She stands 16.2 hands tall at her withers. There are four inches to a hand so that’s a little over five feet. She is dark bay in color, black mane and tail, with a smudge of white on her face, off to the left and slightly visible underneath her forelock. She has beautiful brown eyes that gleam with intelligence. She is not a perfect physical specimen. Her back slopes, she carries her head too high, she has an old injury that makes her stiff on her right side. But she is a competitive athlete and she likes to win. I love that about her. That isn’t a spirit you can teach, you either have it or you don’t. We can teach her to jump differently, to do yoga, to stretch and strengthen, to learn how to be patient. But love of the game is already there. Some of what I love is her physical energy, her need for speed, for fresh air, for food, for companionship. Same as me. And some of it is her spiritual energy, her psychic connection to that other place, that world of mystery that calls to me like a homing beacon.
I felt it the moment I met her. We were in L.A. at a horse show. Our trainer wanted her for my daughter. She saw something in her, that elusive combination of qualities, ability and heart. She was scrappy and fought hard to keep the jumps up, to be quick for the professional showing her. My daughter tried her in the warm up ring later, cantering her up to a four foot vertical and loping over it like she was stepping over a curb. She jumped like a deer, not technically correct or efficient, but she compensated for her unconventional style by clearing the jump by a foot. Afterwards my daughter walked her back to the barn where she was stabled, and we followed, me riding pillion behind our trainer on her moped. She was already in the crossties being untacked when we arrived. She was still breathing hard, tired from the long hot day and her exertions, but her ears were up and she was looking at me as I approached. I held my hand out low and she sniffed, taking in my scent. She was calm, seemed accepting of her lot in life. But her eyes searched mine for a connection, and I fell into them.
She has been my horse for just over two years. She wasn’t well trained enough for my daughter when we bought her. We have competed at shows and gone on trail rides at home. She is equally brave wherever we are. Jumping anything in front of her in an arena, blood up and trying to pull me forward faster and faster. Or watching deer bound away that we startled in the forest, her ears flicking back at me, listening to my silent cue to stand still, though her heart was thumping under my legs. We have hung out in her stall where I have spent long hours grooming her. I massage her shoulders, the length of her back, in between her ribs, the feel of her warm body under my hands solid and comforting, her soft coat like velvet sliding through my fingers. When I hit a sore spot, or she’s had enough she pins her ears and snaps her head in my direction. I understand. I wish I could pin my ears and show my teeth when I want to be left alone. I’ve let her graze while the sun dries her coat in the summer after a bath, her tail swishing the flies away, the rhythmic grinding of her teeth like a lullaby. I’ve hung my torso over pasture fences and just watched her be free, as free as a domesticated horse athlete can be. Just the sight of her soothes me. When I stand with my back to her stall door she rests her chin on my shoulder, blowing softly in my ear. “I love you,” she says.
Now my daughter is riding her, showing her, in her last season before going to college. I only ride her occasionally, on my daughter’s off days. I miss her. But I get to see her and talk to her almost every day when I’m at the barn. And occasionally I get to ride her and we both enjoy the reunion. But she has a new job to do at the moment. And so do I. She understands. She takes her responsibility very seriously, and I can see she feels proud to carry my daughter. But I heard her call to me from the pasture the other day as she saw me drive out. “I miss you too!” she whinnied.
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