August 08, 2003bentley [brave]Bentley
.05.18.88. - .08.07.03.His career started on the track. 1990 saw a little steel grey horse named "Wolf Power" qualifying through Triple Crown for the Breeder's Cup.
He came up for sale before the big race, and a teenaged girl bought him, gelded him, and somehow ran out of time to ride him. Personality endeared him to the hearts of the managers of the stable and suddenly a 3-year-old ex-racehorse became a schooling horse that children learned to ride on. At this point, he was dubbed "Mushroom." How he earned that name is still a mystery to me.
In late 1991, I sold the mare I owned at the time, she never recovered mentally from breaking her hip and was unhappy in the jumping arena. Another ex-racehorse, something happened in her accident an put her back into track gear. A few faulty decisions by my coach at the time probably reinforced this rather than help with rehabilitation. Before she became dangerous to both herself and myself I knew it was time to change her lifepath. A nice lady from Texas drove all the way out to Southern California just because she wanted a large, stunning dark bay for a trail horse and broodmare. I received calls from time to time letting me know that Risky had found her niche. She was happy on the trails, and a fantastic momma who produced beautiful babies.
I was heading towards the A Circuit in my own riding career and looking for a teammate which I could compete with. Months of searching for horses combined with leasing a friend's or skipriding other's brought the conclusion I needed an interim horse. Something I could consistently ride while I kept looking for THE horse. The one I was going to spend $40 grand on and head to the winner's circle with.
Along came this flashy black-point grey gelding named Mushroom in earl 1992. Cute. Willing. Right size. Only 8k. Plus he was just about to turn four - young enough that I could work on polishing my own riding skills while teaching him his own skills to be a valueable competitor for whomever we sold him to once I found THE horse. My dad and I were talking about cars that morning on the drive down to San Diego to see him. Bentleys and Rolls, in particular. Beautiful, distinguished cars. The moment I saw that grey gelding - I called him "Bentley." It became a running joke that my other "car" was a Bentley.
It was a little harder to come up with his showname. People suggested Quicksilver, Metallica, Grey Ghost, Dark Knight, and various other plays on words that highlighted how dark his coloring was. But with most grey horses, the start out dark and go white with age. I wanted something as distinguished as his pet name to stick with him. The night before we signed the papers to buy him my dad and I watched a movie. It was a classic story about this man who was born into nobility, went wild, tried to return to the nobility but found he was happier being free. I liked that. I figured I would call the horse "Greystoke" when in competition.
Bentley, this little gelding that I was riding "just for now" was a goldmine.
From 1992 - 1996 he won repeated champsionships both locally and on the A and B Circuit. Kern County Classic. Santa Barbara Nationals. Cow Palace. Camelot. Hansen Dam. Orange County. Other places I don't even remember going to. What amazed me most was that he didn't start out as a no-name and build himself up to the winner's circle. He walked straight into it, he was THE horse. I had found this competitive, brave gelding that tried so hard to win. Trainers I didn't even know would recognize him and ask at various shows if he was for sale.
He excelled at lower level dressage, something I dabbled in towards the end of 1995 and into 1996. He could perform a half-pass like it was effortless. He could alternate turns on forehand/haunches and move himself down a rail without lifting a pivot foot. So strong, he could go from a complete halt into a powerful canter without taking any preperatory steps. At the canter, he was so balanced I could ask him to do flying lead changes and skip across the entire length of an arena. He was so fit and smart I could collect him at the trot so much that he'd be trotting in place. He was so attentive that at a full gallop I could get him to come to a sliding stop - just by shifting my weight backwards, I never had to touch the reins
That horse also had one hell of a personality.
An absolute bastard at times and more loyal than you'd ever expect any horse to be. I was the only one that could get him to do anything. I attended a clinic by a rather reputable trainer one year, and even he couldn't get Bentley to do exactly what he wanted - but I could. Taught the arrogant prick of a trainer to use a little more forethought in choosing which horse he rode for an example in teaching the class how to coax a difficult animal into performing. Obviously, it became a matter of the horse not being as difficult as one thought.
Nobody else at my barn could even get him to trot. Stubborn as I am, he took a lot of leg to keep going, and not just a well-placed kick, but a constant grip. Heavy mouthed if you put a harsh bit on him, he'd pull another rider's arms off. I used a rubber snaffle (apple flavored, even) and never had a problem. Half the time I'd take the stirrups off the saddle, or just throw a pad onto his back, and put him in a hackamore instead of a bridle to piss everybody else off - because I was the only one that could.
I could lead him around the stable with the leadrope slung over his neck instead of in my hands.
I could stretch out on the grass while he grazed and read a book or even fall asleep, he'd never wander away or step on me. Few times, he'd simply stand right next to me and doze, too. Flicking his tail every so often to keep the flies away from both of us, angled so that his shadow would fall across me, just waiting for me to wake up.
We'd have conversations across the barn. I'd yell something at him, and he'd whinny back. He'd steal my drink, be it Gatorade, water, soda, or beer. He'd steal my food, too. I learned very quickly not to absently gesture while holding a plum or peach or other piece of fruit in my hand. He'd suck it right up then blatantly spit the pit back onto my palm. Wheat thins were also not safe around him.
He protected me. Another horse kicked me one day, all but breaking my knee. Bentley charged out of - breaking - the crossties and went after the other horse.
He hated my wife. He was around first. It was a simple matter of principle possession and jealousy. He'd slam her into a stall wall every chance he got. "Accidentally" step on her feet or smack her with his tail. Went so far one day as to grab her wrist so hard it broke, and then tried to run off with it. My wife was not impressed. Though if you ever wondered if a horse could smile...
A series of injuries for both him and myself, and my finally getting my act together and going to college brought our competitive career to an end in late 1996. He stayed at the barn I competed out of for a few years, being exercised and keeping in shape. Keeping him active, but giving him retirement after working so hard in the showring. I didn't move him to a barn in Los Angeles, even if I worked at a stable riding horses for about two years, because none would provide the care that I was accustomed to him having. I kept him with the trainer that knew him. A grizzley old codger that had been in the business since he could walk, and sixty years later was happily caring for my retired horse into his own retirement. After realizing I wasn't returning to competition and moving into the mountains, I packed him up into a trailer and moved him to a nearby ranch of my friend's where he could get fat and happy out in a pasture with other old geldings.
He lead a good life at the ranch. Patty spoiled him rotten. He became the ringleader of the small herd of seniors. He got buckets of mash and carrots and bran and watermelon. He got to play in the snow. He got babied and bathed and even a beer when he wanted it.
Over the years I knew I was meant to have him. We shared a birthday. At one point in time even shared a name. He was my teammate, companion and friend.
About a week ago, Patty left the ranch at around 8pm to go make dinner for a neighbor that had broken his hip. When she returned around 930, she saw that Bentley had gotten himself tangled in the fence. His wounds were extensive, but with the help of a few neighbors she was able to get him off the fence and he stood up on his own. The next day, I rushed out and we did everything we could to help ease his pain and begin the recovery process. There was no way it would have been humane to ask him to get into a trailer and endure an hour ride to the vet's. His legs were swollen together but for me, just for me, he took a few steps so we could get him to the water trough and cool his fever. I came home covered in blood and mud and tears. Over the next few days, the swelling went down, and he began moving around a little more. He seemed like he was recovering.
Tuesday night, he began to lose his appetite, by Wednesday he lost so much weight we could see his ribs. We put an emergency call into the vet 's and would find a way to pay the expense of a ranch call with a 70 mile drive one way. The vet was already in the field on emergencies and wouldn't make it up until Thursday afternoon. John, the vet, made his receptionist push all other appointments aside because he always loved this horse, offered to buy him from us at the pre-purchase exam all those years ago, and every time he saw Bentley kept asking if we were ready to sell him "his horse."
I went to the ranch and spent hours cleaning his wounds and offering him every type of food we had out there, holding the buckets so he wouldn't have to reach for them. Once again, only for me, he ate. Even stole sips from two of my beers. I was willing to drive out and do that every day if it meant he would eat and have the energy to recover.
Just for me, he was trying so very hard.
But with the way I cried that night, when I got home, deep down I knew.
I went out yesterday afternoon, so I could care for him and help Patty around the ranch to give us both the time to focus on Bentley when John came out. In the time it took for me to drive from my house to the ranch, he had begun to slowly walk in clockwise circles. When I saw that, I knew the injuries weren't only affecting his body, they were now affecting his mind. Even though we had him on a regimen of painkillers and antibiotics and reboostered his tetanus vax, something had gone terribly wrong and out of human control.
My mom came out with me, and burst into tears on first sight. She'd fallen in love with that horse, too, and he was one of the remaining physical connections to my dad. She couldn't bear to see him in such agony.
I fed him buckets of carrots and mash. I held buckets of water. He'd put his face in til it reached the bottom and blew bubbles to soak me - just like old times. I gave him a sponge bath, massaging what I knew were exhausted muscles... couldn't help but smile as he leaned into it. He wanted to lay down so badly, but wouldn't, because he wouldn't give up. I held his head on my shoulder when he was too tired to hold it up himself, crying against his neck.
John arrived at 430. At 5, I did the last thing I could for my friend, and he and I put Bentley down.
It killed me. Even though he was so exhausted and in so much pain and going out of his mind from it - he looked at me and pulled away from the needle. He still wanted to fight for me. He carried me on his back through countless competitions and wins, and he was still going to try. When he fell, I went with him, catching his head in my lap. He struggled to breath and get back up, even though I knew it must have felt so good to finally be on the ground to rest. He watched me, big beautiful brown eye locked on mine, ears twitching as he focused on my voice just like he had so many times over the years. All I could do was tell him it was okay, and I was sorry, I knew he didn't want to give up or die but I wanted him to go and be at peace, cradling his head as he stopped breathing. There was a slow blink, just before his few last breaths, and I think he understood it was okay to finally go.
I held his head for a long time, doubled over and crying. I knew right then what I did was the most humane and kindest thing, but I couldn't believe I watched the light go out of my best friend's eyes.
None of us know why he suddenly went downhill. John said he may have contracted Equine Protozoal Myelitis, and without riding him there would have been no way to tell because first signs show up in back weakness and sensitivity from the parasite affecting the spinal column (since the horse is an abnormal and dead-end host). The neurological degeneration associated with that may have explained why he got himself in the fence in the first place, and the extreme pain-induced dementia beginning yesterday afternoon. He finds that a common denominator among horses that put themselves into dangerous situations when normally they are very careful. West Nile would have explained the bizarre circling and reason to be so close to the fence, too. Also, the wounds, even with how aggressively we were treating them, may have gone septic which lead to liver and heart failure, explaining the dementia and sudden weight loss. We came up with dozens of possibilities as to why this happened. Though it was all hypothetical. What mattered is that my buddy wasn't suffering anymore.
We buried him on the property. He's between three large pine trees, overlooking the pasture he used to live in and where his herdmates still are. We put him in the ground with a bucket of carrots and his favorite mash, and a bush of the mountain sage he liked to roll in. I put a beer in, too. The bottlecap had print underneath: Life's too short to be bitter. One of my wife's jackets is wrapped around his head - and his nose is pointed to Polaris. I took his halter off. Buried him free.
Audentes fortuna iuvat.
Bentley was a very, very brave horse.
Posted by Wolf at August 08, 2003 03:17 PM
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