|
Better Cheddar
|
|
National Show Horse
|
|
1985 - 2012
|
Cheddar collapsed while I was feeding this evening, and while we were waiting for the vet, he died with his head in my arms. He was 27 years old. And if I had to lose him, I’m profoundly grateful that he was able to go with me by his side. Hugh and my Dad practically dragged me from the snow and begged me to lie down, but I just couldn’t do it. Lie down and endlessly relive the passing of my best friend of 22 years? I know eventually I’ll have to do precisely that, but right now, I feel it’s my duty to honor my most treasured friend by writing about who he was, and who he’ll always be.
Cheddar and I first met when I was 15 years old, and he was five. An elderly couple was auctioning off their farm and all its inhabitants so they could retire in Hawaii. I was competing at the time, and we were in search of a horse who could prove competitive as I moved up the ranks. He was clearly adored by his owners, and the farm staff—they had given him the nickname, “Cheesecake,” which I would ditch by the wayside in favor of “Ched” or “Ched the Great,” which was really the most applicable of the two. Because he truly was great.
Before the auction, I was allowed the opportunity to ride him to get a feel for how we might work together. And when I climbed on his back and began trotting around the ring, it was clear we were simply meant to be.
When the auction began, and it was his turn, he burst into the ring like the most magnificent creature on earth. At least in my eyes. And that feeling never wavered, even as he lay dying in my arms. I won’t drone on about every detail of our competition days, since they were really a mere sliver of our life together, but I will say that we went on to win several regional championships, a championship at the Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show (considered the first jewel in the triple crown of the Arabian horse show world, the second and third being the Canadian and US National Championship Shows, respectively), and while we never won a national championship together, we did place in the top ten. I realize this seems like boasting, but they were proud moments for us, and I feel that, in his death, he should be honored for those achievements.
But the truth of the matter is that, deep down, Ched just wasn’t a show horse at heart. He didn’t like all the primping and preening, and all that time spent confined to a stall. So when I turned 18, stopped competing, and moved to Iowa for school, I was able to take him with me, and finally, we were free to start having some fun. We dabbled a little in Dressage, but again, he was burnt out with arena work, and frankly, so was I, so we spent most of our time galloping around the pastures near the barn where he was boarded. When I graduated college and moved back to California, we continued to play around on the trails and, most significantly, crossed paths with Ched’s other soulmate: Bobby Sue. Watching a 16-hand horse and a little miniature donkey pal around together was quite a sight, but they absolutely adored one another, and each would wail in anguish if separated, even if it was only for a few minutes. So Bobby Sue started following us everywhere, like a devoted pup. To the wash racks, on the trails—there was no place she wouldn’t go to stay close.
But it wasn’t until we moved to North Idaho (with donkey in tow, of course) that Ched and I found our true calling: backcountry riding. A friend at the time was very much into the sport (and it is a sport, and a very difficult one at that), so she started letting me tag along on her adventures. She had access to thousands of acres of remote forest land, so we’d spend every weekend exploring every inch of it. Despite his size, Ched became a master at picking his way through even the most dense and tangled terrain. He was never fearful, and more than once he sacrificed his own safety to ensure mine when I’d make some stupid mistake and get us into a sticky spot. Once, I fell right in front of him as we were navigating a very steep and narrow hump in the road, and rather than step on me, he opted instead to fall backwards into the brush beneath the hump, landing square on his back. Aside from a few minor scrapes, we both emerged relatively unscathed, but I’ll never forget how he put my safety first without hesitation. And this is only one instance of his selfless concern for my wellbeing.
During those years in North Idaho, we forged rivers (I’ll never forget the water swelling over the front of my saddle), climbed mountainsides so steep I could feel his hocks slapping against the souls of my boots, picked our way up and down impossibly narrow game trails, galloped through chest-deep snow, and conquered just about every other crazy stupid feat we set our sights on. All without an ounce of fear from Ched. Me, well, that was another story. If I’d been on any other horse, I don’t know if I would have had the nerve to attempt those stunts. But he gave me a feeling of strength and confidence that I’ve yet to find on the ground to this day.
Once we moved south, settled on our Boise mountaintop, and my husband and I had children, our rides became less harrowing, but certainly no less enjoyable. He carried the boys around safely—in fact, I trusted him with my children far more than I would most adults—and stood patiently while they fiddled with his ears and snuck handfuls of grain from his bucket. He’d nuzzle their hair and bask in their kisses and adoration. Jackson was especially enamored of Ched, and Ched of Jackson, and they spent countless hours conversing and just hanging out.
Cheddar has always been my rock. When times were rough, I’d bury my face in his neck and sob, and he wouldn’t move a muscle. Not one. I’d tell him about my day each night at feeding time, and he’d keep his ears pricked until I was finished. I could go on forever about the unmatched heart and soul of this horse, but I won’t, because I hope I’ve captured who he was, and who he’ll always be, in these words.
Those of you who’ve had the opportunity to meet Cheddar surely know what a wonderful creature he was, and those who haven’t have undoubtedly read and/or heard me gush, perhaps to insufferable lengths, about this animal who made my life whole.
A piece of me died with Cheddar today. A piece that will never be replaced. A gaping hole that I’ll carry with me, always. I honestly don’t know why someone like me was afforded a blessing like him, but my gratitude for our years together simply cannot be quantified.
Also, just a quick note about the accompanying picture: I was searching through our competition photos to find something polished and perfect, but nothing seemed even remotely fitting, because that’s simply not who we were. So I chose a photo taken by one of my best friends, Jeff, while we were still in Iowa, because I feel like it represents a time when both Ched and I were both happy and free.
In closing, because I know this has probably gone on way too long, I just want to speak directly to Cheddar, who I’m convinced is galloping without pain through his rightful place in heaven: You were my equal, my best friend, and my confidant. You were surely one of the most gentle and kind-hearted souls to ever grace this world, and while I’ll never understand why such a flawed person like me was given the opportunity to walk beside you until your final moments, I promise to thank God every day that he chose me as your companion. Goodbye for now, my precious boy. I know I’ll see you again.
Dalia
|
Cheddar 
