We sat in the drive-thru at Tim Hortons, waiting in queue for coffee before heading to the riding school for our daughters’ Saturday morning lessons. The year was 2021. Our family was just re-emerging from lockdown. It was a full house in the back seat of our car. My mother-in-law “Nanny” was wedged between our girls Abigail (then 9) and Jilliann (10).
We had just sold our little farm months before the onset of the pandemic, so we certainly were not actively looking to buy a horse. But we also are a family of lifelong horsemen, so as one does while riding shotgun, I was on my phone, perusing ads for horses on Kijiji (Canada’s version of Craigslist). I always kept my ear to the ground for “opportunities” when it came to the local horse market. Our daughters had really begun to hit their stride in riding school, so it was in the back of our minds that they might need their own solid citizen sooner or later.
I soon happened upon a competition photo of a striking grey mare taking a massive show jumping fence. My dear husband, Paul, who grew up immersed in his family’s breeding and training business, glanced over from the driver’s seat, “Who is that?”
I nonchalantly (but perhaps calculatingly) answered, “Doesn’t say. She’s a 21-year-old Zangersheide broodie that’s done big sticks.”
“Did you message them?” asked Paul.
I was completely taken aback. I hadn’t, and I thought he would be proud of my rare display of restraint, but instead I read disappointment.
Was this permission to engage? Say no more! As we collected our beverages, I shot off an inquiry, which was quickly met with a reply and a number to call.
The spirit had moved us. We both had a feeling this might be “the one.”
We arrived at the riding school in record time and sent Nanny ahead with the girls to ready their school ponies. Paul made the call while I aided with my bated breath and anxious stare. (Unlike Paul, I come from a non-horsey family and worked my way up the levels to become a freelance Equestrian Canada-certified competition coach.)
“She may not be suitable for kids; she has a big stride,” the person told him.
I could see that didn’t sway Paul for one second. “OK, what is her registered name? Cachette Z?” He looked over at me and snapped a finger indicating I had best start Googling.
I did, and very quickly, my jaw dropped. Cachette Z was the real deal. She had shown in the grand prix, won the Prix des States, and a decade earlier won team and individual gold in the USEF Junior Jumper Championships with her riders under the tutelage of world-renowned names like Anne Kursinski and John Madden.
On the phone, the seller made no promises. “Cachette” had been procured two years prior for their breeding program and subsequently slipped two pregnancies. As a result, she was being given her walking papers.
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We know that “aged” does not equal “kid-safe,” and purchasing a mare of this caliber and history was akin to buying a Ferrari as our kids’ first car. Paul, undaunted, bought her for a song, sight unseen, right then and there.
Cachette travelled to us from Ottawa, a six-plus hour drive away. She arrived much later than expected because the original rig had broken down on the side of the highway. Thankfully, CJ Horse Transport came to the rescue and brought her the final leg of her journey. I reassured our daughters, and myself, that this mare was well-traveled and surely well-equipped enough to handle a logistical snafu.
Our anticipation had truly built by the time the trailer ramp lowered—and we were taken aback by the slight, angular frame and sorry condition of the mare inside. We have her passports, and she is documented as 16.2 hands, but looked to be more than a hand smaller. We knew she had been living out those two years since changing hands from her American connections. It was very apparent that she had also been living on the most basic horse care plan.
I worried for her, but if I felt pity, it was quickly replaced with awe. Leading her down the ramp, I was overwhelmed by her commanding presence. She exuded strength and authority like nothing I had ever felt through the lead. Before even stepping fully off the ramp, she dropped her head and started eating grass. Cachette paid no mind to any of us. She hurried for no one, her focus solely on the forage.
Physically, her skin was poor, her eyes were watery, and her coat long, patchy and unkept. She had melanoma lesions, the worst of which was at the bottom of her tailbone. It was the size of a golf ball, oozing and necrotic. In the days to come, we adults would quietly express our real concerns that we might not have long with her. Even so, Cachette had a transcendent beauty.
We grappled with how this top-shelf athlete, once festooned with ribbons and sashes and medals, could find herself in this forlorn condition. Was it the result of blatant neglect, or perhaps an underlying health condition? These situations can be multifaceted, and it does no good to lay blame on anyone without investigation. She was old, and she was grey; her condition could have been a result of processes running their course.
Our veterinarian, Dr. Stephanie Campbell-Heron, made time to come and give her a thorough look over. She listened to Cachette’s heart and deemed it strong—“the heart of an athlete,” she called it. Throughout all the poking and prodding, Cachette displayed her token steadfast, impeccable demeanor. Dr. Campbell-Heron ran comprehensive bloodwork, and we had her diagnosis: Cushing’s. The wonderful thing was, there were things we could do to help manage both of her diseases and improve her overall condition.
For the Cushing’s, we promptly began treatment with Prascend. My good friend Ruth Crawford took time away from her professional operation to give a show quality body-clip. For the melanoma, Cachette underwent standing surgery. In the meantime, we had her teeth floated and began a quality feeding program. Her feet were given soaks to treat for thrush, and her hooves were fitted with a pair of shoes.
Our daughters learned the intricacies involved in being horsewomen. They aided in the tail bandage changes. They fastidiously groomed Cachette and treated her skin and feet. We taught them to run their hands over her while grooming. They memorized every nook and cranny and could spell off every bump and scar that she bore. They learned to observe vitals like her hydration status and respiration rate. They also carefully picked her stall and took note of the quality of her poo.
The barn owner, Diane Darby, included the girls in all Cachette’s care. She would explain what she was doing and why, as she made up the mare’s meals. She then gave the girls the privilege of feeding her and encouraged them to spend time hand grazing her in the farm’s courtyard.
Because Cachette was sensitive to the heat, Diane gave her the stall closest to the industrial fan and was allowed to hang her head over the single chain stall guard. While the girls groomed her, she would stand content in the breeze. When they hit an especially itchy spot, her lip would quiver side to side while our laughter carried through the barn’s halls. Cachette took to mutually grooming, briskly rubbing her lip up Abigail’s arm and shoulder. The more the girls doted, the more palpable Cachette’s affection became. When I look back, I well up with emotion. It was an all-hands-on-deck beautiful expression of love.
Very quickly, Cachette showcased her chutzpah. As her hips and shoulders rounded out, she became a wee bit of a handful. Because Cachette had quickly made such great strides, we decided to try her with the girls atop. Knowing that it was likely she had never carried a child, I took the inaugural ride. It was humbling to bestride not only a schoolmaster but a “Grandmaster.” Before I even had to cue, she would read my mind. Everything in that ride told me that she was safe, generous and kind. I imagine Cachette had always been paired with top-tier equestrian talent.
Mastering the art of feel, timing and tact takes years even for the most talented athletes, which Abigail and Jilliann had not lived long enough to match. Though their hearts were brimming and full of dreams to become riders like Cachette’s most notable partner, Karen Polle, our little ones would be a novel experience for the mare.
I reached out to Anne Kursinski over Facebook Messenger. I thought she might be able to offer us some insight, as she had played such a pivotal role in Cachette and Polle’s career together. She soon replied, “She was always a classy, lovely mare! Extremely smart & kind. Carrots, Apples, and lots of TLC!!! She would bond very deeply with her rider and always try her best!” That would prove true for our girls as well.
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First up was our firstborn “Jillie.” Upon leg up, Cachette’s eyes widened, and her breath paused. She remained on high alert as Jillie’s tiny seat settled in the tack. The big grey mare exhaled and softened when Jillie quietly broke the silence with, “good girl, Cachette.”
We wanted to ensure a positive, comfortable experience for all, so we began on the longe and built on each success. Cachette gently took Jillie through the paces. First walk, then trot, then canter. Jilliann’s legs barely reached past the saddle flaps, and yet, right on cue, Cachette would step into the next gait. Astutely, her ears continuously moved, reading every subtlety coming from her miniscule jockey. She never took advantage of nerves or inexperience.
If Jillie’s rhythm went offbeat or her balance slipped, Cachette would just quietly adjust her stride or body to direct the little seat back to the saddle.
When it came time for Abigail’s turn, Cachette visibly shifted to tip-toe mode. She took such care that she could only be convinced to change gears when an additional adult was brought alongside. Very quickly, she measured Abbie’s abilities and travelled the arena in a soft connection.
Over the next year, we watched our family contentedly going through patterns and paces on the flat. Cachette had earned her retirement, and we didn’t think it fair to subject her to local travel for small competitions. The girls adjusted their goals and expectations, and I would repeat, “Cachette need never jump again.”
The surprise would come when we moved to a new facility. On the weekends, proper jumping courses were set up for the barn’s in-house show jumping trainer. In consideration for the girls’ safety, and the fact that Cachette was now 22, we would drop the jumps to poles on the ground. Jumping had been Cachette’s heart and soul. Entering that ring meant entering a new realm where Cachette was in her element. She had a different air about her; she eyed up the combinations of wing standards, poles and planks. She looked to be studying them, as she had done in the championship round at Harrisburg.
When Jilliann asked if she could trot over the rails, Cachette cleared the pole by 3 feet.
From her 22nd through her 23rd year, Cachette gifted Jillie with combinations and courses at home. It seemed to be food to her soul.
In our time with her, Cachette has carried Jilliann and Abigail to success on the virtual dressage circuit. She and Jilliann have also enjoyed navigating trails over the countryside. Even Nanny has enjoyed being up in the irons from time to time. We won’t divulge Nanny’s age, just suffice to say that this year, 2024, she and Cachette meet the criteria to join The Century Club.
Friends, I doubt there will ever be a horse that compares, but maybe yours is out there too, old and forgotten in a field. Please, don’t pass over the older horse. Most seek a horse in their prime, but what is that? Is a horse’s prime relative?
I am not sure there will ever be words to encapsulate what she brings to our family. We are so blessed to be her stewards for this beautiful season of life.
We know heartache will one day come. We will never be prepared for it. But we far exceeded that first year and continue to enjoy every day as the blessing it is.
For nearly three years, Cachette has raised our girls. I will often quip that she has been their greatest teacher. She has trained them up more than Paul or I or any coach has. Perhaps her heart, more so than her breeding, talent and training, is what makes her so exceptional. In the stables, with many, she is professional, if not aloof, but she loves our daughters with the depth of mother’s love. These babies will be her last.
Now 24, she still enjoys daily rides, raised rails and clever rollback turns—and if any of her past connections are reading this, yes, she still pulls hard to the right.
Gracie McDuffe lives in the small beach town of Port Dover, Ontario. She is a dressage rider and trainer who travels freelance as an Equestrian Canada-licensed and fully certified National Coaching Certification Program Competition Coach. You can follow her on Instagram and on Facebook.
