Tears and Triumphs: Cutter's Story

I headed to the barn last evening, planning to get some training done, and maybe take a short sunset ride. But it was my retired horse, Cutter, who greeted me when I arrived. She looks good to be twenty-four years old, I think to myself. If not for her injured knee, she could easily be mistaken for a much younger horse. And she would no doubt be able to out-ride and outrun any other horse around; she's just that way. She gave a low nicker as I rubbed her face. I glance toward her halter, hanging in its place on the wall.

“Want to take a walk, Cutter?”

She gave me her answer by lowering her head into the halter when I carried it to her stall. We slowly ambled down the driveway together. When the golden light touched her coat and the wind in her mane, it was as though the last eleven years had slipped away…

Sixteen years old and picking out a horse of my own for the first time. I had found an ad from a ranch not far from us; they were selling off all their horses. When we arrived at the place, down a long winding drive, the owner led us out to a hundred-acre pasture. He shook a bucket of feed and we heard the thundering of hooves in reply. When they came into view, it took my breath away. His herd of thirty horses, each mare with a foal by its side, slowed their pace when they neared our group. Leading the herd was a smaller, chestnut mare, a buckskin foal trotted beside her. She moved with a grace and confidence that made her stand out from the larger horses. I ran my hand down her shiny coat and looked into her deep brown eyes. I was in love. I asked if she was trained to ride. The owner said she was, but he couldn’t show us because she’d just had her foal three weeks ago. The man then told us we could have the foal too for the same price as just the mare if we bought her today. And in a moment, she was mine. Her registered name, Smart Lil’ Cutter, reflected how she’d come from a long line of cutting horses (horses that work with moving cattle). Her foal, who hadn’t been named yet, we called Cinnamon. We hurried to finish our fencing and have everything ready for their arrival in two days. I was floating. I had a horse! I had a foal! I could picture how I’d ride her and how I’d train Cinnamon. Then, the day we were to get them, came the crushing phone call…

   Our little Cinnamon had been severely injured the night before. And although vets had been called, they hadn’t been able to save him. How could a heart break so hard from losing a foal I’d only seen twice? The owner then asked, “Do you still want the mare?” 

We went out to see her again. The mare that had been so full of confidence and life, now stood by the fenceline alone. Her head was down. When she looked toward the other mares with their foals, it was as though I could see her pain. She was grieving. She was hurting. And I couldn’t leave her. The next day she came home to us.

  The healing took time. She’d had seven foals in her life and the loss she felt was clear. But slowly, as we loved on her in the pasture, the mare I’d first seen that day began to reemerge. Over the next few months, I spent every available moment with her. I brushed her and took her on walks. She would follow me around in the pasture. I taught her how to give kisses and she showed me how much she loved apples. Leaning down to hug her I whispered in her ear, “I can’t wait to ride you.”

  The day came for it to happen. She’d done great being saddled and bridled over the last week. I climbed on her back, so excited and ready to have my first real ride on my own horse. But she just stood there, as though she didn’t know what to do. My brother led her a few steps. Cutter was tense; I could feel it. When I tried to turn her, she suddenly jerked her head and went in the opposite direction. When she did this, she bumped her nose into the electric fencing, which we had foolishly hadn’t turned off. In that moment my gentle mare became a bucking bronco. I didn’t have the strength or time to react. I hit the dirt hard, my hand tangling in the reins on the way down. I stood up bruised, my hand bleeding. My Dad was able to catch Cutter before she got far and was rubbing her to calm her. I brushed the dirt off and assured everyone I was okay. With a shakey confidence, I climbed back on, because they say if you get bucked off, you get back on. But Cutter had been spooked, and I didn’t have the calmness to reassure her. Picking up the reins again set her off into another bucking fit. I desperately tried to hold on. The world was a blur around me. I could hear the screams of my Mom and sister, could hear my Dad and brother yelling instructions to me. But they all melded into the same roar as my pounding heart. My fingers were going numb; I couldn’t stay on this 1100-pound rollercoaster much longer.

“Jump!” I heard that word. It was my Dad’s voice.

Pulling my feet out of the stirrups, I pushed myself out of the saddle. Cutter’s next buck gave more momentum than I was counting on. Flying upwards seemed to be in slow motion. The plunge downwards was only a split second. Pain found me on the ground. Cutter bolted across the pasture. It was only by the grace of God that I didn’t have any broken bones. This was not how I had pictured my first ride on her going…

  It was obvious that Cutter hadn’t had as much training as the previous owner had claimed. It was also obvious, with our little horse knowledge, that we couldn’t train her ourselves. People suggested we should sell Cutter since she wasn’t a beginner’s horse. It wasn’t bad advice, but I just couldn’t do it. I had made a commitment when bringing her home. To let her go now felt like giving up on her. Like giving up on me. We resolved to make it work. A few days later we had a trainer come out. The young woman in her early twenties had been riding horses since she could walk. Her quiet confidence and gentle hand worked wonders and in only a short time, Cutter was taking fairly calm rides, even beyond the pasture fence. The trainer also worked with me as I started riding Cutter again. It was during this time that we also brought my horse, Dolly, home. I learned more about how to ride through being with Dolly and looked to apply that to working with Cutter. I struggled with the fear of falling off again and had to take things very slowly. But I held on to the dream of riding Cutter completely free of fear like I had imagined it would be when I first met her.

 Years passed, and each one brought more progress. Yes, there were days when it felt like it was two steps back, one step forward. But I had to remind myself of how far we had come with Cutter. She was what could be called a highly reactive horse. Lots of the things she did on our rides I just didn’t understand. And I was so focused on staying on that I didn’t give it much thought. At one time we had this small pen where I would ride her. While doing some training, she would do things like lifting her head when we passed a certain corner. I found it puzzling until I looked to see something like a hawk perched in a tree by that corner. Had Cutter simply been telling me to look? It was slowly dawning that all those strange things I’d ignored were her way of communicating with me. On an early morning ride once, she stopped when I was asking her to go forward. She turned her head to catch my eye, then turned to look at the trees beside us. Following her gaze I saw a family of deer, a buck, a doe, and a fawn. The moment I saw them, Cutter continued on as I’d asked.

“Those are the things you’ve been trying to tell me?” I asked as I untacked her later. “What else have I not been hearing you say, huh?”

My confidence, not in myself but in her, was growing. It no longer felt like training; we were having fun, just riding. That amazing horse I’d imagined was very real in front of me. Soon my brother and I were taking trail rides all the time, in a park just across the street from us. It had miles of trails to explore. And doing it on Cutter was like having a tour guide. Now that she knew I was listening, her actions became more subtle. And at the same time, she told me more. She pointed out wildlife. She found the best views. She’d begun to ask questions and even tell me how she was feeling. 

“What was that?” My brother asked as he rode just ahead of us on Dolly. “Did you say something?”

“Sorry, I was talking to Cutter.”

He laughed. “Don’t forget we’re here, too.” He teased.

But that’s how it was, Cutter and I were literally having conversations. It was incredible.

I’d begin to guide her around a log across the trail. She’d give a quiet blow and lean towards it. “I can go over it.” She was saying. So I let her. We jumped it; what a feeling.

She’d bob her head on a smooth part of the trail and take one quick step. “Want to go faster?” was her question. Sometimes I’d keep her at a walk, and she’d willingly obey. Other times I’d say, “Yes! Let’s do it!” And away we’d go.

It always amazed me how she never demanded her way, just asked, and made suggestions.

As time passed, she’d say, “I need to take a break; this trail is a little rough.” So I’d get off and walk her. 

As she ‘said’ this more frequently, we had the vet out again. She had an old injury from before she was ours in her front, right knee that we had been having checked. This time the vet said that she needed to take it easy, don’t let her run much; but gave a green light to keep riding. We got her on better joint supplements. We took shorter, slower rides. And she always let me know if she needed a break. Our ‘conversations’ flowed and she made it clear that she loved our rides. If I came outside with a saddle or bridle, she’d be waiting at the gate for me.

“Let’s go!” She’d say. “I can’t wait!”

The next few years of slow rides were just as fun. She continued to point out the wildlife around us. I would ask her what trail she wanted to take. She would want to go faster but listened when I told her to keep it slow. Back and forth we talked. It was like one of those horse stories I used to read over and over as a child.

  Then, six and a half years ago, I called the vet again. Our rides had become less often and had gotten shorter and shorter, usually just five or ten minutes around the yard. But I could tell she was uncomfortable. The vet told me what I expected, yet dreaded to hear. It was time to fully retire her from riding. That was a hard decision. But I knew it was the best thing for her.

  Cutter didn’t understand it at first. She would still wait for me at the gate. And when I saddled up Dolly instead of her over and over, she was confused. She’d follow me around. She go stand at the mounting block, clearly saying, “Come on! Get on and let’s go.” She did this over and over.

It was breaking my heart. So one last time I put the bridle on her and led her to the mounting block. She was excited. I slowly climbed on her and I rode her no more than twenty feet. In that distance, she limped twice and nearly stumbled once. I slipped off her back and she looked me in the eyes. And I knew she understood now.

“It’s because it hurts me.” She seemed to whisper. “That’s why you don’t ride me.”

And she never asked me again.

 In a flash, I was back in the present: standing on the driveway with Cutter, the sunset having faded to dusk around us. 

“Ready to go home?” She asks, glancing at me and then at the barn.

I smiled and turned to head back. The groundwork is great; we still do this together and she loves it. As I slip her halter off in her stall and she gives me a kiss; I give her an apple slice. Some things never change. 

  Do I still miss riding her? Absolutely. Cutter forced me to face my fears, not to run from them. She taught me to ride at a deeper level. It wasn’t a smooth road, but it was miles well spent. We still talk together. She still makes me laugh, still shows me things. And I’m so thankful to have such an amazing horse in my life.