into the barn. Being a little after 6 p.m. now, the stable was pretty busy. Many of the horses there were boarded and lots of owners were there to ride after getting off work. 

I was looking at a big, light chestnut horse that a lady was grooming when Chemo stopped in the aisleway. We were coaxing him to keep moving when I felt an allergic episode coming.

No, not again! It had been better! 

I panicked at the thought that it might be getting worse again. The next few seconds seemed so slow. I rubbed my eyes, and pulled at my shirt collar. My breathing went from normal to ragged and labored faster than it ever had before. I squeezed my eyes shut; they were swelling. I glanced at Chemo, he tossed his head, but before he started walking again, he looked at the big horse beside us. I looked at it, too. At that moment, I realized that the woman spraying her thin-skinned Throughbreed down with fly spray. She was applying it quite liberally. And the more she sprayed, the worse I felt.

At that moment, Mom came in with my younger brothers. She took one look at my face and her eyes widened. She whisked me out of that barn as fast as she could. Grabbing some paper towels and water, she helped me wipe down my hands and face. 

“Oh, Madison… Honey…”

I knew how worried this made her. But this time I had some hope.

“Mom, I think I know what’s making me do this.”

Over the next few months, our theory was proven right. And suddenly it all made sense - why it could vary so much in severity, why I could sometimes be fine. I felt like celebrating! I wasn’t allergic to horses! I was allergic to the conventional fly sprays. 

And had I not been able to take lessons on that little paint pony, I might have given up on being with horses. I might’ve never known that I could do this. And that is why Chemo will always be a special horse in my life. He carried more than just me and that English saddle throughout our lessons: he carried my dream. He was my path between images in my mind and the reality of what I get to do today.