The old trainer awoke to some unknown Call, the eastern sky was ligtening, but the sun had still not risen. His irish setter puppy bounded down the stairs in front of his old master. The man walked to the ancient frigidaire and poured himself a glass of orange juice and took pills and capsules from the bottles that sat on top of the mantle. He couldn't believe that it would have ever come to this in his youth, but the assorted vitamins and pain killers made it more comfortable to do his job, so he resigned himself to this new reality.
He sat down in the worn recliner and pulled on the nearly knee high boots he wore everyday when he was training. Ample protection against the cactus, rocks, briars and hopefully the nastier denizens of the prairie. As he stepped outside on the porch he was greeted by the pleasantly cool morning air, coyotes howled in the distance and horses knickered close by. He felt the paws of the newest generation of puppies at camp on his legs and sat down to scratch, pet and play with the descendents of the Great One. He groaned as he rose to get up, his arthritic knees popping with the effort. Once they were strong, powerful carrying him across the grid iron. Sacrificed, in hopes of catching the eye of a certain doe eyed, and well endowed girl in his home room class.
He walked over to his old reliable horse, and was greeted by the horse coming over and nudging his hand until he produced the apple that was hidden in the pocket of his worn training jacket. As the old horse crunched happily at the apple with worn yellowing teeth, the old trainer petted his neck in a semi-hug and reflected on how the still strong, sure footed horse was getting a little more gray in the muzzle and a bit more sway backed. The sands of time were catching them both. He took the well worn and oiled saddle from Down Under off the rack in the trailer, a gift from his old friend, teacher and mentor. He put the saddle pad on, then lifted the saddle on to the back of his horse and cinched it down. He looked at the old blank pistol, hanging on the hook. Also, a gift from his friend, his friend had once carried it in the National Championship at Ames, it had been given to him in turn, by a friend of his that had passed on, that had won the National Championship. The trainer decided to leave that priceless keepsake in the holster hanging in the trailer and strapped on his new blank gun, after all it was only a training work out.
He took a rein off the old horse, standing dutifully nearby and walked over to the kennel. He picked a beautiful orange and white, male derby aged dog, to work first. He thought, Is he a grandson? Or a great grandson of the Great One? His memory was not what it used to be, but that it didn't matter anyway. He led the young dog, pulling anxiously, against the restraint, back to the trailer. He strapped on a tracking collar and wondered. How he ever got along without one before?
He walked the young dog, and old horse to the starting line. A gentle, "Whoa" to both horse and dog, and he put his foot in the stirrup, and hoisted himself up on the back of the powerful, old horse. His knees ached with the strain, but remembering the evening with the doe eyed girl after homecoming, figured it was a small price to pay. A long blast with his whistle and the dog was off, fading into the distance as his old horse settled in to the fast, ground eating walk as he had done thousands of times before. The horse, followed the dog without urging, knowing what was required of him from years of practice. As the trainer, steered his horse to the top of a small butte, in an effort to keep track of the young dog, he was reassured, seeing his charge take a nice line along a small hedgerow. He looked down an saw a small fossil in a rock. In doing so, he was reminded that once, these
prairies that he loved, were the bottom of a great ocean teaming with life. Fish, giant crocodiles, mollusks, and sea going dinosaurs, while the shores were home to plant and flesh eating giant reptiles. Off in the distance, he spied a great herd of buffalo. Fenced in, where they once roamed free.
He spurred his horse off the bluff. Short loping to his charge that was now standing motionless, with the feathers of tail swaying gently in the breeze, mezmerized by the intoxicating scent of game. The old trainer quickly dismounted and flushed a covey of birds, the little dog had them well located and fired a blank as the enthusiastic, young dog happily chased the quickly departing birds. The dog came bounding back at the call of the trainer, and he was given a big drink of water, and an affectionate pet before the old trainer remounted and sent him on his way with a long blast of the whistle.
Across a buffalo wallow and to the top of another bluff the old man rode, the pungent and aromatic scents of alfalfa, sweet grass, and sweet clover assaulted his senses. The young derby was making a big cast down into a flat that often was abundant with birds. The man marveled that the young dog remembered where he had found lots of birds in the previous work out. He watched as the young dog hit scent and stopped in a whirl of dust.
Without urging the old, experienced horse short loped to within a short distance of the motionless dog, as he dismounted the old trainer saw a least a dozen birds lift from all around the young dog. The dog oblivious to the commotion still stood without motion, almost without breathing, as the man walked in front and kicked a big bunch of sweet clover and a old rooster pheasant exploded cackling from the brush. The unnerved dog broke and chased as the trainer fired his blank gun yet again. When the young derby returned for water, he was put into a harness - it had been a great workout.
With a slight groan the old man lifted himself into the saddle once again,
turning for home, the young derby pulling hard against the horse, not wanting the work out to end.
The old horse settled into a pace that was gentle and rocking, and the old man, found himself musing of the dogs before, the horses, and the spills, the triumphs and defeats. He had been lucky, he had not been seriously injured, as some of the other trainers, he knew had been on falls from horses.
He had known the disappointment of a fine performance that went unrewarded, and had accepted rewards that were undeserved. He had accepted ridicule along with compliments that came with running a minority breed in field trials.
He had felt hurt at some undeserved criticism and felt exhiliration at deserved compliments with a little humility or embarrassment. He had sacrificed much, but perhaps no more than any other trainer he admired. When added up, the time, the money, the aches, and the pain, both physical and emotional. He sometimes wonders if the Call of the Prairie is worth it all. How many times had he wanted to quit?
Contemplating it seriously, only be be lured back by her Call. How many others felt the same? And will others feel what he feels in the future?
The Call of the Prairies, to those that hear the Call, like the Siren song of old luring sailors to the rocks, is irresistable. An addiction, it continues to bring them back, year after year. Through the pain, the hurt, it is always constant. The Call of the Prairies can not be ignored for long.
Keith - Posting from Under the Rusty Windmill
