Our dear DiMaggio was laid to rest on December 7.
My grief for him runs more deeply than I expected. He was a model of steadiness, a war horse: tough, brave, noble, resolute, faithful, stoic, gentle and strong. He was a presence in my daily life of calm handsomeness and I admired him every time I saw him.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on him one cold November morning. I was looking for a schoolmaster (an experienced, trained horse at the level I wanted to practice) and my budget dictated that I'd be restricted to older horses. I was prepared to accept experience over exuberance, but DiMaggio was fresh, bright, furry and just a little naughty during my single trial ride. He spooked at the sheep on the farm where he lived and then shook his neck like he was laughing. When I climbed aboard and tried to act like I knew what I was doing, he grinded his teeth audibly and started making flying changes. I called my coach and said "I think I found him. I got The Feeling."
He liked to eat treats of any kind, including parsnips and domestic beer. Since he was a German, I was sure he'd like Heineken but he would rather have Brava. He was just a little head shy at first, and hated any vet work, but I taught him to love face massages and a good towelling. Our vet tech in Timmins, Uli, was also German and she would talk to him during their visits. He would not tolerate being alone from the herd, and I always accommodated that. He held very still when I'd press my cheek to his nose and kiss him, and I always thought we shared a moment then.
I took DiMaggio to the big shows in Palgrave and he showed me what class really was. Even in a terrible downpour, he performed the test when other horses (and riders) would have wilted, and he stayed with me, to my humble amazement. My husband handwalked him every morning of those shows, while I cleaned his stall. We all knew how quiet and safe DiMaggio was to handle, and John would bring him back and say loudly in the show barn "We schooled the two tempis in-hand and I think he's really got them now!"
I also took him on many, many trail rides. On our last ride, I was prepared for an easy walk around the property but he wasn't interested, and hauled me back home at a gallop. The wind made tears stream from my eyes.
He is with me in every horse I ride, now. He made me better at riding Andy, and riding Andy has made me better at riding Ludi. I often read how horsemen wish they could go back and ride those good horses from their past again, knowing what they know now, but that's not how life works. One of Canada's Olympic riders, Christilot Boylen, said "I suffered the losses of my horses through sale, illness or death. One learns to be a philosopher in this sport and when working with animals. You accompany them and they accompany you for a period in your life."
Somewhere, either out in a field or just as an idea in some horse breeder's mind, DiMaggio has a cousin who is waiting for me to find him. And I will know just what to do.
My grief for him runs more deeply than I expected. He was a model of steadiness, a war horse: tough, brave, noble, resolute, faithful, stoic, gentle and strong. He was a presence in my daily life of calm handsomeness and I admired him every time I saw him.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on him one cold November morning. I was looking for a schoolmaster (an experienced, trained horse at the level I wanted to practice) and my budget dictated that I'd be restricted to older horses. I was prepared to accept experience over exuberance, but DiMaggio was fresh, bright, furry and just a little naughty during my single trial ride. He spooked at the sheep on the farm where he lived and then shook his neck like he was laughing. When I climbed aboard and tried to act like I knew what I was doing, he grinded his teeth audibly and started making flying changes. I called my coach and said "I think I found him. I got The Feeling."
He liked to eat treats of any kind, including parsnips and domestic beer. Since he was a German, I was sure he'd like Heineken but he would rather have Brava. He was just a little head shy at first, and hated any vet work, but I taught him to love face massages and a good towelling. Our vet tech in Timmins, Uli, was also German and she would talk to him during their visits. He would not tolerate being alone from the herd, and I always accommodated that. He held very still when I'd press my cheek to his nose and kiss him, and I always thought we shared a moment then.
I took DiMaggio to the big shows in Palgrave and he showed me what class really was. Even in a terrible downpour, he performed the test when other horses (and riders) would have wilted, and he stayed with me, to my humble amazement. My husband handwalked him every morning of those shows, while I cleaned his stall. We all knew how quiet and safe DiMaggio was to handle, and John would bring him back and say loudly in the show barn "We schooled the two tempis in-hand and I think he's really got them now!"
I also took him on many, many trail rides. On our last ride, I was prepared for an easy walk around the property but he wasn't interested, and hauled me back home at a gallop. The wind made tears stream from my eyes.
He is with me in every horse I ride, now. He made me better at riding Andy, and riding Andy has made me better at riding Ludi. I often read how horsemen wish they could go back and ride those good horses from their past again, knowing what they know now, but that's not how life works. One of Canada's Olympic riders, Christilot Boylen, said "I suffered the losses of my horses through sale, illness or death. One learns to be a philosopher in this sport and when working with animals. You accompany them and they accompany you for a period in your life."
Somewhere, either out in a field or just as an idea in some horse breeder's mind, DiMaggio has a cousin who is waiting for me to find him. And I will know just what to do.
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