Plumpie and Buttons

She’s almost plump, stuffed into jodhpurs, riding boots, a freshly pressed oxford shirt and a blue jacket. Her cheeks are ripe, rounded like a tomato. She seems uncomfortable, seated on a sleek gray horse that has been manicured to an extreme perfection with equally manicured tack. The horse and rider seem to be an odd pair: the horse displaying signs of extreme breeding and athletic ability and the girl displaying signs of just roundness and awkwardness.

The trainer stands on the sidelines with his final instructions. The extra 20 pounds around his middle, coupled with the years of standing in the sun and watching girls go round and round has robbed him of his looks. He carries himself in such a fem manner that he too seems to be at odds with his task. “Now, you push him on that first fence. Don’t let him get away from you on the oxer. He will take you, but don’t you let him.”

Soon the rider and the horse, in all their extreme glory, are heading toward the middle of the ring. The jumps, while only 4 feet, seem to be getting bigger, along with the size of the girl. The horse begins to protest but the girl waves her crop and off they go.

They are from a barn down in the center of California somewhere. Tech money that has oozed out of the Silicon Valley to a nearby stable. Packed with girls who have the “horse gene.” “Oh daddy,” they shrill when they are 6 or 7 or 8 years old, “I must have a pony.” And daddy comes with open wallet to pay for the horse, the monthly stall, the vet, the shoer, the trainer, the wardrobe, the transportation, the “Equine massage specialist” (who for $75 will do your whole horse!) and the heard of Mexicans that clean stalls and feed and shine these animals daily. (I am waiting to see a flyer about a equine teeth specialist who comes with whitener to shiny up their smiles!) And it all comes down to this exact moment, with the plump girl and the beautiful horse, entering the ring.

The duo completes their ride around the ring and heads for the first jump. The girl does not look confident; the horse looks confused. The pacing is wrong and the horse ends up at the jump at the wrong part of the stride. The girl almost has her eyes shut, with an expression that would be the same had she just seen a large cockroach running across her diner plate. And to no surprise, the horse stops dead before the jump, hurling Plumpie forward.

Plumpie pulls out the crop and whips the horse a few times. She swears, “you stupid horse, you stupid horse.” She circles around and does about the same approach, only even more timid than the last time. And again the horse stops, slamming her forward and almost onto the ground. Her crop makes a WHAP, WHAP, WHAP against the butt of the horse. The small crowd gapes at the girl in a way strangers gape at a mother who spanks her child in public.

“TIP YOUR HAT,” yells the fem trainer on the side, “TIP YOUR HAT NOW.” The girl looks up and realizes that she’s in front of the judges. She tips her hat to show that she will not continue the ride. She leaves the ring only to find “daddy” standing on the side, waiting to help her off the horse. The Mexicans are waiting to take the horse back to the barn.

“Daddy,” she cries, “you saw it. He wouldn’t do what I told him to do.”

The scene is beyond me. I wander off, walking back toward the stalls with the Mexicans and the horse. There are two of them to walk one horse which seems more than ridiculous. As I am walking I see a flyer plastered on one of the posts that reads, “Push Button Warm Blood. You can’t lose on this one! Big, bold, and does exactly what you want. $40,000.” I choke on the price and laugh. I can hear Plumpie already. “Daddy, I need Push Button. I just have to have him.” And then I imagine the Mexicans loading “Buttons,” the gigantic black horse in the semi that is headed back to California while quickly selling the sleek gray horse to the quickest bidder in Oregon.

When I was younger, I would have sawed off my right arm to have the opportunity to ride such amazing animals. I stop to think about it now. Had I grown up in this environment, I think I would find myself saying to Plumpie, “Oh you poor dear, why yes, you really need a new horse. Buttons will solve all your problems.”

Instead, I walk along enjoying the chitter chatter of the Mexicans and the sleekness and amazing breeding of the big gray horse that follows them obediently back to the barn. For the moment, they seem to be the real show, with the noise of Plumpie as a simple annoyance, like a lawnmower on an early Saturday morning that wakes me.