Jodee

     The name on her registration papers stated: April Star Jodee.  She was the best horse anyone could want.  Her glossy coat shone a dark chocolate brown, with a black mane and tale, and a white star on her forehead.  Jodee was a Quarter Horse.  She had the kindest brown eyes that were mirrors to her gentle, ageless soul.

 

    Steve Mark, and I felt privileged to have her come into our lives.

 

    To a small extent, I believe she has come back to us, even though it is about 15 years since she crossed the rainbow bridge.  I'll get back to why I feel that way. 

 

     Jodee came into our lives because Steve and I decided it was time we acquired horses.  Steve had recently survived a life-threatening accident, when a slash from Devil's Club on his arm became infected.  There is nothing like a stint in the hospital to remind you that life is finite.  What we had intended to do "someday" became "today."

                                                                     Jodee

 

    I began a search for horses.  I think I found the number in The Little Nickel classified ads.  Does anyone else remember that ubiquitous little yellow paper that was stacked for free at every retail outlet?  The paper predated the internet.  Is it still published?  I believe it is online now.

 

    I called local phone numbers and landed on an extension and an address close to us in Kent.  Steve and I, along with a very young Mark, headed out to find a horse, and at the same time we met new friends.  For the purposes of privacy, I won't mention their names, but I will say we met a wonderful couple with children close to Mark's age.  They were life-long riders, and they competed in barrel racing.  Jodee was for sale because her peak racing days were over.  Also on the market was a young Paint palomino filly.  We made arrangements to bring both equines home to Auburn.

 

    I can't remember what we paid for the pair, but whatever it was, it was a bargain.

 

    Even though Splash, the filly, wasn't a year old, she settled into her new home as comfortably and quickly as Jodee who was an old pro at accepting new situations.  Jodee, we quickly realized, was a natural mother.  She had had foals, and although Splash was not her own, Jodee's maternal nature kicked in.  It made the new environment an easy adjustment for both equines.

 

    I promptly began to enjoy Jodee under saddle.  Steve and Mark climbed on in turn.  At first I restricted myself to a sedate walk with an occasional trot, but Jodee, as she would with all her riders, determined when it was time to increase the pace.  She had, after all, been a racer.  However, she was always careful to keep her riders seated. 

 

    Given the many years we partnered with her, I don't ever remember Jodee losing a rider - except once, and that time she lost three in one go.  Jodee had been in her pasture that afternoon when Mark was entertaining a couple of his elementary school friends.  My son coaxed a willing Jodee to the fence, carefully avoiding the top rail where an electric wire ran.  Mark swung himself up on the horse and urged a second boy to follow.  Both boys waved over the third.  That child clambered the fence, the same as the others, but Jodee, without any physical restraints, had angled her hind end away from the fence.  The third youngster had more of a stretch.  As he did the splits to land behind the other two boys, his foot touched the wire. 

 

     Poor Jodee!  The jolt sent her spinning, and three boys unceremoniously hit the dirt.  No one was hurt, but the gentle mare seemed genuinely upset that her patient tolerance had been rewarded with a burst of electricity.

 

    Years Passed.  Jodee became a lesson mount for us.

 

    She would have two foals of her own, but she mothered every foal on the property.  When a young, first-time mother was uncertain of the the procedure with a new baby, Jodee stepped in.

 

    The only creature Jodee mistrusted was dogs.  Probably she had cause.  As a mother, she didn't want those "wolves" messing with her precious babies.

 

    As she aged, and her health deteriorated, Jodee still was a treasure.  At some point we stopped riding her, but her human friends realized she still liked to get out and about.  Most evenings, someone would come to take her on a walk in the neighborhood.  Although we had a halter on her, the rope usually remained in our pocket.

 

    Our veterinarian, at the time, was a crusty chap who had put down many equines.  He knew the drill.  Yet, he fought to keep Jodee alive because he admired the mare.  When the day came to let her go he, too, had tears.

 

    We all knew one of the great ones had left us.

                                                            Jodee

 

    Now, to explain why I think a part of Jodee has come back.

 

    Two new horses are in our pasture.  One is a red roan pinto pony.  The other is a glorious golden gaited mare, only slightly older than Jodee was when she came into our lives.

 

    The reason the palomino girl reminds me of Jodee..? 

 

    It is because a couple of months ago we got a phone call.  The woman on the recording called herself, "a voice from the past."  Indeed.  It was the woman who had sold us Jodee over 30 years ago.  We had lost touch as she and her husband left the state, then returned without our knowledge.  Now a widow, she was back, located only an hour from us, and she thought of us, and took a chance on our old phone number.

 

    We reconnected.  We felt as close as we had when we first met her.  Weeks later she confided that her health was slipping Tentatively, she asked it we would be interested in buying her horses.  We knew her.  We knew any animal of hers would be stellar, and spectacularly well-trained.

 

    So, once again, we have a new brilliant mare, and an adorable pinto pony.  The personalities are not the same; the old pony is not my Splash, and the palomino is not Jodee.

 

    Yet, when I look at the golden mare, and she stares with her remarkable amber eyes, somehow I feel as if a part of Jodee has returned. 

     

     

     

The Way It Used To Be

     Sometimes I feel diminished.  

    I remember the way it used to be, back in the days when we had Miniature Horses, and the freedom to share time with the rest of the world.  today, the minis have crossed the rainbow bridge, and the insurance companies dictate what we can do - which is very, very little.

    There was a time when we visited nursing homes, attended festivals, lectured at libraries, and even marched in parades.  (I admit parades were never my favorite - but anyway...)  For a few years the Puyallup Fair paid us to present our Exmoor Ponies to the public.  That was exhausting, but memorable fun.  We spread the word about our wonderful rare breed animals. 

    It wasn't always the Miniature Horses who were trailered out for day trips.  Our Shire draft horse, Mac, was a special hit with the nursing and assisted living homes.  The minis are adorable, but Mac could brighten the face of many seniors living his or her last years in a facility.  We discovered there was noting like a draft horse to create delight, and bring out memories of days farming with the big animals. 

    Today we don't have a draft horse, any more than a Miniature or an Exmoor.  Bonnie was our last draft and she passed away a year ago.  She never made any outside visits.  I think she would have enjoyed the attention.  Draft horses are big loves.  

    I remember a number of festivals where we were invited at the last moment.  I think it was a Federal Way City festival where I was expected to bring a cart and pony.  A week before the event I suddenly realized that the two minis I had intended to bring were unavailable.  Shadow had come up lame, and Peach was pregnant.  I looked out in the pasture.  I had eight days to train a mini to pull a cart, then present the horse in public.  Mischief, a sorrel pinto, was my candidate.  She was an apt pupil.  She took to driving as if she had been born to it.  (Maybe she was.)  A week later we were surrounded by people and booths in a large park.  Mischief never put a wrong foot forward, after that single, intense week of training. 

    Sometimes the events were more popular than we expected.  On one memorable library visit the librarians realized the crowd exceeded their expectations.  We were asked to move our program outside.  Fortunately, I had enough helpers to manage the three minis who were part of the program we had planned.  I can't recall the other two horses, but I do remember that Peach was with us this time.  She was a bright chestnut, class B Miniature.  (The B indicated she was more than 34 inches, but under 38 inches at the last hair of her mane.)  I think I had completed the story part of the performance when I realized Peach had disappeared.  I could see the student who was supposed to be holding her lead rope, but Peach was invisible.  I peered closer.  There was a mound of children.  And just barely, I spotted a small patch of red fur.

    Peach was completely covered by children!

    And she was patiently standing completely still.  She might even have been enjoying the attention in a bemused sort of way. 

    Horse shows used to be part of our program, too.  Yes, I competed.  I took dressage lessons at Fox Ridge Farm.  Steve took a few lessons, too, although he never entered a show.  I rode my beloved little PeeChee, and later I showed the draft horse, Mac, under saddle.

    But more than my own outside equine activities, my students took part in some of the local horse shows.  They got some treasured ribbons presenting the Miniatures to the public.  I was proud of them.

    Not only do we no longer have the Miniature Horses, nor the draft horses, nor the Exmoor Ponies, but the world has far fewer venues for people to show horses.  Subdivisions have taken many of the places that were once sites for horse events.

    And the insurance company has taken away our right to show our horses in public anyway.  We are restricted to our property, and even than what we can do is extremely limited.

    Talking to an insurance agent, I was told his company blames the lawyers.  

    Whatever.  The United States is a country that points fingers. 

    The bottom line is, people cannot be educated about horses, nor can those of us who own them, share them without Big Brother stepping in. 

    I admit I don't have the energy for the multiple programs that were part of our past, but I would like to think I could pass the torch to others.  Legally, it is doubtful.

    We still attend the Black Diamond Labor Day festivities, as we have done for almost 30 years.  However, gone are the days when we take a mini or two.  Twenty years ago we offered cart rides, and we participated in the parade.  I can still see Donny, our one-time herd stallion, and later our remarkable little gelding, going up and down a series of eight concrete stairs.  I didn't know horses could navigate steps.  Now we participate in the celebration with only a cardboard cut-out horse that looks remarkably like our Arab, Bay.  I hope the insurance adjusters don't decide that is too much. 

    Going to places without a horse in tow is the best we are allowed to do, and sometimes I worry that will be taken away from us, too.

    Yes, I feel diminished, and a little angry - certainly irate.  Horses need to be shared. 

                                                                Peach

    The mission statement at Friendly Horse Acres is: Horses and humans healing each other physically, emotionally and spiritually.  We will fulfill that mission as long as we are permitted. 

     

 

Interview with Spice

 I intend to record this blog as a podcast.  So enjoy what you are reading, and prepare to listen to the recorded version, when I figure out the technology.

Laverne

Welcome, listeners, to the first podcast of Talking Horses.  Today I have a special treat for you.  Spice, the oldest resident equine at Friendly Horse Acres, has agreed to be interviewed.  For those of you who don't know him, Spice is a Welsh/Shetland cross gelding who has served as a mount for over 30 years.  He is a handsome red roan pinto.

Welcome, Spice, and thank you for consenting to talk to me.

Spice

 There are cookies in it for me, right?

Laverne (sotto voce)

We'll talk about it later

Laverne (normal voice)

So thank you, Spice for your service, especially as a therapeutic riding mount.  Have you enjoyed the work?

Spice

Sure, it's good, as long as the work stays interesting.  I'm easily bored.  Going around in endless circles is not my favorite activity.  I like a bit of action at a faster pace.   I'm the kind of guy who enjoys a brisk trot, or better yet, a jolly canter.  I'm an agreeable sort of guy, though, so mostly I just try to get along. 

Laverne

What would you prefer to be doing? 

Spice

Jumping.  I love jumping.  Anything is good.  Rails, barrels, hay bales.  Put a barrier in front of me, and I'll go over it.  I do it for fun, even if I don't have someone urging me.  My complaint about jumping with a rider is the constant repetition.  Come on, people, if you've done it three times, lets move on to something else.  If you stayed on a few times, let's call it good.  I don't give a rip about your form.

Laverne

Anything else you particularly enjoy? 

Spice

Yeah, I do enjoy doing tricks.  I come when I'm called from anywhere if I hear the person, I grin on command, I bow as long as a human bows with me, I climb on a platform and spin slowly and I don't mind a rider running and jumping on my back.  Of course, the rider has to be light.  Oh, and I do give exuberant kisses.

And I do expect to be rewarded.

Speaking of which, about those reward cookie treats...

Laverne (sotto voce)

Later.

Laverne (normal voice)

Any special memories?

Spice

That Halloween soon after I came to the farm was a blast.  You had advertised a haunted barn, and after scaring people inside the barn, they were routed out of the arena to the back lawn.  They didn't know the biggest scare was outside.  I was under a sheet, and along with a couple of students in costume, and you, too, we burst out from behind a wall of hay and chased them, screaming, out of the arena.  I love to create chaos.  Too bad we never did it again. 

Laverne

Is life good for you?

Spice

I'm pretty content.  The food is good, the attention is adequate, and the mares are a bonus.  Also, I like the treats.  About the treats...

Laverne (quickly)

Any not so good times?

Spice

Well, a year ago,  last spring didn't start off very well.  I couldn't eat enough to keep my weight, and my winter coat didn't want to shed off.  You thought it was my teeth, but that was only part of my problem.  You had to call in a new vet because Dr Bob retired.  I liked her.  She was pretty gentle with her needles, and she took her time doing the dental.  The needles hardly hurt.

Turns out I have cushing's disease, but there are some pills for it.  Nasty pills.  You tried to force them down me with the pill pockets for horses, but you can't fool me.  I spat them back on you.  Serves you right. Those treats could fool the other horses, but not me.  Then you dissolved the pills in mash, but I eventually got wise to that.  For awhile the new vet said I was doing okay, and the weight came on.  This spring she said I was not swallowing enough.  Now you are hiding the pills in Fig Newtons.  So far, so good.

Laverne 

Any dislikes?

Spice

Dogs.  I hate dogs.  Your little mutt is the worst.  I run him out of my territory.

Laverne

Anything you would like to add?

Spice

If you can't lose twenty pounds, stay off my back.

And about those treats.

Laverne 

Ummm

Laverne (sotto voce)

Shh about the treats.  Later.

Laverne

Thank you, Spice, and thank you, folks, for joining us for this podcast of Talking Horses.  Please join us next time.

Fading voice imploring, "Spice, get out of my pocket.  You'll get the treats."

Moods

         "They are not machines,"  I warn my students.  Every horse or pony is different, and they all have moods.  I know I have days when I feel frisky, and days when I am a little blue - especially as I get older.  Okay, I am old.  Anyway, horses are the same as people.  They have moods.  They are sometimes happy,  they are usually content, but they do have days when they are angry or depressed.

    I am not sure why the concept that horses have feelings is hard to grasp, but it sure is true.  If they have personalities, it stands to reason that they will have moods.

    I have met many horse people who protest that they wouldn't own a mare.  "Too moody," they proclaim.  Well, I'm fond of mares, and most of my horses are female.  I've had geldings, of course, and we have even had a few stallions, but mares seem to come my way.  Have I found that mares are moody?  I'm not sure.  I do think they have a lot of personality, but perhaps I am biased.  I'm a female myself.  I have noticed by geldings are characters.  The stallions we have had have been delightful.  All the horses have more good days than bad.

    But, bad days happen.

    Take Rain, a pinto mare, who is usually the most complacent and loving of animals.  She is the one I place with beginners.  She is a lets-get-along type.  However, notice the word 'usually.'  I do remember the lesson where she was suddenly explosive (fortunately before she had a rider).  She bucked and pulled at the end of a rope.  Controlling her was the same as a youngster with a temper tantrum.  Why was she suddenly misbehaving?  To this day I don't really have a clear idea.  I think I made an excuse that she was probably in heat, but since that has never happened before, or since, I can only chalk her behavior to a random mood. 

    Spice is a gelding.  I used to claim that he dumps 50 percent of his riders 50 percent of the time.  He has mellowed a little with age, and that statistic no longer stands.  His behavior is not malicious, just mischievous. Spice is a jokester.  Like most comedians, he has a high IQ.  He likes to outsmart his riders.  This is not necessarily a mood thing.  He is always thinking.  Having said that, I have seen him lose his temper.  Spice is a firm believer that a rider is a partner, and as in any good partnership, both parties have a say in the relationship.  I had on rider who decided she was the boss.  Period.  For a lesson and a half Spice put up with her.  Finally, he lost his patience.  He bucked until she was on the ground.  (Bucking, other than a little crow hop, is not in Spice's normal repertoire.  He likes to fishtail, testing a rider's balance.)  Normally, when he loses a rider, he returns to the fallen human to check on them, to encourage them to get back on him.  In fact, after he has made the point that he can lose them, he becomes a more mellow fellow.  This rider was different, though.  He dumped her, and retreated to a corner of the arena as far from her as possible.  He stayed there until I had dusted off my student, made sure only her pride was hurt, and informed her she wasn't a good match for Spice.  Pushed too far, it is apparent Spice has a temper.

    Spice is not the only equine sensitive to his rider.  I am not the first person to notice that horses will often reflect our own moods. Many years ago, when Friendly Horse Acres was not yet a nonprofit, we hired a wonderful young trainer.  She became a dear friend.  As well as working for us, she showed her own horse in her final years of high school.  She was active in 4-H.

    She appeared very depressed on one particular occasion, and I inquired, "What's going on?"

    "My horse just isn't cooperating.  He behaves perfectly at home, but as soon as we get in the show ring, he loses focus and forgets everything."

    I thought, then asked, "Do you like showing?"

    "I did a few years ago, but now it's just a lot of pressure."

    I think I grinned.  "So you don't enjoy it anymore, and neither does your horse.  Is that a surprise?" 

    She understood at once.  Her horse was reflecting her own mood.  That is something horses do, too.

    They also have squabbles with each other. I've seen horses that groom and play with each other decide they have had enough of the other animal.  Using horse body language, they say, "Give me some space."  Woe to the pasture mate who is not paying attention.  Later, they will be buddies again.

    As a horse caretaker, it is important that I am aware of my horses' moods.  A horse that becomes exceptionally quiet, contrary to their normal nature, may be sick.  I actually appreciate a horse who lets me know they are not feeling well.  Since quines are prey animals they may try to hide an illness.   The sick animal in the wild herd is the one to get eaten.  Buddy had cancer and a heart condition.  He did his best to hide it until he was too ill to be saved.  Bay, on the other hand, has mastered the sad puppy eye.  She comes for help and looks pathetic.  Fortunately most of my horses are like Bay, just not as dramatic.

                                                                     Bay

    On the other hand, a frisky horse is a happy horse.  I especially remember waking on a cold winter morning to hear, and then see, the horses playing in the new snow.  they were obviously enjoying themselves.  Later, as the winter progressed, they became less enamored of the cold, but that first snowfall was greeted with delight. 

    Horses have their emotional ups and downs.  They are thinking, feeling creatures, very similar emotionally to humans.  When we form a relationship with a horse we need to be sensitive to the animal's moods.  Some horses are more consistent that others, but even the most reliable of equines is going to have a bad day, or a silly day, or a blue day.

    So, to the people who expect a horse to be exactly the same everyday, I can only say: Get a bicycle, or take up motocross.

 

 

Haunted Barn

     I have a theory that ghosts are left-over energy. I've heard them, even when I have not seen them.

    Are our barns haunted?  I believe so.  Perhaps my definition of haunting isn't quite the same as that of the ghost hunters on TV.  (I won't be calling them to inspect our property.)  My husband is a fan of all the shows that follow people in so-called scary situations, but I'm a skeptic.  Those shows look staged to me.  I don't find my barns frightening, but maybe they are to someone not as familiar with them.  After living on this property for over 30 years, I can attest that the barns, especially the main barn, are haunted, and they probably appear like ghost hunter terrain to some folks.

    We are in the process of renewing our farm insurance.  Usually the process is only a case of adjusting a few numbers, but this time the insurance company requested we refill a bunch of forms - pages of them.  They also wanted pictures of the hours and the two barns.  The demand made me have a good look at the buildings, especially the barns.  Although we had them painted a few years ago, they are looking weathered.  I know those buildings are about 50 or 60 years old, but still. ...

    If the exterior is looking worn, the interior is not better.  The inside of the main barn shows its age.  Only the tack room, in the original, smaller barn, is not to disreputable, but that is because my husband and father re-paneled the area.  They did a fantastic job, and the room is still the attractive, if cluttered. 

    But the rest of the barns, well, it has never been too great.  At one point we took advantage of the appearance.  We promoted an event for the community before Halloween.  The barn was advertised as haunted.

    Before we started to decorate, I mentioned to a young neighbor boy who had been helping us with the feeding when my husband and I were at work.  In the winter, that occasionally meant he had to be in the barn at dusk.  When we said we were going to advertise a haunted barn, he muttered, "Won't take much.  It's already spooky." 

    Now, this isn't going to be an Halloween blog, and I don't think that boy meant that the barn is haunted.  However, it is.  All year 'round.

    I don't see ghosts in the barn.  I hear the sound of my horses - the horses who have passed away.  Recently we lost a draft horse, a huge ton of loving mare.  Bonnie greeted me from a stall as soon as I walked in the barn.  Her neigh was a deep rumble in keeping with her prodigious size.  I heard her before I saw her when she was alive.  Now there is no Bonnie to see, but many days and nights I still hear her.

    Other horses make themselves known.  Me beloved pony, Peecheeyouresocute, called PeeChee, still makes herself heard.  Little Donny, our Miniature Horse stallion, is audible to me, hooves scampering down the aisle of the main barn,  Buddy, the Arab, occasionally stomps in the first stall at the entrance to the barn.  William shuffles about in the next stall.

    And there are others.  since we have been in business in one way or another for over 40 years, it makes sense that we have lost a lot of horses.  Most of them lived to old age, at least into their 20s.

    I'm not sure how I know which horse is the ghost, but my brain will say, "That's Skeeter or Flax or Peach.  Yet, I will hear a sound, and they are with me.

    Neffy (Nefertiti), was a catty little cat, and she was my cat - her choice.  She was an indoor/outdoor cat back before the huge subdivision grew by us.  In those days we were at the end of the road with trees and pasture around most of the property.  The area was ideal hunting for a canny little cat.  She used all her nine lives, and made herself useful every day.  She cuddled with me, but no one else.  Even then she was a hunter.  I used to point out that I wasn't sure she knew how to retract her claws.  When she crossed the rainbow bridge, her presence was felt in the barn, and sometimes in the house.  For a short time her brother, Toot, was around, too, but he didn't stay long.  I heard him in the hay loft.   

    The barns are the main source of ghosts, but the house has one persistent presence, and that is our last cat, Boyd.  Boyd was a 15 lb Manx.  He lived his last years in the house because the new subdivision
produced traffic - lots of traffic.  Boyd didn't have car sense.  However, when I insisted he become a house cat, he wasn't upset.  He settled in, content to chase crochet balls of yarn.  (He hid his favorite purple ball, and I still haven't located it.)  He spent his evenings cuddling beside me.  Although he and the dog, Snickerdoodle, were not friends, I would consider them close frenemies.  They took comfort in the company of each other, especially when the humans were absent.  Boyd's kidneys failed him a few years ago, but he haunts the house.  Even Snickerdoodle notices.  The dog often looks for his cat companion, then seems to find him.  I don't see Boyd, but perhaps Snickerdoodle does.

    I want to go back to my theory that ghosts are energy.  The first law of thermodynamics, which has to do with conservation of energy states: Energy can change forms, but is neither created not destroyed. 

    My companion animals including cats, dogs, horses and birds have strong personalities.  If their energy cannot be destroyed, it is somewhere.  I believe a lot of it is in our old barns.

    I have one more example of ghosts as energy, and it has nothing to do with death.

    Years ago, when we were preparing to move from Auburn to Buckley, I stood in my treasured wooded backyard.  Moving is traumatic, even if it is positive.  Suddenly, that afternoon, that yard was full of ghosts, only all of them were still alive at the time.  I heard myself telling my parents I was pregnant, I heard the arrival of our first two horses, I heard our son playing with his remote controlled cars, I heard moments of love.  There were many, many haunting memories, tumbling over each other.  In fact, on that occasion, I even saw images, as the memories came.  Good memories all.  Ghosts of the living, but energy left over from past strong emotions.

    So, if my barn is haunted, so be it.  I don't mind.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story

     My short story Update: Morph, had a beginning in a dream.  Yup, a real I'm-asleep-dreaming dream.  I often remember my dreams, but rarely are they coherent or particularly interesting.  Well, this dream sure was interesting, at least to me, and it made coherent sense.

    I recall waking up several years ago thinking,  "Wow, I've got to write that one down."  I admit, the story, as I eventually wrote it, has a lot more detail than a 10-15 minute dream.  Also, the actual dream ended with the arrival of the police officer.

    Many elements of the dream are very much a part of my own life.  The horses, the dressage, even the cat/s are bits that anyone who knows me will recognize.  My son had transformer toys.  Some people will even recognize the car.  I'll write more about that a little farther along.

    The end segment of the actual dream annoyed me, because I definitely was enjoying this particular dream.  It struck me as something my imagination had grabbed, and put into my subconscious so I wouldn't forget it.  I had not wanted it to end.  Dreaming it was like reading an excellent tale, or watching a film, and enjoying it immensely.  The end was a disappointment because, well, I didn't want it to end, and I sure didn't like it finishing with the car being forced to its original form.  I seldom wake up angry, but that cop had me more than irked.  He didn't get it!  My horse was a car!  My car was a horse!

    So, I wrote the story, and gave it an end, one that pleased me.  I did submit a version of my work to my college extension writing class, and a number of students said the ending frightened them.  Interesting.  Just proves writers don't always know how their stories will strike other folks, because I had intended nothing scary.  In fact, I found my story rather comforting.     

    Now this particular work was on my computer for a number of years, and it went through many, many tweaks.  In fact, the version that appears here, in my blog, is different from the document I used to type it into the blog formatting, and even more different from the story I presented to my writing class.

    Perhaps the biggest change, though, is the model of the car, from Tesla to Galloway.  As I got ready to publish it here, I found myself surrounded by different times.  The culture of the United States has changed.  When we bought our Tesla in 2019, we were environmentally conscious.  My husband and I were showing we cared about the environment, and we were taking our stance against the gas companies.  Our family was among the first half dozen in the town to have an EV with self-driving capabilities.  We were also purchasing a car that was noted for its safety, especially in regard to senior drivers like us.  The AARP had highly recommended it.  (I wonder if they still do.)  Anyway, I've been in the car when it has been threatened.  Some careless driver was coming out of a side street, barreling along with no regard to other traffic.  We were nearly t-boned.  The Tesla flashed red on the dashboard, blared an alarm, and if my husband hadn't immediately jammed the brakes to prevent the thoughtless driver from ramming my passenger door; the car was ready to stop itself.  To quote the young man who went with us on our demo drive, "Teslas don't like to get hit."  I realize accidents happen, no systems are perfect.  But in our case, the car was out to protect us.  I like that.

    Tesla Motors keeps updating their cars to that our 2019 model has the same bells, whistles and features as the 2025 models.  Other EVs, as far as I know, do not offer this feature.  What you buy is what you get, even with an electric Corvette (I asked), but not with a Tesla connected to Wi-Fi.

    No, we are not selling our Tesla.  It continues to keep us safe, and it doesn't use gas.  If we sold it, someone else would be driving it, anyway.  I'm fond of Amenadiel, and he is not responsible for a CEO who has gone off the tracks of sanity.  (Yes, we named our care Amenadiel.)  To protect it from vandalism, we felt the necessity to purchase a couple of decals.  We didn't want to be too antagonistic, but we did want to get our point across.  We chose the message "Vintage Tesla.  Pre-Madness Edition."  So far, so good.  Amenadiel remains unmolested.

    Anyway, I decided I didn't want Update: Morph to get tangled in politics, or magnetized decals, so I chose to change the name of the motor company.  I've always enjoyed research.  My criteria was high.  I wanted my car to be for women, designed by a woman, and I wanted it to be based  on reality.  I didn't have to look far, nor was the search hard.

    Almost immediately, thanks to Google, I found a woman automotive engineer, Dorothee Pullinger, who was instrumental in creating a car for women after the First World War.  Further, the workforce at Galloway Motors was largely women, at Dorothee's urging.  The Galloway was produced from 1920 until 1928.  The company was located in Scotland, and that appealed to my own Scottish heritage.  I like all the information except the fact that the Galloway is no more.  However, in my world of the future, Galloway Motors still exists, and has evolved into an automotive giant.

    So Isaac, a fictional cousin to Amenadiel, came into existence as a Galloway.

    Isaac is a car - who purrs, and can do dressage.

    I have dreams for Amenadiel.

Update: Morph conclusion

 Ready for the end of my story?  Here it is! See Part one for the first half.  Enjoy, and feel free to comment.

 

                                                Update:  Morph  (conclusion)

 

    "Isaac, it's too bad you can't be a horse.  A horse could get us out of this mess." 

    "A horse is possible," Isaac said.

    What?  What?  What?  Obviously I hadn't heard correctly.  I inhaled and held my breath.  As if it was a horse who sensed the rider's sudden tension, the Galloway stopped moving, ignoring the choreographed movement flowing about it.

    Then my car twisted, shuddered, moaned.  The fender-bender that had slowed us was nothing to the crunching and deterioration of my old car.  I pictured parts scattered on the pavement with me standing, bewildered, in a puddle of metallic bits of a wrecked Isaac.  I began to panic in earnest.  I meant to yell, but all I could force from my throat was a soprano squeak. 

    But even before I could imagine the worst, I felt myself levitating, my driver's seat jerking erratically as it curved below me into a padded barrel.  The sunroof was retracting, leaving me exposed to the wind and direct sunlight.  I was sitting in a saddle.  A saddle?  Not quite the dressage saddle I had owned for years; more like an Australian saddle, with a very high pommel, complete with a small driver's panel, and the music still played. Do Your Thing.  Really?  For a brief moment I wondered if my car had developed a twisted sense of humor, but I had a more immediate concern.

    I became Ms. Obvious, "Isaac, you're a horse."

    "Is that acceptable?"

    "Perfect," I sputtered.  The whole transition had taken less than ten minutes.  The traffic continued to revolve with us as a stationary member of the chorus.

    Isaac was a glossy blue-black giant of a horse, almost a Fresien, with a lot of Percheron.  The steering wheel had become unused reins, draped over the pommel/panel.  Behind the saddle's cantle spread a huge, powerful rump with an incongruous identification chip at the base of a glossy black tail.  He had humongous black hooves with silver shoes.

    I had always had a preference for ponies or exceptionally large horses.  Isaac most definitely fit the latter category.  We towered over the rest of the traffic.  I might be wearing my barn jacket, but I didn't have my helmet, and I lacked a seat belt.  No matter.  This was Isaac.  He would keep me safe.  The Galloway Model 3 had always been one of the safest cars on the road.  After all, it had been designed by a woman automotive engineer especially for women.  And riding used to be as natural to me as walking.

 

Image by Angie Blanchard

 

    I squeezed with my legs, and realized that Isaac wouldn't understand body ques.  He was a machine, after all.  "Isaac, let's get to my appointment the fastest route you can find."

    Isaac began to maneuver around the other vehicles, moving forward as they reversed.  We wove and twisted.  When we came to the offending crashed cars, I was met with gaping drivers; stupid men in skinny jeans and stenciled t-shirts advertising Exxon.  (One of those defunct oil companies, I think.)  They were trying for a retro look, obviously.  The wrecked cars were hunks of metal out of the Twentieth Century. If their voices were any indication, only their cars were injured.  We passed, and the two men went back to arguing with each other.  Horses were only moderately interesting since these idiots had major concerns of their own.

    Isaac pounded the pavement, his tempo exact with each footfall.  The road was completely open.  My car/mount sped into an Olympic extended trot.  His gait was smooth, and it felt like an Icelandic's amazing tolt.  I couldn't remember  riding being this easy.  Why had I forgotten how wonderful it was to feel a powerful horse beneath me?  It was puppies and sunshine and birthday cake and foals in a verdant pasture, and the touch of a beloved companion.  I had forgotten.  For years partnering with a horse had been why I got up in the morning.

    Again I rode.  Although I was mounted on a mechanical creation, I thought I smelled the musty odor of horse sweat.  The wind blew, and my short, gray hair became thoroughly tousled.  I forgot about where I was going, or why.  Isaac  was singing about Joy, and time was an unimportant dimension.  The perfume of hyacinths, and freshly mown grass reached my olfactory receptors.  A horse has incredible fragrance advantages over an enclosed car.

    We were again flowing with traffic, but Isaac kept pace.  He could have passed, but we were following the rules of the road.  I was breathing deep in my chest, not thinking about where I was going.  I was in the "now" and now was fine.  The world was a place of limitless wonder.  How had I forgotten?  Sit straight.  Relax into the heels, and allow the rhythm of the mount to become the only motion the body needs.  Muscle memory clicked into place.

    Abruptly, Isaac pulled over to the side of the road, and halted, each leg in perfect square alignment.  My senses lurched.  I didn't want this waking dream to end. 

    "Isaac, why are we stopping?"

    "Authorities, behind us."

    I checked my rear-view screen on the saddle's pommel.  A police sedan flashed red and blue lights circling the vehicle.

    Now what?

    I swiveled to watch a young, holographic officer materialize from the car.  He was probably sitting in a police station across the city, but I saw a figure of a freckle-faced man, too young, in my opinion, to be an authority figure.  Was he trying for an Opie look?  Did he have a fixation on Ron Howard in  The Andy Griffith Show?  I didn't find the look reassuring if that had been the intention.

    The holo peered up at me, "Ma'am, you can't ride your horse on the public road.  Please turn your music down.  (Isaac was just starting Walk On By.  More EV humor?)

    I glared at the cop, "This is not a horse.  It's a Galloway."  Isaac lowered the volume.

    "Ma'am, I can see it's a horse."

    I held my tongue, biting it and hoping I didn't start spitting blood.  That wouldn't do much for my case.  I repeated, "It's a Galloway Model 3.  A Galloway is a car."  The I thought further, "Hold on, I've got the registration papers."  I fumbled for documents, realizing I wasn't sure where to find the glove compartment in the saddle, or even where the glove compartment would be hidden.  Later, I would realized that I was so flustered, I hadn't ordered him to check the nearly invisible ID chip.  I had reacted as if I had been driving twenty years ago, when registration and insurance were printed.  He looked like a character from pre-streaming, and he had me leaving my brain in a time-warp.

    "Ma'am, this is not a car.  The public roads are for motorized vehicles."

    "Damn it, Isaac is a car!  A Galloway.  Old Model 3."

    The holo showed no emotion, and no reaction to my lack of patience.  Who knew what the real officer was doing sitting behind his terminal in a police station.  Maybe he wasn't even at a police station.  Maybe he was in his pajamas in his family breakfast nook.

    "You need to be in a registered vehicle, Ma'am."

    Double damn.  I couldn't figure out how to access my documents.  Undoubtedly that had been in the information I hadn't taken time to access when the update finished.

    The cop had every reason to believe he was dealing with a case of lunacy.  I had to do something.

    "Isaac, can you change back into a car?"

    "Of course." 

    "Stand back, " I ordered the cop.  "We're about to get wider and lower."  Not that space mattered to an hologram.

    The shuddering returned, but this time I wasn't worried about the destruction of my ride.  My beautiful horse was about to become a beloved, but very mundane old EV.  Once again, I sat behind the driver's wheel with my seat belt snuggly in place.

    I glared at the officer.  "See.  Car."

    He wasn't looking at me, but gazing off at some screen I couldn't' see. His expression was still neutral, as if a horse becoming a car was a common traffic occurrence.

    Then he looked at me, "Ma'am, I have to apologize.  Sometimes we don't get these updates promptly.  Galloway Motors has notified us of the new Morph update.  I'm sorry for the inconvenience.  Be safe, and enjoy the rest of your day."

    In convenience?!  Inconvenience, you holographic cousin of a toaster!  I was too busy breathing to shout at the disappearing image as it faded, and his car swiveled, driverless, in front of us. 

    What to do?  We were late, late, late.  I was about to notify the doctor's office when I glanced at the charge icon on my screen.  "Isaac, your battery is low."

    "Apologies.  The Morph application needs more configurations.  That will happen with future updates.  For now, the ability to morph is a major drain on energy.  Let me reassure you this will improve with future tweaks."

    "You hardly have enough charge to get to the clinic.  What if a charging station isn't available?"

    "Checking."

    More minutes passes as I tapped on the mostly decorative steering wheel.

    "I would not be able to charge until much later this morning.  Based on that information, and the fact that we would be over an hour late, I have rescheduled your appointment.  The office was already aware of the traffic accident, and they have agreed to see you tomorrow morning at the same time without financial penalty.  If that does not meet with your approval, I will link with them again."

    "Not necessary.  Thank you, Isaac.  You've done well.  Let's go home."

    I leaned back, and took a deep breath, suddenly aware that I had had a conversation with my car.  I had thanked him (it?), and I felt  like I had made a real connection.  Should I be worried?  I wasn't.  In fact, I felt mellow.  Artificial emotional intelligence struck me as a plus, not a threat. 

    "The Look of Love," Isaac crooned.  The song had always been a favorite, although its tempo was difficult to match with a dressage horse.

    I saw no more accidents, and I settled into the the driver's seat, as I realized that, even though the trip had been less than successful, I was content.  No stress.  Isaac was looking out for me, and even if the car was just a car (or was it?), I didn't care.  Was it an accident Isaac was still crooning The Look of Love as we bumped into the garage? 

    Outside the car, I inserted the nozzle into the charging port.

    A message flashed on my eye-d from the clinic, "Based on you bio signs, your appointment to the clinic has been canceled."  For the briefest moment I felt disappointed.  Why?

    I glanced over at Isaac.  I had been looking forward to practicing my dressage!  I wanted to ride!  I wanted to team up with a horse, even if that horse was a machine.  It didn't matter.  I was sure Isaac was capable of upper level movements.  I would get out the old dressage tests, and Isaac could accompany himself in a free style.  He would match any tempo.  Riding him would take the sport to a new level.  I would contact Galloway Motors and ask them to add touch sensors allowing me to control my mount with my legs, and weight shifts for light steering.

    The charger was rapidly refreshing the batteries. 

    I nearly tripped on the single cement step leading to the house patio.  The stumble made me pause.  I glanced over at my car, and on impulse said, "Isaac, please assume any shape that will make you most comfortable."  I didn't expect a reaction.  The thought was ridiculous, the urge of a woman who talked to inanimate objects.

    I gasped.  My car was morphing.  I watched as the vehicle clattered and shook, and metal came apart and reassembled.  This change appeared to be even faster than the previous two.

    Isaac lay before me, a gigantic blue-black cat complete with wire whiskers. The charger was an extension of his curled tail.

    I stared, reluctant to leave the garage, but finally I turned to go into the house.  That is when I heard it, a steady bass-baritone rumble, sustained, because there was no need for breath.

    Isaac purred.