For most everyone, St. Patrick’s Day means wearing green and pinching those that don’t, it might mean corned beef and cabbage or perhaps green beer. And while St. Patrick’s Day means all of that to me and more, it is also the day I pause to remember Charron’s Shamrock, also known as Rocky, the greatest 14.2 hand Arab Quarter Horse cross that ever lived.

I’ve written about Rocky before, but in deference to my sister, Rocky’s human partner for 20 plus years, I have written about him from a neutral perspective. I’d like to put down some personal recollections of the horse with a million nicknames, including, but not limited to: Roo, Rooster, Roo-ger, Charron of Shamrock, and Rock ‘n’ Roll.

The God given giant blue ribbon.

When I was three years old, I began competing with Rocky in lead line. Lead line is an event where someone leads the horse on the ground while a child rides the horse at a walk. They are judged on their equitation. Equitation meaning, how pretty you look in the saddle. I was a fierce competitor. Heels down, eyes up, elbows in, my little heart dreaming of nothing but blue ribbons. I felt Rocky was the prettiest horse in the ring, giving me a leg up on the other children, who, likely as not, didn’t realize that lead line was a matter of life and death. It was upon Rocky’s back that I made my first deal with God. I had noticed in the show office a giant blue ribbon, a blue ribbon almost as big as me. I had my suspicion that this ribbon was intended for the lead line class. As we awaited the judge’s decision the ribbons were brought out, and lo! There it was! “Dear God,” I prayed, “if you give me that giant blue ribbon I will never ask for anything ever again.” And then the angels sang! The blue ribbon was mine! Rocky and I had scored the victory! It would not be our last.

Rocky was a phenomenally intelligent horse. Sometimes, on the way home from school, I’d cut through the horse pasture. On one occasion I paused to tie my shoe, my belongings piled around me. Rocky sneaked up and grabbed a construction paper art project I had rolled up like a newspaper. He went galloping away, the paper in his mouth, his tail flagged up over his back, tossing his head left and right, each time catching my eye to taunt me, “I have your art project! I have your art project!” On a later date he recreated this episode, this time snagging my lunchbox. I, of course, found his antics delightful. Even when he bucked me off – and let me tell you, if I fell off Rocky once, I fell off Rocky 100 times – it was funny. Despite the fact he had a special knack for making my face slam into his neck as I bounced my way towards the ground, invariably causing a bloody nose. Somehow, with Rocky, this was just entertaining.

Once I reached the 3rd grade I started showing Rocky in the regular classes. The day of my first show dawned and I was petrified. Ms. Thomas, my teacher, showed up to root me on. I entered my first walk, trot, and canter class and spent the entire time talking to Rocky at mile a minute. So many horses would have taken advantage of a small, freaked-out-of-their-gourd human on their back, but Rocky did the exact opposite. He took care of me every step of the way, and I won a sixth place ribbon. (I didn’t deserve it – the judge was giving Rocky a merit badge with that one.) Once I exited the arena Ms. Thomas came up to me, her face perplexed. “You know,” she said, “I’d thought to myself, here’s the one place Carrie can’t talk. But you never stopped.” I shrugged. It’s not like I didn’t have someone to talk to out there. I had Rocky.

That year at the King County Fair the monsoons came. Again, Rocky took care of me. In bareback equitation I almost fell off in the pouring rain. But this was no novelty – the entire class was coming apart at the seams. I looked to the stands and my sister and mom were waving me on. “Keep going! The judge didn’t see you!” they yelled. The best that could be said of that year was I survived, thanks entirely to Rocky. The next time the Fair came around it was a different story. Rocky and I were now a well-oiled machine. Nothing made me happy but championship ribbons. Not even Reserve Champion would suffice. Rocky had spoiled me.

In the sixth grade I got my own horse, a chestnut Quarter Horse. Charron’s Shamrock he was not, and the well of gaudy ribbons I had come to take for granted ran dry. I still competed Rocky occasionally, and together we won a bronze medal. It was something I had worked towards for ages, and it was a joyous occasion. It was the last thing Rocky and I won together.

While still in his prime, Rocky was aging and he had been shown a lot over the course of his life. Being a horse who knew his own mind, he decided he was done. His show career was over. It took us a little longer than Rocky to realize it, however. I took Rocky into a huntseat class and as soon as they asked for a trot Rocky bolted, bucking and rearing up a storm. He was letting me know where he stood, and while I respected that, I also couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. As I went flying past on my bronc I saw so many concerned faces. I wanted to announce, “So terribly sorry! Just having a bit of a tiff, here! We’ll be through in a minute!” But all I could do was hang on and laugh. We finally came to a stop in the center of the arena. The judge came running up, thinking I was crying. I got off Rocky and gave him a pat on the neck. It was our last class together. Somehow, it was perfectly apt.

Rocky, during his retirement years in South Carolina.

Not long after that Rocky moved to Georgia with my sister. Then came back to Seattle. Then he went back, this time to South Carolina. I was living in L.A. and didn’t get to see Rocky much, but I reveled in each visit. He survived bladder stone surgery and subsequent sepsis, founder, and the onset of Cushings Disease. He was an old horse now, but still himself, still glorious.

It was Christmas time when Rocky reached the end stage of life. We tried to put Rocky down before Christmas. I remember driving up to the barn with my sister and feeling such a raw sense of horror and panic. I think I kept it well covered – I needed to be strong for my sister. I had lost pets before. But Rocky was more than that, Rocky was an institution. I was greatly relieved when they decided to put off euthanasia. He had seemed so vibrantly alive, even the vet couldn’t handle the idea of him dying on that day.

During this time Rocky was struggling with his feet and it was important they be kept picked out. We all took shifts with Rocky to tend to his needs. One cold, December night I went out to the barn. I asked Rocky for his hoof – the easy one first – and he gave it to me. And then I asked for his other front. It required Rocky to shift his weight on to his painful left front. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t give me his hoof. I just stood there petting him, telling him it was okay, he didn’t have to do anything at this point. After a few minutes of petting, Rocky walked over to his stall wall, leaned his left shoulder against it, and lifted his right front hoof.

The next time the vet came out there was no raw horror and panic, just the knowledge that it was time.

Over my life I have known some great horses. But above them all rises a little bay Arab cross gelding by the name of Charron’s Shamrock, who came into the world on St. Patrick’s Day.

So too with Ginger, a small bay Morgan mare. Upon arrival at the equestrian center, Ginger was placed with the other trail horses, but they refused to accept her into the herd. Their refusal was violent, lasting, and Ginger found herself a home in the main barn, where she was befriended by the twenty year old Shetland pony Sugar. Sugar is adored by all horses who meet her, as she provides unconditional love to all she meets. And so Ginger made her first friend.

Ginger, having made this friend, was extremely protective of her, challenging any horse who came near Sugar. To say that Ginger was quirky is an understatement. By the time I arrived at the barn, Ginger had a serious attitude problem. We used her on trails only at last resort, as she would pin her ears, toss her head, and otherwise express her displeasure. She was, in short, an extremely unhappy horse when I met her. I wanted very much to see what I could do with her, but my manager at the time pronounced that Ginger was her project horse, and forbade me from working with her.

Two months passed and the manager threw up her hands – Ginger’s problems had only worsened. On a day the manager had off, I took Ginger into the round pen. Many people have heard of “horse whispering” or natural horsemanship. The idea is simply to work a horse in a round pen until they relinquish the leadership role to the person. Hugh Jenkinson watched as I worked Ginger that first time. Ginger was so angry, had so much venom built up inside her. Hugh kept voicing his concern as she raced around the ring, expressing all of her rage, expressing it by kicking out at me, rearing in front of me, striking at me. Horses don’t require words to scream.

Eventually, it was all out of her system. She came over to me, quietly, her sides heaving as she gulped for air. I talked to her, and she put her forehead to my chest, and I stroked her ears, listening to everything she had to say. We stayed like that for a long time. Just as horses don’t require words to scream, they also don’t require a voice to cry.

From that day forward I worked with Ginger everyday. Almost immediately, she came to love these one on one sessions. Looking back over the last two years at the barn, I can think of no memory more gratifying than that of Ginger, racing towards me as I called her name, coming from the far back of the pasture flat out, a blood bay blur against the green grass. She ran to me knowing no treats were in my hand, knowing that a training session awaited, a session with both discipline and approval. Ginger, however, was an extremely intelligent mare, and very little correction was needed. She learned quickly and drank up the praise as fast as I could pour it on. Ginger had made her second friend.

Ginger, with her very favorite rider, Bryce.

Over time Ginger’s attitude continued to improve, and eventually she blossomed into an excellent trail horse, a horse who found a niche carrying children. Adults could wear on her nerves, and she remained a quirky soul with definite opinions, but no horse was more trustworthy with a small child on the trail. She understood vulnerability, and she was protective of it. She also understood mistreatment, and she had no tolerance for it. I never put a rider on Ginger that I suspected might be rough on her.

After working day in and day out with the rest of the trail horses for two years, the decision was made to put Ginger in with the herd a few months ago. To Ginger’s delight, this time she was accepted. She was low man on the totem pole, to be sure, but she was a part of the group. Her pride in this fact was evident, and we all celebrated with her when she earned the right to eat with everyone else. She was finally allowed to play the reindeer games denied her for so long.

People and horses either click or they don’t. Ginger and I clicked right off the bat. In my first week at the barn, I found Ginger scratching out her tail. Whatever was itching her was ferocious, as she was rubbing herself raw and bloody. Alarmed, I went to her head and said, “don’t move, Ginger, I’ll be right back.” I ran to the utility room to grab ointments and cleanser and ran back. Ginger remained frozen, right where I left her, waiting for the help that I had promised. She had been blessed with a gorgeous, thick, glossy black tail. I felt it was a travesty that half of it was gone, and made it a special mission to encourage it’s re-growth.

Ginger’s tail was halfway grown out when she died on Thursday, August 24th, of a severe bout with colic.

Ginger was a beautiful bay Morgan mare, possessed of good looks galore and a personality that defied categorization. She could lay her ears back and deliver nasty looks with the best of them, but she could also curl her head and neck around you, looking into your eyes with hers, impossibly large and black, slowly blinking in loving contentment. I understood her, and she me. We both understood the Island of the Misfit Toys, and that mutual understanding brought us both a great deal of peace and happiness.