Tomasa is my new horse. She is a small dark bay mare with a white smudge under her forelock and white spots on the inside of her front legs, as if someone had white paint on their fingers when they picked up her hooves. She was born in Mexico, though we got her in L.A. She was skinny then, three months ago. Now she has filled out some with good food and exercise. She has a delicate, feminine face with light brown smears over her eyelids, like eye shadow, decorating eyes that brim with intelligence. Her legs are slim and hard, her body rangy. She has a slight sway back. She is an unlikely looking athlete, but somehow the combination of her body parts work in perfect harmony because she can jump like a deer, springing almost effortlessly over large obstacles. She is light on her feet, barely making a sound with her hooves when we walk across concrete. She carries her head high, looking from side to side, curious and alert. Her personality reminds me of Charlie, though her energy is more controlled, an eight year old versus a puppy. She is sweet and responsive to attention, licking my hand for remnants of treats or salt when I visit her in her stall. When she first came she was shy and pulled away when I faced her and lifted my hand to pet her head. Now I keep my hands low and let her decide how much affection she wants. Sometimes I stand with my back to her, letting her sniff my hair and face, gently running her muzzle over me, seeking information and connection.
She wasn’t that well trained when we got her. She ran from jump to jump, relying on her athletic ability alone to clear fences, not knowing how to collect her stride, to round her back. But she’s smart and has learned quickly. It’s me that needs to catch up. Cadiz was slow, I had time to think and process when I rode her. She was like a Rolls Royce, beautiful, powerful, heavy. Tomasa is like an unpainted racecar, a generic Ferrari. The second I have a thought she responds, not waiting for the physical cue, but acting on my mental command. I had a rail down last week because I was making a tight turn in a jump off and as I looked left while over the top of a jump, Tomasa started turning in the air, reading me clearly. My body was slower than my brain and I used my left rein after the thought, unnecessarily. “She put the landing gear down,” my trainer said after I came out of the ring, “use an opening rein next time, don’t be so loud. She’s sensitive.” We had a fast time though. Without the rail we would have been in the ribbons, out of seventy or so entries.
Tomasa is fast because she can turn on a dime like a quarter horse. She can jump from two legs out of a corner, which I stupidly and competitively asked her to do in a class the week before. But we ended up in second place. She wants to win as much as I do. Her demeanor is calm and quiet until I walk into the ring, and then her head flies up, her eyes widen, her nostrils flare as she sees the jumps, hears the buzzer sound. I can feel coiled energy flowing from her body into mine, up through my legs into my core and out my arms into my hands, where I hold her, leashed power. It’s a heady feeling. She covers ground explosively, like a racehorse coming out of the starting gate. I have to be careful how I ask her to accelerate because I can be out of control within a few strides, such is the size of her engine. I need control to turn, to balance, to measure between jumps. But it’s not an engine inside her, it’s bone and sinew and muscle and tendon and blood pounding in my ears, her blood and mine. And yet what elevates her from pure physical specimen to great athlete is her heart. Heart is not mechanic, it’s emotional, spiritual. It determines how hard she’ll fight, how much determination and will she has to do her job, to jump clean, to go fast, to win.
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