Hurricane

When I was little. Like 10? My parents bought me a horse named Hurricane.

This wasn't just a FUN name it was a portent of things to come. That welsh pony with one blue eye, patch-worked in red and white, was a force of nature and I was a barely supervised feral child whose under-developed sense of self-preservation made me look fearless instead of not worth saving.

Hurricane had a fearsome habit of rearing up, up, UP onto his hind legs while tossing his head. Very flashy. Very spaghetti western. Very dangerous.

I loved it. All of it. The collective gasp as this little girl clung like a burr to the neck of that wild, wild Welsh pony. The thrill of danger. Walking, or rather riding, that fine line between showing off and taking on more than I could handle.

At some point in the adventure, I had read a book about ladies who rode sidesaddle, and I was instantly convinced that I could do that too. And I did. Knee hooked over the saddle horn as I ripped around the pasture, up the little hill, down the bank next to the pond, past the rotting log cabin. Back to the barn, where the only way to stop Hurricane was an eight-foot gate and the weathered silver walls of the barn.

Did I mention he was barn sour? That's a term horse people use to talk about a horse who was compelled, obsessed, and mindlessly driven to return to the barn. A compulsion beyond reason, beyond the strength of a 10-year-old girl's arms.

For whatever reason that day, I chose white jeans. Maybe I felt fancy. More likely, they were the only pants I had. Ladies in trousers weren't seen as ladies. Pants were the equivalent of rebelling against God, we heard from the pulpit and in the wood-chip dust of church camp. Only the most Jezebel of women chose to refuse the godliness and purity found only in swaths of fabric that wrapped around calves and knees. But even denim skirts and tennis shoes were inadvisable for a wild child who spent her days on the bluffs, in the barn, wrapped around new kittens in the haystack... on the floor behind the loveseat reading.

I was so loud outdoors. And so quiet indoors.

But that day? The white jeans were the perfect complement to Hurricane's flashy mane and my desire to ride like a lady.

Up the pasture we ran, through the green grass, past the sleepy barn cats, and the blue heeler who barely lifted his ears at our shenanigans. Up the steep hill, then we carefully picked our way down the rocky side before gearing up for the last dash to the barn. But this day? This day, Hurricane had an original thought, and I was woefully unprepared.

Instead of veering past the cabin, he dodged right. His mission was to eliminate the small person, return to the barn, and be left alone.

Hurricane wasn't a lovable equine. He was all neglect and angst. A grouchy soul who was happier without the demands and expectations that came with a saddle and the bit he ignored as often as possible.

Today, Hurricane made choices. And, to this day, I remember the choice, the aftermath, and the first time I felt true fear in the presence of an animal.

People were always terrifying. They were unpredictable, or they asked too much. Or they lied. Asking one thing, doing another. Sneaking and taking. Yelling and punishing when I asked too many questions. People were too much. Animals had simple needs, patterns, and truth. Until that day...

Hurricane veered right, bit in his teeth, before running up to and under the corrugated metal roof of the shed that housed the well. The jagged metal edge caught my knee, hooked tightly over the saddle horn, and sliced... Like a leather strap folded in half and sliced across the top. My knee filleted wide open as that miserable pony finally stopped in front of Grandpa's shop.

I jumped off, completely in shock, took a couple of steps, looked at the inside of my knee, my split kneecap, at the white flesh splayed before the blood began to pour.

"Help!!!!" I screamed over and over, hoping someone was there to hear me.

Fortunately, it was a Saturday. I know it was Saturday because Dad was home. And if I got hurt when Dad was home, I knew he'd take it seriously.

He bundled me into the back of the station wagon, a blanket wrapped around my wounded knee, while I stayed as quiet as I could.

Crying didn't help. That was canon. I remembered the times I’d heard my crying was for "babies" and the stinging mockery of being "too sensitive".

Dad sped his way to town. The ER was 45 minutes away. 30 minutes if we are lucky. Which we weren't, as red and blue lights flashed behind us.

"Officer, please, my daughter's been injured. We need to get to the hospital!"

A police escort, 33 stitches, a warning to stop being an idiot on a horse, 6 weeks with a knee brace, an abject and unrelenting fear of that paint pony, and a jagged scar that still burns when the weather changes.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson, but, there were other horses. Other days.

Different races.

More trips to the ER.