Well! That was a disaster.

 
Sunday at Devon for me was such an epic disaster, such a colossal and monumental catastrophe, that three days later I’m still laughing. We started the day in an ordinary way—grooming, braiding, quiet eating. The girls got their time under my neato electromagnetic blanket, and I tacked up Ella, and off we went. She warmed up well, very tight, but obedient and expressive.

 
And then we went around the ring. And she got tighter. And shorter. And tighter. And shorter. And we went down centerline and halted, saluted and trotted out. And Ella halted again. And snorted. And went forward a few more steps (after lots of squeezing and nudging) before halting again. And I managed to kick her around the test, thinking all the time about whether it made more sense for me to finish the disastrous test for the schooling experience or salute out and save Ella some humiliation. Ever the optimist, I kept going, hoping that the next movement would be better, or maybe the movement out there. It didn’t really work out, to the tune of a 48 percent. Wow.

 
While Ella was getting a score 23 percent points lower than her last performance, Cleo, who normally doesn’t like Ella very much, was apoplectic, throwing herself against the walls and the floor of her stall, screaming her head off, and working herself into a froth. Another trainer stabled down the aisle came and got my mother (thank you, Teresa Butta!), who got Cleo calmed down enough that I could make my quick costume change. She was dripping wet and absolutely filthy, but quiet when I brought Ella back, so I dusted her off, tacked her up, switched coats and hopped on. I walked around, trotted three laps on a long rein, and noticed that Cleo had bitten her lip in the process of flailing. And so we had to scratch out.

 
Great horse show, huh?

 
Yet another reminder that horses have this unique talent for screwing with our best laid plans. I feel a little like Wylie E. Coyote—I laid out my elaborate plan, got all the right tools, practiced, applied blood/sweat/tears, and not only did I still not capture my meep-meeping quarry, but I also had an ACME anvil fall from the sky and onto my head.

 
But it was such a pathetic and ridiculous experience that there’s nothing for it but to laugh. And it could have been worse—no one got hurt, my horses all came home in one piece, and I got to have some pumpkin pie fudge (which is pretty much the only reason one goes to Devon, anyway). I’ve had such a lovely competitive year, with so many highlights, that this was just karmic redistribution.

 
So it’s onto the next one—our Regional Championships in October—no worse for wear. And like my cartoon coyote friend, I’m keeping my chin up… if only to keep an eye out for the next anvil.