I’ve had a love affair with horses since I was a child. I’m told that at the age of three, my maternal grandfather, a race horse trainer, would take me to the track and put me on the lead ponies. I have no memory of this and no photos either, which really sucks, but I believe it anyway. Growing up, I would have killed (I know that’s a term that’s thrown around loosely, but trust me, I really would have killed) to have had a horse. Aside from some summer riding on rental horses and hanging around the local 4H barn like an adoring groupie years before the word had even been coined, I never had the chance to indulge my passion.
Then, at thirty-eight years old, a fossil in terms of starting to ride, I met a bunch of people who had horses and began to sink every spare penny into riding lessons. I had no idea at all of what English riding was, but was sent to a trainer who said to me, “Do you want to chase cows?” Well, no… “Then you’ll ride English.” Uh … okay. The horse he put me on was a half-Arab, half-Morgan named Pawnee. Pawnee would pin his ears and try to chase me out of the stall when I’d go to get him and then try to step on my foot when I’d saddle him. Being used to being treated like crap by the male gender, I, of course, was crazy about him. We were soon galloping wildly out of control all over Griffith Park in Burbank and I was having the time of my life.
After a while, trail riding wasn’t enough though. I spent countless hours at the local equestrian center watching horse shows, specifically the jumpers, and I knew that’s what I had to do. Let me reiterate verbatim, thirty-eight is a fossil in terms of starting to ride, and now I was going get on the back of a 1200-pound horse and jump over a fence. I should probably mention that I was never athletic. Nope, no athletic ability whatsoever. Didn’t even walk if I didn’t absolutely have to. While that should have deterred me, or at least given me pause, mature decision-making has never been my strong suit.
Enter a new trainer and a new horse, Argon, a big German warmblood. Argon was a rock star of a horse. He was everything I’d been looking for in a man, but couldn’t find. Tall, drop-dead gorgeous, and gelded. Best of all, he loved me, too. And he was for sale! This was in 1989 and the owner was asking $15,000, a fortune then. I was a freelance TV-writer at the time, meaning I was often “between jobs,” but since fiscal responsibility had never darkened my doorstep before, why should it now? I borrowed $5,000 off a credit card for a down payment and promised her $1,000 a month until he was paid off, fully willing to sell my body on a street corner if that’s what it took. That horse was the most patient, kind, generous creature ever. He’d take me galloping on the trail one day and into the show ring the next where he’d pack my sorry ass over every fence without complaint. If you’ve ever seen the movie I wrote for Animal Planet called “Big Spender,” the scenes where Big Spender is given peppermint candy are based on Argie’s voracious appetite for the treat. Just the sound of me unwrapping the cellophane would start him nickering and begging. He never had to beg long. I would have given him a kidney. Argon was the love of my life and our partnership lasted for seven years until in 1996, at the age of seventeen, when he unexpectedly let out one whinny and just dropped dead in the barn. I slept with his blanket for a month because it smelled like him.
