Master Merlin
1994-2009
17.2 hand bay Thoroughbred gelding
"Merlin”
is the horse that inspired Phoenix Farm. An unwanted
washout from a steeplechasing barn, he was given to Heather
and John as a 3-year-old after he had hurt several people
at his previous owner’s. Merlin proved to be a big, strong
horse with a myriad of fears and idiosyncrasies, who after
years of patient training and handling blossomed in to an
eventing champion. Because of Merlin we believe every horse
deserves a chance and that the right situation is out there
for every horse. Merlin suffered an injury in the fall of
2006, and it was a struggle to get him back to competing.
In 2008 we made the painful decision to retire him from
upper level competition. We were fortunate that more than a
year after that he shared his vast expreince with our
students, both human and equine. Horses like Merlin come
along once in a lifetime, and we are grateful to have had
him in our lives.
Career highlights: 2006, 19th at Jersey Fresh CCI**, 2nd
Open Intermediate, Morven Park (VA). 2005: 3rd USEA Master
Amateur Intermediate rider. USEA Area II Intermediate
Champion. 1st Open Intermediate Middleburg Horse Trials
(VA). 4th- Virginia CCI*, 1st Open preliminary Southern
Pines Horse Trials (NC). 2004: 9th Morven Park CCI* (VA).
Our Memories of MerlIn:
From
Heather:
We're
facing saying goodbye to our beloved Master Merlin, our
retired CCI** horse. It's come unexpectedly, but he's
suffering from a condition he won't recover from, and we've
decided to let him go before it's a crisis. I'd like to
share a bit about him. Our old Area II peeps may remember
him, our new Area VI peeps didn't get to see him much
before we elected to retire him.
Merlin's background is sketchy at best, and we don't even
really know how old he is. In 1997 we got a phone call from
a steeplechase trainer friend of John's. She had a horse
that wasn't working out, and the owner wanted it to go to
New Holland, but the trainer thought that the horse could
be something useful in the right hands and thought of us.
She warned us that the horse was prone to violent
outbursts, was a rearer, a terrible spook, and had broken
the owner's arm, and injured the shoulder of one of her
grooms. She also said he was 17.2, a ten mover and had a
jump that was "ridiculous".
The original idea was that he was going to be for me, due
to his size (I likes 'em big) and John was going to be out
of town the next weekend, so I made arrangements to take
the trailer and meet them at a race meet and collect my new
horse. I found their trailer and when they opened the back
door, I saw this enourmous bay creature hunched and
sweating in the corner of the slot. He turned to look at
the open door, and I saw he had my favorite face marking, a
star, stripe, snip. I knew right then I was taking him.
When they went to get him out, he absolutely paniced, flew
backwards out of the rig on his knees, and then toppled
over in to the grass like he'd been shot. He laid there for
two full minutes, with me and several onlookers wondering
if he was in fact still alive, before he staggered to his
feet.
"He's a little funny about backing up." said our friend.
I got him home, and when I unloaded we repeated the
collapse on to the grass performance. I walked him around
for a while, and then put him on the longe. He was a fancy
mover, with great balance and huge, sweeping canter stride.
Feeling like I'd just raided the king's woods, I chuckled
to myself all night at what a steal I'd gotten.
The next day, still feeling like a thief in the night I
tacked him up and got on him in the barnyard. An hour later
we were still there. To say he was barn sour did not even
begin to cover it. And he could rear. High. And spin.
I gave up and led him to the ring, and got on him in there.
He knew less than nothing, but felt amazing, and you could
feel him trying, if not always succeeding, to focus. I
popped him over a cross rail, and he damn near jumped me
off. Partly because he jumped that hard, partly because he
left a good two strides early, and well, I just wasn't
expecting to suddenly be in flight.
I rode him the first year plus we had him, teaching him the
flat work, trying to make him ridable. I got dropped by him
a lot. A lot. Things that were not Ok in his world included
any small animals (small birds especially), anything that
sounded like a gun shot, (especially the neighbors
backfiring tractor), small, dark tunnel like spaces, being
alone and anything having to do with his left ear. He was
diagnosed with shivers/stringhalt, which ultimately
wouldn't effect him performance wise (except he always got
a second look in the FEI jogs, and his turns on the
haunches were always pretty poor). What took longer to deal
with was the reaction he had to the stringhalt going
off--he was used to get hit for "kicking" so he'd leap away
from you in a panic.
John hunted him in the fall, and the next spring I tried to
event him. We had some steering and control issues, capped
off by my jumping a child and small pony because I couldn't
stop or steer. A bigger issue was looming though, having
suffered to severe injuries earlier in my career, his, um,
enthusiastic style was slowly crippling me. The day after a
jump school pretty much meant 50 tylenol, slow movements,
and tears. I rode him a denny clinic, and the next day,
literally couldn't get in the truck to drive him to day
two. Not wanting to waste the money, I talked John in to
riding him, and the rest is history. Denny loved the horse
and the match, and me not being an idiot could see how much
better of a match it was than the two of us. Funnily
enough, the one who took the most convincing was John. He
liked small, hot horses, he kept insisting.
They moved up the levels together, first with my help, then
with Sharon White's help. They took their first lesson with
Sharon as we were debating the "should we go prelim"
question. She watched him jump one fence and proclaimed,
"You are going prelim with this horse!" She believed in him
as much, if not more, than we did, and she made room for
all of his quirks. She rode him only a few times, most
notably for a week while we were away on a business trip. I
called to ask how it was going, and she replied "He's as
awesome as I thought he'd be!" Her grin was coming through
the phone.
Ultimately, he won an event at every level from Novice to
Intermediate, was the 2005 Area II intermediate champion,
completed two long format CCI*'s, finishing 9th and 4th,
and finished in the top 20 at the 2006 Jersey Fresh CCI**.
Not bad for a crazy dangerous horse no one wanted.
Throughout his life, there were certain things you just
lived with: he was always buddy sour, always had a rear in
him, always didn't like small, dark spaces. He spooked at
the same thing every day you rode him, without fail. If
something scared him somewhere once, he'd remember the
spot, and wheel, pretty much permanently. He always backed
out the trailer "creatively" though we did eventually get
him to stop flopping over like he'd been shot. It took a
year to be able to put boots or wraps on him without him
falling over and laying there. He was never "easy" but he
was always wonderful.
He was injured in a freak accident in late 2006, and after
a rehab which was only partially successful we retired him
as a schoolie in 2007. In summer 2008 he packed our working
student around a Novice, where they were 2nd.
Watching John and Mer go cross country was something
remarkable. The horse was such an extravagant jumper, with
a front end like Snowbound. He never jumped a fence a
little bit, he jumped the hell out of it. They had such
complete trust in each other. I was so nervous at Jersey I
couldn't watch their round live, instead I huddled next to
the vets and listened to the round over their radio. But I
got the video. It still makes me tear up.
I've been their groom, chauffeur, caretaker, trainer, and
manager, but I loved every minute of it. Though I was no
longer his rider, Merlin was always my horse too--he had a
penchant for seeking me out and finding me after every test
or round, he'd make a beeline to me for his pats, then
follow me back to the barn, without being led, with his
head right at my back.
I can't believe he won't be here anymore. That such a
bright light will go out. I'm crying so hard I can barely
type. Please keep a good thought for a special guy who
always gave 150% to his people.
From John:
We
said goodbye this week to the horse who’s shaped our lives
for the last 12 years. Merlin, whose show name is Master
Merlin, taught us so very much, confirmed our belief in so
many things, and played an integral part in strengthening
the deep bond that my wife Heather and I share.
It’s
now been more than two years since I last competed Merlin,
as the infirmities of age made competing him at
intermediate level impossible, and since then he’s been the
schoolmaster of Phoenix Farm, teaching other horses and
other riders his work ethic and about courage and desire.
We’d hoped he’d be able to do that for years and years, but
sarcoidosis, and the lymphangitis and laminitis it caused,
have claimed him. We decided to lay him to rest before the
pain became worse, because the last thing we wanted was for
Merlin to suffer. We owed him everything; he owed us
absolutely nothing.
I have so many memories of Merlin that I don’t know where
to begin. Perhaps it’s best to start with how he was at
first and how he was late in his wonderful life.
Merlin was given to us by our friends Lilith and Richard
Boucher, steeplechase riders and trainers in Unionville,
Pa. Let’s just say that he wasn’t working out as a
racehorse, and Heather went to pick him up at the race meet
in Middleburg, Va., in October 1977, since I was away on an
assignment. She remembers him as big and awkward and
terribly insecure, but he had her favorite facial marking—a
giant-sized star and broad stripe. She tried to ride him
the next day and fell off in the barnyard, the first of
many times she’d fall off when he spooked at a movement or
a noise.
But Heather persevered, doing a lot of longeing and
flatwork to develop him physically and to develop his
understanding and trust in her aids. And I started
foxhunting him, to give him cross-country experience and
confidence. Merlin loved to hunt, because he loved to go
across the countryside and he loved to be with other
horses, figuring whatever demons there were would get the
others before they got him.
We worked hard in those early years to develop his trust in
us, and whenever Heather would teach me on Merlin, or
whenever we’d come out of a dressage ring or off a jumping
course, Merlin would look for her and go to her. She would
forever be his comfort zone, his protector on the ground,
just as I was on his back.
Merlin never completely got over his anxiety about the
world around him. He just became less explosive in his
reactions. And the two funny things about his wary
personality were that he wasn’t afraid of anything as long
as he was galloping or if he was with another horse. The
other horse didn’t even have to be in front of him. I
ponied dozens of horses from his back, and he’d rarely
spook if another horse was by his side.
And his ability to pony horses across the countryside was
Merlin’s biggest contribution here at Phoenix Farm. He,
quite literally, taught the babies and the “crazy” horses
who’ve been sent to us as their last stop. I know it sounds
airy-fairy, but I’m convinced Merlin imparted wisdom, a
confidence, a work ethic to them. He told them, “This is
how we play the game, and if you do it right, it’s a lot of
fun.” That’s just one more reason we’ll miss him so.
I’ll always cherish our cross-country rounds, especially
the ones at intermediate. I always felt that, with his long
stride and his huge jump, it was the closest a human could
come to flying. But it was also an existential experience,
a feeling of the extraordinary trust we had with each
other. All I ever needed to do was look at the next fence
and put my leg on, to say to him, “We can do it, buddy.”
And he’d say, “Hang on, Dad, here we go!”
That didn’t happen right away. It was the result of doing a
lot of things together—years of foxhunting, years of
competing through the levels, and three years of invaluable
training with Sharon White—that built his confidence in
himself and me, along with his complete understanding of
the challenges he would meet on the cross-country course.
When we first moved up to the preliminary level (a level at
which I hadn’t competed for 20 years at the time), I would
have to ride him very positively, even aggressively, to the
first three or four fences, until his confidence sort of
switched on. But I’ll always remember the first
classic-format preliminary three-day event we did, at
Morven Park (Va.) in October 2004. Heather and I watched
about a dozen videotapes of Merlin’s career last evening,
after he’d left us, and we happily discovered we have two
tapes of the Morven Park CCI*. We watched them both,
cherishing that weekend.
Merlin and I cruised through the two roads and tracks
phases and easily galloped the steeplechase phase 10
seconds fast, despite his incredible over-jumping of the
steeplechase fences. He came into the vet box in great
shape, and from the moment he left the cross-country start
box, I could tell we were going to jump clean.
We flew over the first fence, and I reached down and patted
him on the neck and said, “We’re gonna do it, buddy! Let’s
go!”
As
our veterinarian began administering the drugs that would
take Merlin away, I kept repeating to him, “Yea, though I
walk through the valley of death, I shall fear no evil,”
thinking of all those cross-country rounds we shared, of us
galloping and leaping, together. Thank you, Merlin, for
everything.
