42. Ker-BLAM!

“Uh-oh . . . holy shit!” is the sound track to what briefly seems like the end of the world.  Here’s how it happens:

Gus and I shelter from the heat in the indoor arena, where we do some really quite nice long-lining, if I do say so myself.  I sometimes creep up too close behind him and let one or both reins go floppy, but I’m better at noticing it right away.  And every time I regain a gentle but steady contact on the reins, I instantly see him step out in his most businesslike way.  With that contact as our baseline, I can also take and give just a tiny bit to steer him left or right, so our zigzagging is evening out.  I remove the surcingle and reins, we do a few of our party tricks, and then we exit gladly for some grazing.  He’s now confident that I will let him graze, and I’m now confident that I will win the end-of-grazing battle to get him safely penned for the evening.  Joy and harmony embrace us.

While Gus gluts himself on grass, I stand alongside and rake my fingers through his fur, all over and repeatedly, to help him shed his winter coat.  He slips into a trance of eating and massage, two of his favorite pastimes ever.  Sandy arrives and begins her dinnertime chores, but we’re immersed in nirvana.

Next thing I know, there’s a wad of fur and bone pressing urgently into my face and chest, and I find myself stepping backward.  I only get two quick, short steps and then, in rapid succession, my feet are off the ground, I feel a slamming sensation, and my whole head is in agony.  “Uh-oh,” says a voice from afar.  The instant I realize that I’ve been knocked over backward, the next sensation I get is a hoof stepping onto my sternum and then a big movement and shadow across my body and away.  “Holy shit!” says the voice.  A second later, I feel a hand on my hand and the voice is asking me if I’m OK.

Amazingly, the wind is not knocked out of me, and I’m relatively comfortable sprawled there on the ground.  With my eyes still closed, I tell the voice, which I recognize as Sandy’s, “I think I’m actually fine.”  My first question, of course, is what the hell happened, and Sandy apologetically blames herself for not saying something before she turned on a water-hose.  Seriously??  Gus has seen and heard Sandy using a hose a thousand times before without feeling the need to spook — using the hose is no reason for her to apologize.  Dopey donkey. 

Now I realize that everything about my person that wasn’t buttoned or zippered has been sent flying by the impact.  My baseball cap has sailed way off to my side, and we finally find my glasses deposited on the turf at least three feet behind my head.  My extremities are uninjured, my retinas still in place (I had a detachment a few years ago that required major eye surgery to reattach it, so that’s always a concern for me), and my chest remarkably hoofprint-free; only my head is aching like a sonofabitch.  But I’m not queasy or dizzy or demented, so the concussion seems mild.  Sandy, always prepared, produces from her pocket two little vials of curative essential oils for me to apply to my temples and neck.  And she watches me like a mother hen to make sure I really am OK as I stand up and move around.

What about Gus, you ask?  He’s lounging a few feet away, cool as a cuke.  He’s had to relocate his grazing operation, since there’s a human selfishly spraddled across otherwise perfectly good eats, but he’s making do with the grass right nearby.  And what does he have to say for himself?  Bupkis.  The hose didn’t dance around or hiss like a snake, so what made his brain go white with panic?  All we can guess is that he was so profoundly blissed out that he lost all awareness of the world around him, and whatever he glimpsed or heard must’ve struck him as so surprising and alien that he startled like a stick of dynamite.

Already peace is upon the earth again, and Gus, thinking of dinner, hardly resists my leading him back to his stall.  I pick his feet and bid him goodnight.  On the drive home, I begin guessing which of my muscles will be sorest tomorrow.