Icebergs

This is not the post I wanted to write, but it’s probably the one I need to write, right now.

First, let’s start with something more pleasant; that way if you don’t want to deal with the unpleasantness, it will be easier to walk away, and I won’t judge.

Anyway, here’s the Pinto Icelandic I bought last week:

The first store had two, but I didn’t like either one; the second store only had this one, and he was… actually pretty nice! Usually when there’s only one model left out of a shipment, that means there’s something wrong with it, but I couldn’t find anything amiss with him.

While I am fortunate that I have a lot of store to choose Breyers from, I also have to compete with an almost equally large number of collectors in the area. In other words, the numerical advantage is often lost, and whatever I find is as much a matter of luck as anything else. 

My tastes are also pretty eclectic, so even if what I want is not present, I usually find something worthwhile. As anybody who has wandered the halls of the Clarion with me has discovered.

Iceland has been a source of fascination for me for several years – I have a couple translations of the Icelandic Eddas in my to-be-read pile, still unopened – but my attempts to learn a little bit of Icelandic (or even fake an accent of it) have failed, so I I’m going to call him “Spotty Iceberg” just because it’s close enough and it could pass as an actual show name, if I ever get a chance to live show again.

I don’t even have any space for him at the moment, though. The house and the office are a mess, and right now I am also a mess, and this makes as good a segue as any to the unpleasant part. 

When I saw that the comments for my second BreyerFest post entered the double digits, I suspected that things had taken a turn for the worse, and they had. 

I will not dress this up in pretty or clever words, or make this weakness of mine a strength (or whatever such nonsense those self-help books are trying to peddle). 

Yes, I am jealous. I have always been jealous person. I acknowledge that it is my greatest failing. I am very much my Grandmother Julia’s grandchild: she was a woman who had exceedingly good taste and who could grow a rose bush from a popsicle stick, but a woman so consumed by jealousy of her children – and particularly her talented middle child, my mother – that she damaged them all emotionally, and profoundly. 

Nature? Nurture? A little bit of both? Does not matter. I am jealous person, and I hate myself for it. 

For a second year in a row I found myself alone in my basement, and this year I had to watch other people having a good time in the company of other model horse people. While I did get to “participate” in BreyerFest this year, my part was done several months ago, in the solitude of my basement and in the small hours of the day. Nobody in my real-life circle of friends, family and coworkers knew what I was talking about when I was discussing my challenges or frustrations with it. Or particularly cared. 

(My boss did, a little, but I barely see her because of my current schedule.)

I live 11.5 hours away and I knew it was never going to happen anyway; I haven’t been to the factory since 1992, when the sample room was little more than a walk-in closet. Whether it will ever happen again is a mystery to me; all I know is that it will not be soon. 

I suppose this is also a good a time as any to reveal another reason why I have not been so good at controlling my emotions lately. As some of you may know, I revealed on Model Horse Blab on Saturday that Vita has been unwell.

That word, in itself, is a kindness: she’s been losing the ability to walk, and it’s very likely that she has Degenerative Myelopathy. They can only confirm it with an autopsy, but she has all the symptoms and it’s something that’s been documented with Wirehaired Fox Terriers. 

It’s been progressing very rapidly over the course of the past couple of months, and while she’s not in any pain, it makes me so sad to see her struggle. She’s always been so independent, and she gets mad when we try to help her up the stairs or into bed. 

And I cry because there’s nothing I can do to help her. Alone in the basement, at night, with only plastic horses to keep me company.  

Sorry to get so heavy there. Something lighter and happier next time, I promise.