After two seasons learning her
trade, Babe became a reliable, honest, and eager foxhunting machine. Yes, we had our embarrassing moments.
Certainly there was frustration. Could I even catch her if I woke up at 5:30
and had to load at 7:00? Maybe, maybe not. Her complete refusal to be caught
posed a challenge that often bested my anguished efforts. Many mornings, nobody
else was required to come in from her field, so why the hell should she have
to? As the clock ticked I’d resort to new lows, bringing a bucket of feed into
the field as she slowly inched forward, took a whiff of the air, then turned
away. It was as close as I’d get. There was one particular morning I recall, where
there was a mare she was second to. It was the only time in Babe’s life she was
not the alpha. And this mare who dominated her dominated ALL. She was a food
whore, and not at all difficult to catch. She was brutal about managing her
herd and none of the horses questioned her authority. So here I come, bucket in
hand, halter over my shoulder, and up walks the queen bitch. I toss some grain
on the ground, and walk by her, as she hungrily snorts it up. Soon enough she’s
following me as I make my way to Babe, who stands with ears pointed toward us,
a bemused smirk on her face. She waits until I am exactly one arm’s length away
and turns her head away from me, ambling off a few steps. The evil dominatrix
mare is closing the gap so I fling the end of my leadrope toward her to fend
her off. She turns her head briefly, but not her body. She wants that grain.
Babe wants it too, but there is too much risk involved. I shoo away a few other
interested horses and keep pressuring Babe. Finally she breaks into a jog to
get away from me. At this point, the feral mare is hot on my trail. I turn
around and yell at her, swinging the leadrope hard at her face. She begins to
swing around and to my dismay, instead of turning to go, she’s loading both
barrels. Her aim is damn good, but I see it coming and duck away but not quite
quickly enough. Her right rear grazes my temple and takes me down. I scream a
streak of pirate-worthy profanity and throw the bucket at her wide ass,
smacking it square. She instantly turns around to enjoy her reward. I get up,
brush myself off, and admit defeat. Babe is standing by, ears twitching. I did
end up hunting that day, because when I went into the barn I was quite livid
and my friends Jennifer and Nelly were able to catch her.
Once
caught, the worst was not necessarily over. We did have to manage trailer
loading as one would manage a full scale military coup. To load her, I would be
on her left shoulder with a chain shank (over the nose and up the cheek for
best results), another person would be on her right shoulder, and someone would
be behind her with either a lunge whip or, better yet, a broom. We would funnel
her on, and if there was any exit door left open, Babe would use it. Once I
very stupidly did not have the chest bar raised, and the side door in front was
open. With a quick assessment of her size and the door size on the way in, Babe
smartly went all the way through. I did not make that mistake again. Another
time, when attempting to load to go home from a meet, I had Nelly to help
behind, and I was at her head. Babe would just walk up the ramp half way, then
simply turn her neck and bolt off. I was inside, and my arm nearly got pulled
out of the socket before I let go of the rope. She would run to the same person
every time, Geoff Ogden. He just happened to be chatting beside his trailer
with someone, directly in her escape path. He graciously caught her as she
repeated her maneuver at least three times. I believe he said on the third, “Next
time I’m just keeping her!” I assured him he could have her if he could just
load her on a trailer, any trailer. Even Jeff Blue had a hand in trying. He
walked up and said, “Here, let me try.” Finally, enough people got involved
that she was overcome and relented to being loaded. There were times that it
actually was worse. The time at Glenwood, when it was a small field, and we
came in with the last group. Nelly had Lucca, who also didn’t load extremely
well, so I said, “I’ll just throw Babe on and help you with him.” Ha ha ha!!! No way. Babe took one look at the empty
trailer, and bolted. Took off at a dead run toward home, also ironically toward
the infield of the race track. As she entered the enclosed infield, Nelly, and
the one remaining soul kind enough to stay behind, Richard McWade, mounted up
and cowboyed after her. The bitch actually had to be chased down and rounded up
before she allowed Nelly and Lucca to grab her face. Thankfully the leadrope
was intact. I grabbed her from Nelly at the gate and the three of us got Lucca loaded
first, then Babe. Honestly if there had not been a fence around that course, it
would have gone differently. Like the time we were at Bolinvar. I remember
Merrilyn had rolled her ankle the week before, and then out hunting had banged
it on a tree. She was so ready to go home. We went to load, and given Merrilyn’s
ankle in searing pain, I attempted to load without help. Nope, bad idea. Babe
pulled away, turned her head toward home, pointed her ears, and galloped off in
the exact direction of her field. Merrilyn said, “We have to go after her!!!”
And so we hopped in a car and drove along the road, watching as the black dot
of her flanks got smaller and smaller in the distance. As Babe disappeared into
the woods, Merrilyn said “What should we do? She could run into the road!” I
said, “She’s going home. Let’s just pack up and meet her there.” I knew this to
be true, and I also knew the shortest distance between Bolinvar and home was
across fields and woods. No roads. So we loaded everyone else and went home. Sure
enough, there she was, in full tack, standing by the gate of her field. I have
so many memories of Babe from that field, the lower right one at Foxcroft. I
once caught her without incident, and was happily chatting away on my phone
with her leadrope draped casually over my arm as she grazed just outside the
gate. I was just about to hang up and walk with purpose to the barn to tack up.
She sensed my complete inattention, and high tailed it into the gap between the
two fields. “Ha HAAA!” I thought, DEAD END.
The way between the fields was cut off by a run-in shed. There was only
about an eight foot distance between the two fence lines. Easy, I thought. I
will just walk up to her, and seeing she’s trapped, she won’t resist. WRONG. As
I approached, she turned to look at her field. She was four feet from the
fence. Like a deer, she simply launched herself back in. I was simultaneously
irate and thrilled. What a majestic feat, to see her jump a board fence, from
no distance. I remember taking a moment to let her enjoy being in her field
before going after her. I did catch her that day. As obstinate as she was to be
caught, she was all joy to ride. Her prowess in the hunt field was
unparalleled. She never seemed to put a foot wrong and never refused. She was
literally a dream to ride, once she realized she didn’t need to hurry. She
compensated so well for my lack of riding skill. She was brave – never spooked
that I can remember. She was agile and quick, and quite powerful. Most of all, Babe
was brilliant fun.
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