Crabapple

 

         Dad or Earl, I can’t remember which, bought a horse.  For some oddball reason, we were keeping it in town on the large lawn next to my dad’s law office.  It was a large area with a few fruit trees.  We fixed a series of fences to keep that horse in the lawn.  As the children, or slaves, we had the chore of making sure the horse had hay and water each day.  We also got to spend some time in the saddle.

         When the horse was introduced to that large, grassy field, the white and grey palomino surveyed and explored his new home and then ate the crabapple tree.  The other three apple trees, two pear trees and the peach tree were left alone.  The crabapple wasn’t as lucky.  It now resided inside Crabapple, which is how he got his name.

         When we took Crabapple to the ranch, we soon realized that his name should have been Bad Apple.  He was a perfect children’s horse.  He was gentle and never saw the need to get in a rush.  It soon became apparent that the kid who got Crabapple was the guy who ate dust, pushing the cattle during a roundup.

         Crabapple had some interesting habits.  One of his favorites was the standstill.  He would stand in one place with one leg cocked as on tiptoe to make his back highly uncomfortable for the rider.  He could hold this position for hours and once he was set, nothing could prod him forward, except maybe a sharp set of spurs.

         He had two speeds; stop and slow.  On the rare occasion that he sped up, he would proceed to a shaking, convulsive gallop that tended to shake the living daylights out of his rider (shaken cowboy syndrome).  This was very rare, however.  Sometimes, during his odd higher speeds, he would suddenly stop on his front feet.  Most good horses stop by dropping their haunches and digging in with their rear hooves.  Not so with Crabapple.  His stop could be referred to as the Nutcracker.  A western saddle is a savage device on its own, but pair it with this mild mannered horse and it became a torture device on a lethal weapon.

         Crabapple was also one of the only horses that I knew that would eat “on the run.” Whether riding at a walk or his slow bouncy trot, Crabapple would spot a tasty bunch of grass and then lower his head within inches of the ground. He would snatch the grass in his teeth and while his neck and head turned nearly 180 degrees, looking behind him, he would rip up the grass, look forward, and chew.  This was very dangerous when on the rare occasion he happened to be running.  It took a special skill, a special talent, to ride Crabapple.  Most people call it luck.  One day, though, my luck ran out.

         We were moving cattle from the Meadows Ranch to the Hogan Pasture. It was a long, hot ride and most of the morning was spent moving the cattle across the Little Colorado River valley.  The “river” was not much more than a large ditch, but the water spread across nearly 1/2 mile of grassland. It was a muddy, sloppy mess, infested with hordes of savage mosquitoes.

         Not only was Crabapple moving in a completely foreign manner, having to ride through mud nearly at his knees, but he was unusually hungry.  His snatch and pull method was getting annoying.

         We made it, through many yells and curse words, to the center of the valley where the “river” ran.  At this particular crossing, the ground had dried up a bit and the ditch was only about four feet wide.  All the other cowboys, all on good horses, walked to the edge of the ditch.  The horse would bunch up and leap over the ditch.  Cowboy and all.  I was excited.  I’d never ridden equestrian style or jumped a horse over anything.  When it was our turn, the last ones in line, Crabapple approached the water, leaning his head down, and I got ready to hold on tight. Nothing happened except that Crabapple had a nice drink.  The cowboys told me to spur the horse.  I did so and he lifted his head up as if to say, “Can’t a horse get a drink?”  I spurred harder, and he just backed up.

         The foreman had a better idea.  I was holding up the cowboys and the cattle were spreading out.  “Start back a distance and run for it.  The horse will jump over.  No problem!”  he said.  Famous last words.

         I turned Crabapple around. He seemed very happy with this new turn of events.  “Time to go home!” in horse Latin.  I started him at a trot then a run and slowly nudge him around toward the river.  The thoughts of home and a bag of oats left his daydreams as we came to the river.  That horse stopped on a dime.  On his front feet, of course.  He also dropped his head while stopping and momentum brought his rear upward.  My legs were shoved open by the pommel as I slid forward too quickly to react.  My family jewels were, without warning, slammed into the high saddle horn.  As I nearly vomited from the instant pain, I continued forward in a full somersault over the horse’s head and landed in the ice cold water.  The water was only about two feet deep but the mud was another three feet deep, at least.  I looked up and I swear that horse was laughing.  So were about five cowboys on the other side of the river.

         I sat in the water for a minute or so to ice down the pain of my injured pride and groin.  Then I crawled out using the reins as a rope and the horse as an anchor.  I was soaked and covered in slimy clay to my chest.

         I had to walk that horse at least a mile up river to find a road and bridge across the insurmountable obstacle.  I rode toward the lunchtime stopping point, nursing my injured pride, my deflated ego, and my swollen jewels.  As I slowly walked  Crabapple toward my destination, mud drying in a brown shell around me, I realized that there was, indeed, a moral to this story!

You can lead a horse to water,

But you can’t make him jump!