We entered a barrel racing competition one weekend and I drew last. They had watered the indoor arena down so it wouldn't be super dusty, but they watered it too much which made the ground hard to run on and by the time it was my turn to go, the ground was looking pretty bad. I ran to the first barrel and right before I turned Mr. T tripped. I could feel his feet fighting to gain back balance but it never came. I was hurling forward towards the ground and I thought, " He's not coming out of this. I need to bail... now." I was almost level to the ground when I let go of the reins and put my hands out to catch myself. Praying that my feet would come out of the stirrups, I landed on all fours and crawled to the fence, afraid that in his attempt to get up I would get kicked in the head. I looked back and could see his body folded over his neck and I gave up hope of him being alive by the time I stood up. But he was. As I rose and turned around he had just gotten up and was shaking his head. I could hear Amy, the announcer, ask if I was okay and I nodded towards the stand. I slowly made my way to him, clasped the reins, and stroked his neck. By the time I stood up, my dad had jumped the fence into the arena, ran across, and was by my side when I got to Mr. T., my mom following right behind him. After making sure I was alright, my parents made turned their attention to Mr. T., just standing there quietly. He seemed okay, so we all walked out of the arena together among applause from the crowd. At the trailer we gave him some Bute, a rub down with cool pack, and walked him around outside for a while. He acted as if nothing happened. Friends and a lot of people we didn't know came over to see if we were okay and to congratulate me on being alive. A fact that I was grateful for. My favorite quote from my mother during this whole ordeal: "...and you didn't even cry!"
Here's a link to the first barrel photo. We haven't decided yet if we want to buy one.
