Breeder of Registered Miniature
Donkeys, Quality Breeding Stock, and Lovable Pets
STORY: How I Survive The Show Season
HOW I SURIVE THE SHOW SEASON or WHY KILLING
MY HUSBAND IS JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE!
BY
Carolyn Christian
Let me begin this expose with a disclaimer.
I LOVE MY HUSBAND. Did you hear that Pete? I
LOVE YOU. Now! With that behind me, let me
tell you how I plan to kill him. I haven't
decided between hiring a housekeeper to
follow him around tidying up everything he
touches including his truck and tool shed (a
sure cause to give him a heart attack), or
to just buy 20 more donkeys and really put
him under. In either case, the end will be
long, agonizing, and full of dread, much
like the way I feel when I know we have to
start thinking about the next season's
donkey shows. It's not that I don't want to
go to the shows. I do. We have so many
wonderful friends with whom we enjoy showing
and visiting. Also, I look at it as
something Pete and I can do together. But
something happens that transforms this
tender, happy, bearded man I married into
the brother of Satan. Let me explain.
A month before the first show of the
season, Pete and I decide which donkeys
we're going to take. Things are pretty
smooth at this point. Usually, it's the
donkeys who let you know which ones go and
which ones stay. Let me explain. If we can
have a laying on of hands to cure the 6-inch
boo-boo in Barney's chest that Muffin caused
in her attempt to show Barney her disgust at
his wanting to do the "nasty" with her, then
Barney gets to go. Mariah definitely has a
spot because she's no trouble whatsoever.
She suffers from narcolepsy upon entering
the show ring. Her favorite pastime is
sleeping while the judge is looking at her.
Elsie has to go because she won a National
title and we want everyone to see her so
they don't think we made it up.
Sophie has to go with Elsie because the
two of them haven't been separated since
birth, and Elsie acts like a hummingbird on
No-Doze without Sophie near. Then we decide
to take Emily just for fun because she's so
well-behaved, a concept that is proven false
once we leave the ranch. We determine when
we need to body clip, and it's at this point
that trouble begins. Deciding on the perfect
weekend is the ingredient for insuring that
a massive hailstorm will occur beginning
Friday afternoon of the designated weekend.
The donkeys think the rain is a precursor to
Armageddon and are wild. Sometimes, the most
horrible thing of all happens that
weekend…..company comes. They always have
that ever so familiar look of hunger and
"entertain me" in their eyes.
These events succeed in putting us so far
behind that we're body clipping donkeys an
hour before we leave for the show. As Pete
is relaying his desire to stay home and skip
the show, I'm telling him we can't back out
now because I took out a loan the size of
the national debt just to enter all of them.
We continue loading the donkeys who decide
that today is the day to refresh our
memories on loading techniques for equine.
Even a seasoned show veteran like Barney,
alias Skidmore, shows his unwillingness to
cooperate by leaving skid marks in the
ground going up to the trailer. The good
news is that the furrows confirm that he's
definitely not cow-hocked because the lines
are perfectly parallel. That's reassuring,
and keeps him from being tied over the hood
of the truck like common road kill. With
Coggins and Health Certificates in hand,
we're off, that is until Pete forgets he
left his show clothes. That's OK, because I
need to go back to the house anyway to get
either Valium, the telephone number of a
good divorce attorney, or my .38 Smith &
Wesson. I have the feeling I may need one or
all before the weekend is through.
Things temporarily improve when we get on
the road, so much so that Pete and I indulge
in our favorite traveling pastime…..singing.
We both like to sing. Of course, since I'm a
music major and was trained in the classics,
and since Pete was trained in the shower, we
sound like Maria Callas and Willie Nelson
with one of us off key! These are wonderful
moments though. We talk about how much we
love the donkeys, each other, living in the
country, when suddenly I notice that I'm the
only one talking. Uh-oh! That's a sure sign
we've entered….. The Twilight Zone. The
Twilight Zone usually happens about 20 miles
outside the town in which the show is held.
Pete gets quiet and the wonderful, gentle
man I married starts acting like he's been
breathing glue fumes. No sooner do I realize
that we've entered the Twilight Zone than
the questions start coming. Do you have the
Coggins? Did you bring the bag with the
clippers in it? Did you get enough stalls?
Are you my wife? What's my name? Why am I
here? You know, all those questions one asks
when you're totally freaking out. It's not
that Pete is nervous, it's just that
he's…..well, you know, a husband!!! I
immediately go into my understanding,
submissive, supportive wife role and tell
him, "Get a grip, fella!"
I should be used to this behavior because
he does the same thing when he has to be in
the hospital for something major and life
threatening like TESTS. He no sooner gets
into his room than the nurses come in and
yank the call button out of the wall because
Pete likes to summon them to ask for
everything from Kleenex to whether or not
they know the capacity of the visitor
parking lot. But back to the story. We pull
into the parking lot designated for
exhibitors and the parking crisis begins. If
left up to Pete, we'd park the truck and
horse trailer in Oklahoma and commute to the
arena. I suggest he park in this spot, but
the rules in the husband book prevent you
from complying with your wife's suggestion
of parking places. With that crisis behind
us, we're ready to unload at which point
Pete turns into an accomplished thespian. He
launches into a soliloquy that puts Sir
Lawrence Olivier to shame. I almost know it
by heart now. It goes something like this.
"Why are there so many boxes? When we get
home, I'm going to throw half of this stuff
away. What's this? When did you buy this?
I'm leaving this in the trailer. We don't
need any of this stuff." I just say "Yes,
dear." and keep handing him everything I
want to take inside while he purges his soul
and loads it all onto the dolly.
We really do enjoy those next few hours.
The donkeys are settled and all's right with
the world. We enjoy visiting with our
friends and going to dinner that night
together. Everyone has their donkeys groomed
in preparation for the next day. They look
so handsome. All the donkeys can think about
that night is how soon it will be until they
can roll in good old terra firma rather than
shavings. All Pete can think about is how
much work he's done to get to this point.
All I can think about is if our marriage
will hold together one more day! Then, the
big day arrives. Pete dresses into his show
clothes, while I organize the numbers he
wears on his back. It's about now that he
gets really intense. Where is the lead rope
to the black show halter? What time is it?
Get me a drink of water. Let's go, let's go!
Jeepers, a marine drill sergeant couldn't
bark orders as well. But somehow, he manages
to get through his classes without a
problem. He looks so handsome in the ring
and I'm so proud of him and our donkeys.
Heaven only knows how, but he manages to
do well in spite of my coaching from the
bleachers. I'm sure every wife of a husband
who shows knows about the "constructive
criticism" that comes from the wives in the
bleachers. We try desperately to get our
husband's attention in order to inform them
of the things they are doing that will
improve their showing even if it's unwanted
and even if it's WHILE THEY'RE IN THE RING
DOING THEM!!!!! This is our job and we take
it seriously. I discreetly get Pete's
attention by yelling "Pete" as loudly as I
can so that everyone in the town in which
the show is held can hear EXCEPT the judge.
That takes talent and experience! Then I try
to communicate with him through hand motions
that cause me to look like the manager of a
major league baseball team giving
instructions to his pitcher. I can't
understand why Pete doesn't know that
touching my left shoulder means that
Barney's left leg is one millimeter too far
to the left. Or that rubbing my eyes means
to wake Mariah up because the judge is only
two donkeys away from her and she's snoring.
Or that pointing to the ground informs Pete
that Barney's manhood is getting the
attention of all the young people in the
stands, and people are taking pictures of
him in disbelief. All of this is important
information that I feel Pete would surely
want to know, and will love me all the more
for pointing it out. When I do get his
attention (as he's leaving the arena), I get
that oh so familiar look that says, "If you
think you can do better, just come down here
and try!"
The show is over, the judge was either an
idiot because we didn't win or the most
insightful and experienced donkey judge in
North America if we did. Everyone begins to
pack up, say our good-byes, and load our
trailers. The donkeys are ready. They always
know we're going home. They walk straight
through the water puddle that only yesterday
held acid that if touched, dissolved donkeys
whole in less than 30 seconds. They walk
past shadows where only yesterday donkey
eaters lived. We're exhausted as we drive
home, but we enjoy reliving the great time
we just had and the memories we made. We
talk about our donkeys and how proud we are
of them whether they won a ribbon or not. We
cherish these moments of togetherness, Pete
and I, until my bliss is broken when Pete
turns to me and asks, "Isn't the Waco show
in two weeks?" "Yes, dear, and I can hardly
wait"!
