While I currently have a travel companion, I have begun to feel the need for new friendships to fill the natural desire for human connection. So, I have made a new friend: a horse named Case. Case is a race-trained thoroughbred who, due to a leg injury, was destined for death in the UK until his current owner, Michelle, saved him from the glue factory and brought him to New Zealand. As Michelle is pregnant, she cannot ride, so Case now lives a simple life of grazing and trotting about in a paddock near the beach. His grazing territory also happens to be my current home.
When I first arrived at the paddock, I surveyed my surroundings and melted into a silent puddle of emotional distress. "What am I doing here," I thought? "What have I gotten myself into?" I was standing in the middle of a field dotted with piles of horse manure. There was a tent for a bed, a hole in the ground for a toilet, and a stream nearby for a bath. I immediately felt dirty and couldn't imagine worse living conditions.
Teetering on the edge of a tearful breakdown, I needed to distract myself from falling apart. I wandered to the lower field to greet Case, my new paddock-mate.
Now, if you know me at all, you know that I am not comfortable around horses. Despite having had riding lessons at the impressionable age of 9, I am still unfamiliar with horse behavior, but quite familiar with the fact that they are much bigger and stronger than me. Perhaps my fear has something to do with the fact that every time I take a nose-to-tail trail ride (which all paid rides seem to be) I end up with the horse who enjoys backing its riders into a large bush or trotting straight down a steep mountain rather than taking the leisurely curved path with the rest of the group. I imagine animal whisperers would say that it’s not the horse, it’s me; that the horse can sense my fear and knows I cannot control it. To them I must ask, do you suppose it might be the fact that the poor animal has its nose in another horse’s butt for hours on end, day after day? I, for one, know that I would not enjoy that particular occupation and would likely get a bit perturbed with whoever was on my back, forcing me to follow a manure-dropping rear.
As you can imagine, I stopped a fair distance away from Case to say hello from afar. Much to my surprise, Case looked up and immediately walked straight toward me. I stood frozen as he stopped at my feet, sniffed around, and then exhaled from his nose onto my chest. My step-sister, a former equestrian with a talent for communicating with animals, once told me this is a sign of friendship and affection from a horse. Did Case sense my sorrow? Could he tell that I needed some comfort at that moment? Perhaps my step-sister and her animal whisperering friends are right. Maybe horses have some sort of intuitive sense. Or maybe Case read my aura. Who knows? I do know that Case’s seemingly compassionate gesture made me feel better.
From that point on, Case and I developed a friendship; one which I’m sure, for my part, borders the line of unhealthy and possibly insane. I greet Case every morning and ask him about his day when I return from an outing. He often follows me around the paddock and has been known to attempt a nuzzle while I’m watering a bush. If I’m napping in the afternoon or simply not paying him enough attention, he stands outside the tent and heaves a few heavy harumphs.
After a few days of our stay at the campsite, Case had become accustomed to our presence and decided we were safe enough to play with. Unfortunately his “play” consisted of knocking things over and raiding our food boxes. I have emerged from the tent numerous times to the site of tipped chairs, water bottles strewn on the ground, and everything covered in a considerable amount of horse slobber. I decided, much to the amusement of my travel companion, to train Case to refrain from opening our chilly bin (cooler) and licking our food boxes to death. Remembering episodes of Dog Whisperer, I pushed Case’s head aside while making an obnoxious “ehhh” sound every time he licked the food box. My futile attempts continued for about 45 minutes before Case became entirely annoyed, swished his tail, and trotted off. Of course, as soon as we went to bed, he continued his mission of raiding our food supply. Eventually, we wised up and now store our food away from Case’s reach.
It’s been almost a month since my arrival at base camp, and Case’s friendly company has helped to change my perspective about my living conditions. I’ve actually grown quite fond of our rustic, quaint home. Now, when I take in my surroundings, I see a different scene. I see a quiet home in a field of daisies bordered by wild bush and pines. I see a proper toilet (a wooden box topped with a seat and lid over a long-drop hole) and a vanity (a shelf and mirror tied perfectly between two branches), a guest room and pantry (another tent), and even a kitchen counter (two tree stumps and an old door). And I genuinely look forward to bathing in our secluded freshwater stream amongst flowering reeds (though admittedly not on cold days).
Case has ceased his destructive antics, for the most part, and has proven to be a good friend and paddock-mate. He continues to be social, follow us around, and ask for attention. He even may start to pay some rent. Someone has posted a card on the local grocer’s bulletin board requesting to buy horse manure. Score!
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