I am a grieving widow. After almost thirty years of marriage to a wonderful, patient and supportive wife, I must now cope with a vacuous life. In the past year, a male of the equine kind, established his presence and broke the magnetic bond of matrimony. Alberto, a Paso Fino of questionable bloodline and temperament, has become the Alfa Male. His presence is all intrusive.
I openly admit a modicum of jealousy. For the past three decades my military career, exploits and travels dominated our home, our decisions and our plans. I was always the center of the universe, my ego well fed with the feigned attentions of my family. But no more. That martial landscape has faded into oblivion, replaced with all things “horsey”.
When she first broached the subject of purchasing a horse, I saw no fault. After all, we already had several dogs and cats. All of whom are subordinate within the family pecking order and a comfort. Surely, another pet could not hurt? Ah, but my ignorance of the psyche of those who populate the horse community was pathetic. Horses cast a pall on any human who enters their paddock. They weave a web of unexplained magnetism, where their owners transform into zombie-like sycophants. Their lives coalesce from liberal independence to one of adoring subordination.
That horse outsmarted me. Within a few weeks of his arrival, I was out-maneuvered. He quickly assumed the mantle of superiority, as I helplessly watched his meteoric rise from pet to patriarch.
On reflection I realize the tell tale signs were there. The constant excuse to run off and visit the horse, the new collection of friends (most were women) all of whom used any excuse to wear riding boots, the pervading horse odor in our car. I thought it was a cute phase and smiled sardonically knowing it would soon pass. But my ignorance was eclipsed by an immutable fact. Horse People never get bored of horses. Instead, my wife embarked on a transformation that threatened to relegate my position of head of household to a fragile vulnerability. And I cursed that damn horse. The few times I visited, he sauntered over, and, I swear, pursed his lips into an evil smile of condescension. He knew, and I knew he knew, that I was no longer a free person. Despite retirement, I had to conform to expectations.
I was desperate to regain my wife’s affections. One Saturday morning, I decided to do a good turn and clean out the fridge. I rooted through the various fruits and vegetables and retrieved several slightly bruised apples. Diligently, I collected them up and offered them to my wife as a gift for Alberto. She stiffened, sniffed, then shook her head in anger. Her response? “I’ll be damned if I’m giving my horse a bruised apple!” The apples were put back in the fridge for human consumption.
On weekends, the house was like a morgue. She had run off to ride for the day, leaving a list of chores for me. “Since you’re not doing anything, perhaps you could move the laundry along, and the dishes, and get some groceries, and walk the dogs…”. The list was long and I was a novice – I took a perverse pride in discolouring the clothes by mixing whites and darks. But it could not ground her. She gave more detailed instructions and ran off to satiate her equine addiction.
On her return she regaled me with a litany of Albertoisms. Alberto was wonderful today. Alberto nuzzled a barnyard cat. Oh, Alberto was off his feed. I think Alberto needs a new horse blanket – then she showed me the catalogue and asked me my opinion of what colour he might like. There was a time when the leaders of the country asked my opinions on matters of national security. Now life’s greatest demand was to choose a blanket for that damn horse! Oh, how I had fallen from grace. When I pointed to a red blanket, she wrinkled her nose and chided me that the colour would not suit her horse. “Aren’t horses colour blind?” I asked. This, too, was met with a frosty continence.
More pathetic were her friends. They talked of nothing but horses. There once was a time when military subjects punctuated all conversations in our home. The fact that my sister-in-law was also in the Army had added to our dominance of subjects. But soon, my wife enlisted the support of her other sister, a horse photographer, and family events became insufferable. My wife, her sister and her friends were like deaf mutes – unable to engage in any dialogue unless it involved horses.
I knew these women were beyond hope when they reached into their capacious tote bags filled with bridles and equine brushes and retrieved their most cherished possessions – photographs of their horses. Didn’t any of these people have children?
I tried to muster one last rally. Perhaps I could win back my wife from the clutches (or hooves) of the indefatigable Alberto. I plotted an amorous evening out, willing to spend boundless effort and money on dinner and dancing. But as I went to the computer to look up a suitable restaurant, a chill entered my bones. There was something not quite right. I surveyed the room and then it hit me.
Early in our marriage, my wife had painted my portrait. I was wearing a military parachutist’s uniform, my beret jauntily placed on my head, my face serious as my eyes cast in search of an enemy. I loved that painting as it represented my very being. It held pride of place on the center of our wall for more than twenty years. But now it was gone, banished to relative obscurity in the dust and darkness of the basement. In its place was a large photograph of Alberto with a woman smiling beatifically as she held his bridle. I scanned the happy face of the woman – my wife. It pierced my heart as my brain registered this ignoble defeat. She was possessed, having sprouted angelic wings and flown to equine heaven, leaving me to a purgatory of ignominy.
 I was widowed to my memories of a life my wife and I had once joyously shared. Now her face only illuminated with happiness when she wore her riding britches and headed for the stable. Where once her thoughts had been of a dashing soldier, she now dreamed of horses, and foals, and jumping competitions. Her words this morning stung like a swarm of bees. “Be a dear and polish my riding boots.” It was her way of reminding me that I still have purpose in her life. Small comfort.
Photo by Leslie Town |
