The Dream Come True

From the earliest moment I can recall, I wanted a horse.

My favorite toys were little plastic horses, an inflatable plastic horse that I wore completely out (but for months searched the house for its remains, certain that it had to be there somewhere), and broomstick hobby-horses until, of course, I was old enough to ride a bicycle, at which point I imagined that I was riding a horse rather than a bike, keeping my heels properly down and my seat balanced. I dreamt of riding horses, drew pictures of horses and girls riding horses, was dizzied with pleasure even while being utterly unsatisfied with the pony rides at carnivals. At the public library, I read all the Marguerite Henry books about horses (with their charming Wesley Dennis illustrations), all the Walter Farley books about The Black Stallion, and any book that had information about tack, grooming, and training of horses.

Standing in 100-degree (yes, it cooled off a little) heat today, holding the horses' heads for two hours while the farrier trimmed and shod them, with flies trying to get into my ears inspite of the thick coating of insect repellent, and the horses pawing and tossing their heads to try to discourage the flies, the smell of citronella and horse dung and sweat all around, one could wonder if this was what I'd had in mind when I made tiny saddles from scrap leather at 10 years old. Had I taken into consideration that horses smell strongly of sweat, that they bite and kick and try to step on your feet and have brains the size of a walnut? That when they rub their heads against you, it leaves bruises? That when you hold the horse's head while the farrier works on the hind feet, you also have to use the free hand to hold the horse's tail so that he doesn't whack the farrier? Do you think I remembered that childhood dream of owning a horse?

You better believe I did. Because the alternative to all those discomforts would be to NOT have a horse, and that would be miserable indeed. I learned that by the time I was five years old.

However, it's only okay if it's one's own horse. I didn't mind Dink's fidgeting and switching himself back and forth. BUT when I had to hold my friend's mare, Cameo, I quickly ran out of patience as she lurched forward and back, threatened to rear, and finally got "comfortable" leaning on me for balance while the farrier worked on her feet. I'm glad she's not my horse, because I would surely have to kick the shit out of her for such ill behavior.

Between the heat and wrassling with Cameo, I'm exhausted.

Exhausted but elated, as my copies of Time Traveler arrived today, and that's one beautiful book. Mmmmmmm.