Me and the KGB
In 1984, the Summer Olympics were being held in Los Angeles. The Soviet Union and Eastern Bloc countries all boycotted the Olympics, and held their own event -- The Friendship Games -- in the Soviet Union.
At 14, I was too young for the Olympic team, so my horse Michael and I headed off for Sopot in Poland, where the equestrian events for the Friendship Games were being held.
On the interminable plane ride, all the athletes were given a briefing by the CIA. We were told that everywhere we went, there would be KGB officers, that we could not talk to athletes from the Eastern Bloc or they could be hauled away and interrogated or imprisoned. We were told that there would be listening devices, undercover agents, all that cold war spy stuff. We were ordered to act with all decorum, to take the security situation with the utmost seriousness, to not provoke the KGB in any way.
Those of you who have read my previous story can see that this is all going to end poorly. As a bratty, rage filled teenager, there was no decorum in me. I was determined that if the KGB was going to spy on me, I'd give them plenty to keep them busy.
(I would like to pause here and state that I am deeply sorry to the people of Russia and Poland for my lack of respect and maturity. To all the KGB officers who were involved: go fuck yourselves with angry hedgehogs, sideways.)
At the hotel, we could easily spot the KGB agents...they always stood in groups of three. The logic went that one agent couldn't be trusted, two could conspire, but in groups of three one would always snitch.
Our rooms were searched, clumsily, on an almost daily basis. Our rooms were bugged.
At the stables, there were KGB clusters everywhere, and it was clear that the stablehands were almost all spies, as they seemed to have no clue how to clean a stall and spent most of their time lurking.
14 year old me found this hilarious, and I soon cajoled one of the other young American riders to join me in harassing the KGB mercilessly, for funsies.
I had read somewhere that non-native English speakers found certain English word games incomprehensible, so my friend and I spent that week only speaking in Pig Latin. This was harmless fun.
On the second day, however, our tack room had been searched, and it was clear that the KGB had taken souvenirs for themselves. This pissed me off.
Boris the KGB agent who had been assigned to us was a horrible man...slimy, smarmy, shifty. He leered a lot. He smelled like spoiled milk and bad cheese. He would try to sidle up to us and brush against us 'by accident.' I immediately suspected he was the one who had stolen our things, including one of my sports bras. I wanted to hurt him.
My prized possession at the time was my brand new Walkman tape player, with the supercool spongy headphones. Whenever Boris was around, I would ostentatiously 'sneak' into my horse's stall, huddle in the corner, and pretend to hold whispered conversations with my Walkman, as if I were receiving instructions.
Boris was all aquiver...he was convinced he had unearthed a spy ring. He tried to grab my Walkman, and I ducked around him and 'hid' it in the straw at the back of my horse's stall.
My horse Michael was a nightmare. He was an enormous liver chestnut gelding, crazed, full of rage and spite and strange appetites. In all the world, the only thing he loved was jumping. He hated everything and everyone, and would have happily set the world on fire if only he had had thumbs. His hobbies were kicking and biting, and pursued those with an unholy zeal that was unmatched until the advent of Taylor Swift fans.
Boris knew nothing about horses. So he marched up to the stall and fumbled with the latch. And 17 hands of psychotic Thoroughbred lunged from the shadows, unhinged his jaw like a giant python, and sank his teeth into Boris's shoulder.
Boris let out a shrill, high pitched scream of panic and tried to pull back, but Michael would not let go. The barn aisle was suddenly full of KGB agents, shouting in Russian. Michael clamped down harder.
I stood there, laughing hysterically. After probably too many moments, I pried Michael's jaws open, and Boris was led away, never to be seen by us again.
A Strongly Worded Letter was sent to our embassy, and Michael and I were banned from ever again entering the Soviet Union or any of its client states.
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A Partial and Very Incomplete List of Things That Michael Did That Were Suspiciously Un-Horselike
1. Michael and his pony friend Didas were frequently turned out in the paddock together for exercise. Didas was a small pony, 12 hands high. (Horses are measured in 'hands'. A 'hand' is 4 inches. The horse is measured from the ground to the withers -- the area just behind where the neck joins the back.)
When Michael would get bored and decide to go looking for Adventure, he would simply jump the six foot paddock fence. Very horse-like, of course.
But then...
...he recognized that Didas was far too small and rotund to jump the fence, so Michael would open the paddock gate to let Didas join him. And then close the gate behind them.
2. Michael had two cats who had adopted him, LucyFur and Lucy's kitten Michelle. When the cats' food bowl was empty, instead of looking for a human to feed them, Lucy and Michelle would find Michael. They would meow piteously, as only two cats who hadn't had food in a whole 20 minutes can.
Michael would go to the feed room, with the cats trotting along behind him. He would go to the metal garbage can that held the cat kibble, remove the bungee cord holding the lid on, remove the lid, then carefully tip the can over so kibble came out.
He would keep the cats company while they ate, then pull the garbage can back upright and replace the lid.
3. He would play practical jokes.
Once, he took one of each pair of rain boots in both tack rooms, and carefully piled them in the middle of the deepest mud puddle he could find.
He once removed the towels covering every single saddle, and used them to festoon a quarter of a mile of fencing along the stable's entry road.
He liked to sneak up behind people and drop towels on their head, laugh, then run away.
All things considered, the only truly horse-like thing he ever did was to eat my teeth.
If you like the Michael stories, and are burning to know about him eating my teeth, please consider subscribing to my Kofi. The teeth story will be posted within 24 hours, for subscribers only.
Michael and I were riding in a Grand Prix at Spruce Meadows. It was our first time competing on grass instead of dirt.
It had rained the night before, and the grass was still damp. We upgraded Michael’s shoes to grass cleats, to give us better purchase.
I was concerned.
Our jumping style was best described as ‘Balls to the Walls Loose Cannon on as Suicide Mission.’ A style not well suited to slippery footing.
But I was young, and reckless, and neither one of us had any sense of self preservation.
So, we went out at a gallop. After the third fence, we went to make a sharp turn around another jump.
And Michael’s feet slid out from under him, and we both went down. I flew off, face first into a jump standard. Something in my face made a very unpleasant crunching sound.
I sat on the grass, stunned and discombobulated. My mouth filled up with blood, and I spat two teeth into my hand.
My brain was still full of static from getting thrown into the standard, so I just sat there staring stupidly at my teeth.
Michael was flat out on the ground a couple of feet away, winded but clearly fine and recovering quickly.
He shook his head, and started heaving himself to his feet.
Halfway up, he looked over and saw me staring at my flat hand. He was either attracted by the blood, or possibly thought my teeth were sugar cubes.
He snaked his head around towards my hand and…
...ate my teeth.
After that, Michael refused to do more than walk on grass, so we only participated in Grand Prix events held on dirt.
I was fine with his decision, since I figured I didn’t have enough teeth left for more than 3 or so similar events.
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I’m not sure exactly how show jumping works now, but, back in the 80s when I was riding, there was a point system. You won a different amount of points depending on where you placed in a class: first place won 10 points, second won 9 points, etc.
Points were needed to qualify for certain major events, like the Olympics, or Nation’s Cup events, or the Pan American Games.
In order to qualify as a rider for the big events, you needed to have a certain amount of points by a deadline. The amounts differed, and the deadlines changed, depending on when the events were to be held.
My big goal was to qualify for the top level US team, the one that went to the Olympics and the really big events. And I did, thanks entirely to Michael and our utter lack of any sense of self preservation.
We were riding at Spruce Meadows in Canada. It was the morning of the big Grand Prix event, the last event in which people could earn the points they needed to qualify for their nation’s top team.
I was in the stable area, cleaning my saddle and getting everything prepped for the evening event. Further down the barn, where the UK team was stabled, there was some sort of brouhaha occurring. I was curious, so I strolled down to see what was happening.
The Scottish rider, Gerard Mackenzie aka Jerry Mac, was almost in tears. His horse had cast itself in the stall overnight, and was now lame. And Jerry only needed 3 points to make the UK team...and this show was his last chance to get them.
This was my very favorite kind of problem...the kind I had a solution to.
“No worries!” I said. “I’ve got my points. I’ll scratch my entry, and you can ride Michael.”
“That is an incredibly generous offer,” Jerry Mac said. “But I’ve seen your horse, and you’re both insane. I’d love to get my points and make the team, but I need to be alive for that, and your horse would eat me. Or trample me. Or worse.”
“Well, you’re not wrong, per se...You’d have a fight on your hands if you tried to do the warm up and all that. But if you get on right before the gate opens, you’ll be fine...ish. Once he’s in the arena, all he wants out of life is to jump. He won’t try to kill you until the round is over.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” he said dubiously. “But...I don’t really have a choice. I don’t want to wait another four years...Yeah. I’ll do it. Thank you.”
That evening, I warmed Michael up for the event. I knew the best chance of a good outcome was to trick him, to stay on his back till the last possible second, then toss Jerry Mac into the saddle and hope for the best.
“Okay, Jerry, listen up,” I said. “You just need to be in the top twelve, and he can do that, easy. But...Michael has very specific needs.”
“No riding crop. If you carry a stick, he won’t jump. Or move, except to try to destroy you. You want to keep your reins pretty long...you don’t need a tight hold on him.”
“You want him to slow down, just use a quick ‘whoa’. You want him to speed up, just squeeze with your legs.”
“Do not kick him. Do not pull on his mouth.”
“Your entire job is to stay on his back and steer. He’ll jump clean from any distance. He’s not the quickest, but he’s got a huge stride. He’s a really good judge of distance, and he’ll do whatever’s needed to get over the fence.”
Just sit quiet, steer him to the next fence, and he’ll do the rest. Try not to fall off. Try not to die.”
It was very clear that Michael was not happy with this whole situation. He kept trying to whip his head around to take a bite out of Jerry, alternating with attempts to get me to let go of his head so he could bite my head off or whatever.
But, the gate opened, and there was nothing in front of Michael but pristine sand, huge fences, and stands full of people. And that’s what he lived for.
He forgot all about Jerry, forgot about killing me, and lunged forward into the arena, head up, eyes scanning, prancing, snorting, and showing off. Poor Jerry still looked dubious, at best. Michael had a Reputation.
The buzzer sounded, and they headed off on the course. After a few fences, Jerry looked much more confident. Too confident, maybe.
As they approached the last fence, Jerry thought the distance was too long, and tried to shorten Michael’s stride by pulling on the reins.
Michael was outraged. He threw his head up, and came almost to a stop. But then he saw the jump in front of him, and could not resist its lure.
He gave a huge lurch, and cleared the fence. Jerry lost the reins, lost both stirrups, and almost fell off. But he was one hell of a rider. He kept his seat and leaned forward to encourage Michael to get through the timer. Faintly, I heard him say:
“Do it, you glorious bastard!”
And Michael did.
And that is how Michael became an honorary member of Clan
MacKenzie.
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Michael the Escape Artist
When Michael came into my life, I realized very early on that the very best I could hope for was to contain and limit the mayhem and catastrophes. I knew that stopping them entirely was beyond any human capacity, and that my role in Michael's life was primarily Damage Control.
I was an angry teenage punk, so, overall, my sympathies were with the chaos factory in horse form. I did, however, have some nascent inklings of conscience and an embryonic understanding of the general social contract, so I did my best to keep Michael under wraps.
Dear reader, I failed.
Michael could, and would, jump out of any paddock I put him in. He could, and did, jump 6 foot fences from a standstill, with no apparent effort.
He was a master at opening latches...and closing them behind him, which is how he was able to commit his Chicken Crimes. Several times, he opened every stall in the barn, letting 30 horses romp loose in the middle of the night. This was particularly alarming when we were at international horse shows, and the values of said horses were in the millions of dollars.
When I tried chaining his stall gate closed, he learned how to pull the pins out of the hinges and would then clamber over the gate. He knew how to turn door knobs. He was a Menace.
I finally came up with a solution that sort of worked. I would take a rope, and tie multiple knots in it, then toss it into his stall. He would spend a happy hour or so undoing all of the knots with his teeth, then let himself out of his stall.
He would wander around with the rope hanging out of his mouth and dragging between his front legs, like a lioness carrying her kill, until he found me or another obliging human. He would then drop the rope, and wait expectantly for the human to tie his knots, then happily take it back to his stall.
He was Alexander the Great in reverse. The city of Gordium would have loved him.
This is the last Michael story.
J and I are working on putting together a Michael ebook, that will have all the tumblr stories, an extra bonus story about the time Michael fell in love, illustrations, and more!
That should become a reality within the next week, or two at most.
The ebook will be available on my kofi for $5.
I'm going to write up the tragic story of our downfall and Michael's demise as a separate ebook, so if you want to know the whole story, it will be available for $2.
If you'd rather stick to the funny stuff and know that Michael and teenage me are forever living the weird life and rampaging across the globe in your imaginations, you can skip the sad epilogue, and it will be like it never happened. :)
Times are still tough here, with no end in sight, but we have a little breathing room thanks to everyone's astonishing generosity and kindness. If I can sell a few ebooks, that will help keep the lights and internet on.
Thank you all for taking my weird demon horse into your hearts, and letting me relive those times for a little while through writing.
When I was young, back in the early 1980s, I rode horses for a living. Show jumpers.
This is a story about me being an asshole to a prince and almost causing an international incident. I would like to preface this by saying that I regret reinforcing the 'ugly American' stereotype. I regret being rude, as I was a guest in the country. So...I'm sorry, England, your royalty is and always has been trash, but it was wrong of me to be rude.
Anyway. I was 14 years old, and riding in the Royal Windsor Horse Show in England. It was my first international show, my first time ever leaving America. There was a Protocol Officer provided by the American embassy, to teach us how to bow and curtsey, how to address various members of the royal family we might encounter, since they were personally handing out the prizes.
I was an utter nightmare at 14. I was a brat. I had a chip on my shoulder the size of Plymouth Rock, I hated every form of authority, I had just discovered punk rock...I was a horrid creature who should have been confined in a barrel, not let out onto the world's stage.
The Protocol Officer reminded me of my mother, which was not a good thing. She was bitchy and superior, and it was clear that she idolized the royals. Worshipped them. Wanted to be them. I loathed her on sight, and immediately tuned out everything she said, while mocking her mercilessly. I was like that.
So, I rode in the Open Jumping, and we won! There was a full ceremony, with a band playing God Save The Queen, fancy soldiers saluting, the whole nine yards. Then, the royals arrived.
Prince Charles was going to hand out the prizes. He was there with a whole entourage...assistants? secretaries? royal ass wipers? Who knows. The lackeys followed him around like baby ducks as he approached. One of them carried bouquets of flowers for him to hand us, plus the ribbons and medals.
First, he handed the goodies to the third and second place winners, then he approached me. There was a big crowd, and I resolved to be on my best behavior. Truly. I was going to be so good, and a credit to my country. I listened to the other winners say "Thank you, your Grace. It is a great honor." Right. I could do that.
And he approached me and said "That was a very nice ride...for a 14 year old."
And all of my hatred and resentment sprung loose. This chinless, brainless, inbred parasite who couldn't even ride a complete polo match without falling off his horse at least once (and sometimes more) dared to condescend to me? About my riding? Fuck that noise.
He handed me the bouquet and ribbon, and put the medal around my neck. And I looked him in the eyes, smirked, and said:
"Thanks, Chuck. Y'know, if you keep your heels down, maybe you won't fall off your ponies so often."
Chuckles looked like he was going to have an aneurysm. His entourage fluttered and moaned.
The end result was a Sternly Worded Letter sent to the embassy, a screaming match with the Protocol Officer, and a real question as to whether I'd ever be allowed out of America again.
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