Curse of the cobras

In everyone's lives, there are pivotal memories. Events that shape lives and perceptions of the outside world and just how you fit in it. This particular memory centers around my older brother and the relationship that we had growing up. Of course, I am sure his memory of this particular incident differs from mine, as is the way of a 31 year old memory. I was about  4-5 at the time, so I am going to give a little allowance for any variances.

 I worshiped my older brother since the day I was born. He was older, bigger, stronger, smarter, and had such *cool* friends. As a younger sister, I tagged along many times just to be in the company of his total awesome self. Little boys and little girls are sadly very different creatures and my open worship was just a major irritation to him and his gang of friends. Who wants a little pig tailed *sister* fawning over G.I Joe ACTION figures, and mooning about whenever her stuffed puppy dog was "lost" (or roughly stuffed into a drawer without her knowing about it) or wrecking any other type of fun by telling Mum or Dad what he and his little friends were up to. Not that guy. He had skeletor to hunt down. Darth Vader to impersonate. Tauntauns to slice open and hide in. By the power of Greyskull, he had no time for a kid sister.

 Unless of course there was some kind of older brother villainy to be had, then he and his friends had all the time in the world to plot nasty surprises for unsuspecting me. Like a new toy that he got one year. They took a while setting it up I assume because the particular trigger of this toy reset to a different location each time. More on that later.

I know! Let's scare the CRAP out of Dani!

 I was playing innocently in my room, surrounded by pretty ponies, my faithful stuffed dog and was probably day dreaming about how many real live ponies would fit in the backyard and how I could cuddle with each and every one of them. And feed them rainbows. My musings were cut short by an invitation to join my brother and one of his friends in a new game! My heart almost exploded inside its ribby little cage and I grabbed up my most trusted pooch and scampered to them as quick as my scrawny little legs would carry me. This is something I had always wanted! To be asked willingly into a game, to be loved and to be allowed to just play games with them! Yay! I was sure this invitation would escalate into perhaps a tea party, or even better we would all draw our ideal ponies and name them! Yay upon yay!

I love my bother! And ponies!

 The premise of the game was spelled out for my eager ears and the promise that *I* would WIN the game sealed the deal for me. It was fairly simple. I had to take this funny looking cross thing, ("an ANKH" as he rolled his be eyes, like he was embarrassed at how uneducated and provincial I was at 4 or 5 years of age) put my arm between these two harmless snakes ("cobras") and stick it in the only hole that was available on this box thing ("Coffin! Geeze!") and then I would win! Its that simple! Even I could do it. I was dizzy with love that my brother would get so far in the game and save the winning just for me, I was more than honored to accept.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

 I grasped the tiny ankh and even though the sight of two cobras was a bit unnerving, I was assured they were there for show. The game was "Curse of the Cobras" so if they had put red vines, candy canes or chopsticks there, the game wouldn't make much sense now would it? I placed the ankh into the last open hole ....

That is a 4 year old having a heart attack.

 Much to my horror those cobras were not for show. As soon as my ankh was seated in the hole, the snakes snapped shut on my writs as a bracelet of doom, and at the top end of the coffin a plastic mummified head sprang out and if memory serves me correctly (and the memory is dusty and old so I may be wrong) there was a "ggrrrraaaahhh"! that completed the simultaneous trifecta of terror. My hummingbird heart seized into a cube of ice and the blood froze in my veins! I was CAUGHT! BY SNAKES AND A MUMMY! A mere millisecond after the snakes trapped my wrist and the mummy erupted from the tomb, my panic launched me into a race for my life, the goal? Mommy. I tore out of that room like the hounds of hell were yipping and frothing at my heels and took a direct screaming flight to my mommy. The sounds of my brother and his friend laughing rolled in behind me and my shocked heart broke. They knew that was going to happen! *gasp* they actually meant it to happen! I was crushed.

 Subsequently, my mom sided with me in this travesty and threw away the game that he'd used as an instrument of torture. Only about 4 years ago, I had found that game online and mailed it to him for Christmas. All is forgiven and he has his game back.

I love all animals! Except this one.

When I was a young miss, my parents presented me with the opportunity of my young lifetime. Horseback riding lessons. This in itself was a great sacrifice of time, money, patience and more so for my mother because of her absolute fear of horses. She couldn't bear to see her less than 90 pound little girl on a great big 1200 pound "blood thirsty beast". Horses do not eat meat, nor will they ever eat meat. They *will* however, occasionally hold a pathological grudge against the two legged. Specifically, two legged teen girls with long brown braided hair. Those ones drive unbalanced quadrupeds right over the edge firmly into the realm of insanity. There were plenty of horses in the barn to choose from, don't get me wrong. I rode all of them. Calm, sedate steeds who would never ever think about deviating from the steady clip, clop, clip, clop that droned through the barn each hour of each and every day that passed. Wonderful schooling masters who would correct themselves in spite of the gangly uncoordinated rider giving every mixed signal in the book. They were so good, you could stand in the center of the ring with the trainer and speak commands that the horse would follow with a zealots loyalty. *yawn* Good for practicing your show ring smile. Perfect. Tepid.

 The antithesis of a schooling master was a beautiful chestnut morgan named Shasta. She was the pride and joy of a trainer I had as a young teenager, and the trainer had owned her since she and the horse were young. She could do no wrong! She was the embodiment *PHYSICALLY* of the perfect horse, and I admit she was quite a looker. She unfortunately was unhinged from any sort of reality and was bent on breaking at least one of my bones each week. It was like a personal goal of hers. This sort of psychopathy was truly legendary. To this very day, I am so sure that had the horse whisperer come to meet our dear Shasta, he would now be known as the kitty cat whisperer. Or the wombat whisperer. ANYTHING but the horse whisperer. She had that effect on people. What a gem.

Separately, those words are innocent. Put together like that... I wanna cry.

Bring it, horse. 

 But she was so pretty! And she moved like a four legged ballet dancer! When I got on her, it was like trying to control the pure fury of a tornado. A really, really graceful tornado.

 Typically the lesson would begin by be going out to the paddock to try to catch her. She would squeal and snort all in an attempt  to return me from whence I came, all to no avail. This was not exclusive to me, she greeted everyone except the trainer in this warm and cuddly fashion. When she saw or heard the jangling of the halter, she would pin her ears and they would remain in the pinned position unless she had A) thought of a particularly brutal tactic to unseat me or B) she was back in the paddock munching on her hard earned hay.

Why do I bargin with a terrorist?

After spending twenty or so minutes dodging her hind hooves, getting head butted, stepped on, farted at, bit, and trying to remove the mud and grit she loved to roll in as I was approaching her paddock, I would finally have a presentable horse to tack up. Shasta would take in a deep breath as soon as the saddle came into view and make it nearly impossible to cinch up the girth around her bloated chest. Luckily for me, I had a trick for that. (*No* I didn't ram my knuckles into her ribs) I would put the saddle and bridle on and walk her until the poor thing had to breathe. Then when she would exhale, I'd tighten it up bit by bit. She hated me because she HAD to breathe. Ha. Thank you biology!

 Upon entering the ring, my trainer waiting patiently in the center ready to purr out soothing words of instruction to my young horse crazy mind, I would mount the beast. Each and every time, I hoped that she would just do what I was asking her to do without the battle of might, which she would win every time, or the locking of wills, which at best was a 50 / 50 draw. Even getting her to take a step was sometimes a ten minute bargaining session. The frustration was made more poignant by the soft spoken coo of my trainer, looking on at her most favorite steed, and puffing out obvious instructions to the dolt atop of her.

  Nothing struck fear in my tender heart like the triumphant words of my trainer "AH! There you go!" Those words, meant to inspire feelings of success only meant one thing to me. Shasta was about to become a very spirited ride. Every time those words were uttered in a lesson, something terrible was about to happen. She would climb the walls, spin around, bite or kick another horse, her head would spin and she would projectile vomit green pea soup. Oh no... wait.. I'm getting her mixed up with another demon.

On your mark! Get set! Break your bones!

Normally, the sensation of being aboard a beautiful mount, hair blowing in the wind, the horse and rider moving as one is truly a beautiful thing. Sadly when that feeling is injected by a premonition of doom, your young life flashing before your eyes and the acrid scent of abject terror, the moment is sort of ruined. No longer was I a teenager in the middle of a sedate dressage lesson, but the unwilling passenger on a tilt-a-whirl powered by pure nitrous oxide. A crazed carnival ride that holds some strange grudge and who, against nature itself, craves the taste of *my* blood. She meant business, and she was the CEO of pain. At some point in the melee she ceased to be a horse, but became the full on four legged embodiment of a norse (sounds like HORSE. No coincidence there) berserker.

 As horror typically goes, these scenes seemed to drag on forever and I am lucky enough to have a prefrontal cortex FULL of these babies! I mean they go on and on. In the barn, on the trails, on the cross country course, after giving her a bath. Shasta was terrible. I would undoubtedly gain some semblance of control long enough to grind out that this horse was being "mare-ish" (which is the equivalent of saying she is PMSing.) and my trainer would look at my white knuckles, the sweat rolling down my face and Shasta's body, see the tell tale tick in my left eye and conceded that I had enough. With a sigh and a nod, she would release me from this torture and permit me another horse for the remainder of my lesson.

Poor Shasta dripping with malevolence would not realize that she in fact won. One or two laps around the arena at a very secured, very collected trot would be enough to satisfy my soft spoken task master and I was finally allowed to dismount. Immediately, Shasta would drop to the ground and try to roll the saddle off of her.

Git this saddle offa... wait! Did you say BARN?

<3

 Right then and there as we began our walk of shame through the arena and back to the barn her whole outlook on life would change. Her ears would perk up, she would have acquired a bounce to her step (if only she would do that in the ring for me) and every great once in a while, she would nuzzle my shoulder and puff the back of my head with her breath. *sigh* She really was pretty.

All the riders in the barn were subject to this brand of inhumane treatment weekly by trainer and horse. On occasion, I would be grooming a schooling master, dull and doe eyed and hear a tell tale shriek rip through the barn. All of us who were getting ready for our lesson would raise our eye brows ever so slightly as we looked over the stall walls at each other. Someone in the area is taking one for the team. When that rider burst out of the ring battered and bruised with a jolly Shasta tip toeing her happy carousel horse trot behind them, we would nod in acknowledgment of the sacrifice made that day.

 I still love horses and always will. I have learned to stay away from the ones with a vendetta.