A Change of Command

By Sandra Tatara

"Do you need some help?"

"No, I can do it myself," came Bill's grumbled reply.

I circled my restless young Paint and watched Sundance stand patiently as Bill fumbled with
the saddle hitch.

The sorrel Quarter Horse was from excellent breeding stock, lean with good muscle tone.
Only the graying hairs on his face hinted of his age, which was twenty-four. For fifteen of
those years he'd belonged to me. The rider, like the horse, hid his years well. Silver hair
peaked out around a black Stetson hat. The tanned face remained unlined despite years in
the sun. And like the horse, the man was fit and trim. When working with the horses, his
steel-blue eyes sparkled with a clarity otherwise missing those days and a smile touched his
lips.

Slight arthritis had somewhat slowed the horse. Alzheimer's disease had slowed the man.
With no family of his own, Bill had become a part of mine, and I worried about letting him
continue to ride as I worried about when to take away the keys to his car.

Sundance and I remembered horse shows where he and Bill had competed in barrel-racing
and pole-bending events. We remembered long leisurely trail rides and running flat-out
across the prairie, pretending we were in the wilds of Montana instead of rural Illinois.

Sundance worked well for me, but had a special bond with Bill, a visible excitement when
they rode together. Whenever Bill eased into the saddle and lightly touched the big gelding
with the tips of his spurs, the horse pranced, eager to run, ready to perform. Only the
gentle touch of a spur and Bill's hands on the reins told him it was time for action.

I hid the spurs a while back, and Bill didn't seem to notice. Horse and rider no longer ran
the way they used to. Rides were kept to a walk and trot around the arena and out into the
pasture. I kept an eye on them and worried.

I hesitated when Bill asked to ride one crisp October morning. The vacant look in his eyes
had become more pronounced, and although I wanted him to be active for as long as he
could be, I didn't want him hurt. I also couldn't say no.

Bill finally got the cinch tightened and climbed into the saddle. He settled himself with a big
sigh. Sundance eased forward at a slow pace, and contentment softened the rider's face.
Bill asked for a trot, and I watched the horse's reluctance.

"This horse is acting pretty . . . ," Bill searched for the words he wanted. "He seems pretty
sluggish today."

I nodded. "Well, he's getting older and his joints are a little stiff in the morning. Be patient
with him."
Bill grunted an undecipherable response when his commands remained unanswered. After
several requests, the horse gently broke into a smooth jog trot.

Sundance concentrated on the ground ahead, carefully measuring his stride. I glimpsed
Bill's hand ease toward the saddle horn once for balance.

Bill cued the horse to canter - whether by conscious intent or from years of riding, I wasn't
quite sure. Sundance continued in his easy trot. When asked again for a canter, the gelding
looked toward me, and I hoped I had conveyed my concern to the horse.

I pulled my Paint to a stop and watched, my heart skipping a beat now and then.

Bill touched the horse with his right heel and gave a voice command at the same time.
"Canter, canter." Sundance hesitated, shook his head slightly and slowed to a walk.

With a sigh, Bill reached down and patted Sundance on his neck. "Okay, boy. We'll take it
easy on you today."

I tried to swallow around the lump in my throat and smile in spite of the tears in my eyes.
My heart settled its rhythm, and I felt at peace at what I'd witnessed between horse and
rider. I no longer feared letting Bill ride. Where once Bill had been in command, the control
had shifted to the horse. Sundance knew the man was different from the rider who had
once urged flying lead changes through the poles, from the man who had ridden like the
wind across the prairie. The horse I loved was protecting the friend we both loved.