Sunset on the Mountain
Merlin Died Tuesday.
Apologies, there will not be an audio version of this post.
Attn: If you are an Annual or Founding subscriber of mine who (for whatever reason) could not afford to resubscribe to CAF this month, please let me know so I can comp your subscription until you are on better financial footing.
So many pledges didn’t come through because of declined cards and/or un-subscriptions because of my last post about politics and feminism. I thought this would be the one month a year I would receive enough through substack to cover the bills—but only half of the projected income I was counting on made it here—due to what I assume is hardship you are also experiencing.
Don’t worry, I’m not changing my content or my opinions. God hates a coward, and while I’m a lot of things, I’m not that. I’ve never had the misfortune to prefer being comfortable in life over living it. But actions do have consequences, writing about politics being one of them.
If you don’t want to lose access to content, please send me a message so I can arrange for you to read free until you can afford it again. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you do not want to continue, but please don’t let money be the reason. I don’t give a shit about money past what I am forced to earn to remain housed, warm, and fed. I believe you will support me again if my writing has value and you care about this farm. That’s the magic I live by.
Some Women Measure Our Lives in Horses
When I brought Merlin home to Cold Antler I didn’t know who I was, but I sure has hell knew who I wanted to become.
It was 2012 and I had already owned my farm for two years. I was making the radical (and strongly discouraged) decision to quit my office career for the idealism of the farm. I was becoming a self-employed agrarian/writer at 30. It was the best worst decision of my life.
My blog and books were so popular then. I thought I was following my destiny, creating the life of my dreams. I thought the book deals and interviews would keep coming and only get better (HA!). And with those headwinds of youth, luck, and delusion; I bought a British draft horse on the same impulse that was fueling my freedom.
The horse was a Fell Pony, a breed I’d only seen in coffee table books because they are a rare native breed from the Scottish border. His name was Merlin, a gentleman born in Cumbria, England and transported to the states at age 4 by a wealthy woman I’ve never met. I am very grateful to her, even if me ending up with the pony she imported was never in her cards. He was her impulse, first. I respect any woman that makes a rash decision for love.
The first 18 years of his life (before ever meeting me), Merlin saw more of the world than I ever had. He’d been a resident of two continents, crossed the Atlantic, had multiple owners, was temporarily the star of the Kentucky Horse Park’s rare breed exhibit, and by late 2000’s ended up as an imported teenage gelding on a farm 20 miles from Cold Antler. The current owner had fallen terminally ill and was selling her horses that weren’t breeding stock. Another woman I am grateful for.
I saw the ad for him on Craigslist while at the office and couldn’t believe it. I never thought a Fell could be mine, it was like wishing for Pegasus. I also knew I would never have the eight grand she was asking for, even if he was worth every penny. Merlin was trained to ride, jump, drive, trot dressage, and more. I wasn’t trained to do any of those things, but I wanted to be capable of it all.
So I wrote a heartfelt letter that he was the horse of my dreams and I would dedicate my life to his good care if we could work out some sort of lower cost or payment plan? She agreed to both lower the cost and accept monthly payments with a down payment, and after a contract and the help of a dear friend with a horse trailer, I brought Merlin home the same year I quit my job and took up falconry.
{I was going through a lot.}
All those decisions must have seemed like madness at the time. All of them necessary to become the woman who dismounted him once last time. I didn’t realize how I was trying to build a life that protected me from trauma, a safe place far away from fear and fertile enough to heal, come out, and start living my *real* life in my thirties.
It takes a lot to change a whole life. He was my ride the whole way.
He was calm and had good feet and a temperament steady as a gentle rumble of thunder. I was the anxiety. I was the greenhorn. Yet he was patient, even if I didn’t know what I was doing. Over the years, I learned to ride less with my strength and more with my head. I learned to be a better woman overall because of him.
He was the horse that showed me how to be strong and confident, even if I was only borrowing his. The first time I got on his back in a western saddle I had a panic attack and started crying. I felt like he was too much, too scary, too hard to understand…. how I didn’t know if I had the skill or enough control over this massive animal to be safe? But my friend Patty held my hand and lead him around her farm like I was a little girl on a pony ride. I used to be embarrassed about that story. Now I only remember two friends helping me feel brave.
Within two years of tacking him up it felt like getting on a beloved childhood bike. Steady, understood, a borderline-zen practice of being carried away to somewhere better.
Some women measure our lives in horses. The time he was in my life feels like a fantasy novel from another age. Shooting arrows, galloping full speed across endless fields, driving his cart to the local market and taking friends on trail rides. He was my hawking partner, my therapist, my oldest friend. He was a dream come true.
And I had to end his life this week.
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