A few years back, I was teaching a group riding lesson to three kids.
We were in the indoor ring, because it was winter and suddenly, Flakey
and Cliff, two of the schoolhorses, started to act shifty. Flakey was
definitely twitchy and nervous. Now, Flakey was a nervous type, but I knew him like he was my brother,
and he was acting stranger than usual. Cliff was slightly moving his
big body a little more than normal, which was an effort for Cliff, so
that was odd to me as well. And Buddy, the pony, just stood there, which
was typical of Buddy. Nothing ever got to him, so he was a star
schoolhorse (minus running out of the ring door a few times), but I
really couldn't count on Buddy for any alerts.
Then Flakey backed up, pointing his nose up and down, blowing air through his nostrils.
I thought, Maybe a storm's coming. Maybe the vet's here. Maybe there's a truck coming -- shavings guy or the hay guys.
Something of the sort. But then I looked up...and there, dangling from
the rafters, was a bear-sized, nonathletic, clumsy-as-hell raccoon.
Quickly, I told the students to back up the horses so that the raccoon
didn't fall on them. Of course, I assumed that the raccoon wouldn't
fall, but I felt like I had to be safe, just in case. Well, the raccoon
did indeed fall. And it fell right in the middle of the ring. And the
frenzied thing landed in a shuddering lump.
Flakey stomped and pawed at the ground. Cliff moved his big body around. Buddy did nothing.
Then the raccoon stood up on his hind legs.
I figured I could just wave my arms around and scare it away. I thought, Yeah, if that raccoon's bear-sized, I have to act like a bigger bear.
Genius. Well, the closer I got, the bigger that raccoon stood up, and I
swear that a creepy smile spread across its face. And then I realized
that it was probably a rabid raccoon, or that it had been poisoned, so
the animal was not even close to being in its right mind, and then the
terrible truth became clear: this raccoon wasn't afraid of me at all.
So I stood in front of the horses, "protecting them," but I also
realized that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
The raccoon smiled at me, standing taller and taller.
Perhaps
it was chuckling, drooling, spitting up poison. At any moment, I
thought that it would put on a top hat, some tap shoes, grab a cane, and
start dancing around the ring. I'd seen a few raccoons in my day, and I
knew they could be somewhat creepy, but this was the most ghoulish
raccoon that I had ever seen. And then the creature did do a weird,
menacing dance across the ring, and in the process, it came closer and
closer to me, until it was only a few feet away.
At one
point, I thought it might jump right on top of me. After all, it seemed
to have taken a real liking to me, as if mauling my face might be a
good idea. I looked back at Flakey.
Big-eyed, I swore Flakey was saying, What the hell do we do?
There
was nothing I could do. I could tell the kids to dismount, but I
figured they were safer up high. I mean, I sure as hell wasn't safe on
the ground. So I just stared at the dancing, sinister, rabid raccoon,
stood there, and did nothing. I knew I was powerless.
The
standoff lasted about ten minutes, but it felt like three hours.
Finally, the beast jerk-walked to the ring door and made its way
outside. But before it left the ring, it turned around and looked at me
with those glowing, red eyes, slowly crawling away in a lump of
gruesome, half-dead, zombie-ish, hair-raising, poisonous, slug-like
alien goo, as if it were Jabba the Hutt's dreadful cousin.
I realized that this riding lesson was for me, the teacher. I thought,
Sometimes, if I kick back and wait, and follow my instincts, the
situation fixes itself, and I don't have to do anything at all. Then I calmly smiled, looked at my wide-eyed students, and asked, "Okay, now whose turn is it?"
C.A. MacConnell
