Wildlife welcome

     I was teaching a lesson to one of my adult students.  It was his second time on a horse, and he was still riding with the earnest concentration of someone trying to remember which end is the front.  Suddenly I called, "Whoa," and my ever-compliant mare stopped as if she had been waiting all day for the chance to show off her brakes.

    "Look," I whispered, pointing.

    My student let out a soft, reverent ahh, the kind usually reserved for fireworks or newborn babies.  Two deer minced, yes minced, down the sidewalk of the newest housing development, tip-hoofing into a neighbor's backyard like they were late for a garden party.

    Our acreage has been under siege since the day we moved in.  At first, only a few houses dotted our dead-end street.  Within a year, another side sprouted homes.  Now, the last two borders of our property are in jeopardy.  We are victims of living in an old logging town that is suddenly fashionable because it sits neatly between two major cities.  Humans love convenience.  Wildlife tolerates it.

    New neighbors mean more riding students, but I will always welcome the wild neighbors who wander through.  Over the years, the cast has been varied and delightful - like a nature-themed vaudeville troupe. 

    Birds of every feather visit.  I am especially fond of the ones who nest in the arena rafters and barn beams.  They are my unpaid, highly effective insect-control staff, chirping cheerfully as they work overtime.

    Most years we have bunnies hopping across the property, performing their daily commute.  I haven't seen any this years.  The developer has already cleared the blackberry hedges that framed our land, and the rabbits have apparently unionized and refused to work without proper bramble coverage.

    Earlier this year, a possum ambled across my lawn at dusk, looking like a small, elderly gentleman out for his constitutional.  In years past possums have lived in the barn, and I welcome them.  They keep the rodent population in check, and they never complain about the rent.

    My son, who had property nearby, reported raccoons on his porch.  They never visited me, possibly because the neighborhood cats have established a strict, "No Masked Bandits" policy. 

    Elk don't stay, but they cross behind our property nearly every fall, sweeping through like a migrating parade.  That land is now slated for over a hundred homes, and I am not sure what will happen to the elk with their corridor blocked.  In years past, when they were set to cross the road, the police would halt traffic, and give the herd right-of-way. It felt like the correct level of respect for creatures who look like they could be extras in a mythological epic.

    About a decade ago, a friend who was custodian of the acreage below us came to warn that a cougar had brought down a deer in the back pasture.  We appreciated the heads-up.  Our horses were safe, but the message was clear: nature still had teeth.

    We had leased that cougar territory for years, especially for our Exmoor Ponies.  The Exmoors themselves could qualify as wildlife, just not North America natives.  They are a breed officially categorized as "wild," and they take the designation seriously.  All four of our ponies lived to old age, a beloved shaggy gang of characters.

    When they lived on that pasture, they blended into the wild setting so well that the deer accepted them as honorary members.  I would walk down to check on the ponies and discover I had acquired extra ones - slender, delicate, suspiciously deer-shaped ponies.  They matched the Exmoors' coloring, and made use of the camouflage.  It fooled me.

                                   An Exmoor Pony watching "deer" friends
 

    I believe the deer that the cougar took down would have survived if the Exmoors had still been in residence.  My ponies were fierce protectors of their space, and none of them would have been easy targets.  But the cougar had to eat, too.  I respect that.  I suspect the big cats still linger near the river, though their territory shrinks by the season.

    Coyotes are plentiful. I often hear them singing at night.  It is an enthusiastic, slightly chaotic choir.  I think they will survive the development boom.  They are crafty scavengers.  Once I spotted what I thought was a grey dog enjoying the spoils of an odoriferous tipped garbage can.  Only after I passed did I realize, "That wasn't a dog.  That was a coyote having a lunch buffet in the center of town."  As long as the White River runs nearby, coyotes will find a place to raise their families.  I admire their flexibility.

    The deer are not so lucky.  They will likely be pushed out, though come autumn, they may return to nibble the windfall apples under our tree.  I remember one lazy afternoon when a doe and her half-grown fawn felt so comfortable they lay down under our kitchen window by the tree where they had gorged on the fruit. We tiptoed around the house so as not to disturb their nap.  I still hope they will return.

    Our town is developing.  More people.  Fewer wild animals.

    But on our property, the wild ones are welcome.  Always. 

     

Horse Time

     I glance down at my watch and say, "Time is about up.  One more round of the arena and then it's time to dismount and give your horse a thank-you brush.

    "But I just got here," comes the plaintive reply.

    I understand.  I really do.  Horse time is different from regular time.  It slips through your fingers  like water, fast, fast, fast - so fast you hardly notice the minutes galloping away.  You arrive at the barn, breath in the familiar scent of hay and warm horse, and suddenly an hour has vanished.  Horse time is elastic, unpredictable, and utterly indifferent to clocks.

    At 80, I understand the relativity of time more than ever.  I am not sure where the years have gone; how they managed to sneak past me while I was mucking stalls, tightening girths, or brushing mud off a patient steed, but I do know this: horses have kept me moving, kept me grounded, kept me healthy in body and spirit.  That is the gift they give, quietly and without ceremony.

    But time has a negative side too, one that races faster than Seattle Slew.  Blink, and it's gone.  The moments of delight - those soft nickers, those warm breaths on my cheek, those perfect circles in the arena - flash past so quickly I sometimes wish I could grab them by the tail and hold them still for just a little longer.

    My days revolve around the barn.  Morning feed and scoop.  Mid-afternoon check-in.  Evening rounds before bed.  Unless I have an appointment, I am blissfully oblivious to he clock  More than once I have returned to the house to find my husband looking mildly concerned.  "What took you so long? I was beginning to think you were hurt of something."  I'm flattered he noticed I was missing, though I'm always amused that his concern never quite motivates him to leave the recliner or turn off the television.  For me, time with the horses is meant to be savored.  It is not a time for watching a clock.

    I sympathize with my students.  Their sessions are usually an hour, and if someone is scheduled after them, I do have to enforce that boundary.  But I tend to be generous with the "hour."  I understand their desire to linger.  Horses invite lingering.  They invite presence.  They invite a kind of attention that modern life rarely encourages.

 

    Riding is only a small part of the partnership.  I have spent hours simply being with my horses.  Grooming is soothing for both horse and human, a shared meditation.  I have taken books out to the pasture and read with a horse standing nearby, occasionally nudging me as if to remind me that literature is fine, but carrots are better.  Combining two pleasures (reading and horse companionship,) creates a kind of timelessness.  Time becomes irrelevant, or perhaps it becomes something gentler, something that flows rather than ticks. 

    I have known adults who come to the barn not to ride, but simply to exist in the presence of horses.  Horses are extraordinary listeners.  They don't check clocks.  They don't rush conversations. They don't interrupt.  They simply stand with you, breathing with you, accepting you. I don't believe they understand time in the human sense - except when it comes to meals.

    Horses may not have clocks, but their stomachs certainly do.  If I am late with feeding, I am met with anxious heads hanging over the fence, ears pricked, eyes wide with equine indignation.  But beyond mealtimes, I am not sure horses regard time at all.  Horse time is something they reflect back to us, our own longing for slowness, for connection, for meaning.

    There is one moment when horse time slows to a crawl: when a horse is sick and I'm waiting for the veterinarian.  Recently, Bay went three-legged lame.  I called the vet's office more than once, then waited for the doctor to arrive.  She was on another appointment, and the delay was reasonable, but time stretched unbearably.  Every minute felt like an hour.  Horse time is seldom what I would prefer.

     Many of my horses have lived into their thirties.  That has never been enough time.  Never.  I cling to them, to their familiar faces and steady hearts.  I'm doing that with Bay right now, holding tight to every moment, knowing how precious each one is.

    I remember working in the library.  As much as I enjoyed that job, there were certainly times when I became a clock-watcher, counting the minutes until I could go home.

    Home to horses.  Home to a different kind of time.  Home to a way of measuring life not in minutes or hours, but in heartbeats, hoofbeats, and the quiet companionship of beings who ask nothing more of us than presence.

    Horse time is unlike any other method of counting the minutes, days, and years.  It is the time that has shaped my life, sustained my spirit, and taught me again and again, that the best moments are the ones we allow ourselves to linger in. 

 

     

     

Teeth: The necessary horror show

    Come on.  Be honest.  Is there anyone, anywhere on this spinning planet, who actually enjoys going to the dentist?  I'm not talking about liking your dentist as a person.  Mine have been perfectly pleasant, some even family friends.  But enjoying the experience of reclining helplessly while someone approaches your open mount with metal tools that look like they were borrowed from a medieval torture museum?  No.  Absolutely not.

    And yet, like a dutiful citizen with a survival instinct, I show up.  I know that maintaining teeth is essential to general health, including heart maintenance.  (Nothing says trouble like plaque and arteries.) 

    Horses feel the same way about dentistry.  They may adore the veterinarian, but the moment the dental kit appears, their eyes widen with the same expression I get when my dentist says, "You might feel a little pinch."  Over the years we have learned that equine teeth are extremely important.  If you cannot chew, eating becomes problematic for horses and humans alike.  But horses do not get to cancel their appointments by claiming they might be coming down with something.

    I try to have my horses inspected every six months.  I'm negligent, but no more than any other horse partner who has ever looked at a calendar and thought, "Surely it hasn't been that long."  It has.  It always has. 

    My personal library is full of horse books: fiction, nonfiction, training manuals and memoirs.  However, equine teeth rarely get more than a polite nod.  Most books are far more interested in teaching you how to guess a horse's age by inspecting their teeth.  I have never mastered the trick.  My vets assure me it's more a general guideline anyway, which is comforting because I have never wanted to pry open a horse's mouth and squint at incisors like a fortune teller reading enamel tea leaves. 

    Google, of course, is more informative.  My books vaguely say horses have "about 40 teeth."  About?  Online I learned that male horses can have 40-44 teeth, while females usually have 36-40.  Apparently genetics plays a role, which means some horses are simply over or underachievers in the dental department. 

    I've always been fascinated by the fact that adult horse teeth continue to grow.  Until I lost a molar, I didn't realize human teeth do this too, just not with the same enthusiasm. (I really do like my present dentist who explained this to me.  I just do not like the procedure.  Or the chair.  Or the suction tube that sounds like it's trying to steal my soul.)

    Back in the old days, before the 1990s, when equine dentistry became a specialty, my concern about horse teeth was minimal.  I can't remember why I decided our old Quarter Horse, Jodee, needed her teeth inspected, but I do remember Dr. S. coming out to float her teeth.  He knew her impeccable manners, and decided to treat her without anesthetic.  Then came the moment that still haunts me.

    He grabbed Jodee's tongue and commenced sawing away in her mouth with the files. 

    She tolerated it with long-suffering patience.  I, on the other hand, nearly needed a sedative.

    Then came Spice and his legendary wolf teeth.  When Dr. B. attempted to remove them he grunted under Spice's jaw and said, "I have never seen wolf teeth so large or firmly entrenched in any horse's mouth."

    This is not what you want to hear from a professional holding pliers inside your pony's mouth.

 

    I ended up using a bit-less bridle most of the time. Spice forgave me ordering the extraction, but only because horses are impish saints.

    By the 1990s, equine dentistry had exploded: articles everywhere, specialists popping up like mushrooms after rain.  One lived near us, but his rates were worse that a cardiologist's.  I called Dr B. instead.  He had attended classes and was now equipped for modern equine dentistry.  Bless that man.

    Now my vets arrive with anesthetics, files, drills, headlamps, mirrors and a mouth speculum that looks suspiciously like the one my dentist uses on me - just scaled up to prehistoric herbivore size.  The horse is positioned on a headrest like a patient in a very tall, very judgmental backward dentist's chair.  There are electric tools .  There are sounds.  There are smells.  The whole thing feels like a cross between a spa day and a horror film. 

    Horse teeth don't always get the respect they deserve.  That is changing.  We all need to see a dentist.  I just wish it was more comfortable, and less reminiscent of a scene where someone says, "You might feel a little pinch," right before the soundtrack turns ominous. 

 

     

Gotcha

    Our diligent gardener had never called me before.  She always texted.  This time, she called, and tried hard to stay calm.  It didn't work.  Her voice had the same pitch as someone discovering a raccoon in their pantry wearing their slippers.  

    She had a horse issue.

    Let us rewind.

    My husband had an appointment with the optometrist, and was under the tragic misconception that he would be blinded by dilation drops and require a chauffeur.  Naturally, I was drafted.  As it turned out, the appointment was a quick in-and-out; no drops, no drama.  So we headed to one of our favorite Asian restaurants to pick up food for later in the day.     

    We had already ordered when the gardener called.  My husband was hunched over his check register, tongue slightly out, balancing numbers with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.  His checkbook is sacred territory.  I do not touch it.  I do not breathe near it.

    Our faithful employee breathlessly reported that while she was dumping weeds in the pasture corner, one of the horses bumped the gate and made a break for it.  At the moment, the escapee was in our backyard, blissfully mowing the lawn we had allowed to grow into a lush, three-day, post-rain jungle.

    Our gardener knows weeds, but not horses.  It took a game of Twenty Questions to identify the fugitive.  I already guessed Snickers.  Of course.  She is pushy even on her best days, and she has the moral flexibility of a toddler in a candy aisle. 

 

    Meanwhile, the gardener was explaining, in gasps, that she had to pick up her daughter from the bus stop, and she had waited to long to alert the school she would be late, and she had absolutely no idea how to catch a horse.  She sounded like she was reporting a hostage situation.

    My husband, suddenly cured of selective hearing, perked up.  "Loose horse?"  He looked wildly toward the counter where our food should appear.  His checkbook must have been balanced, because he was no longer guarding it like a dragon with a hoard. 

    I assured the gardener she could leave.  One thing I know: a lone horse who has escaped rarely wants to leave her friends, especially when she is standing in a buffet of premium grass.  We were twenty minutes from home, and the restaurant manager had just assured my husband our food was three minutes from being bagged. 

    In record time, hot sacks in hand, we bolted for the door.  The manager called after us, "Hope you catch your horse!" as if we were heading into battle.

    My husband asked if I needed grain.  No.  Horse treats were my weapon of choice.  I told him he would need to stay with the car.  The horses are not fond of him.  He tends to yell, and they do not appreciate his leadership style.

    We parked to create a slight barrier.  

    There was Snickers, head up, acknowledging us with the smugness of someone who has successfully hacked the system.  Then she went right back to grazing.

    I briskly walked to the barn, careful not to run.  Running is a rookie mistake.  Snickers ignored me on the way across, but when I returned with a halter and rope, she raised her head to lock eyes.  I approached casually like a disinterested observer of local fauna.

    She continued to stare at me.  She fixated on the horse cookie in my hand.  The cookie won.

    She strolled over, took the treat, and while she was still chewing, I slipped the rope around her neck.  She didn't care.  She was focused on my treat-stuffed pocket like a furry pickpocket.  I causally slid the halter over her nose.

    Gotcha! 

    She followed me back to the pasture, belly full, ego inflated, and absolutely certain she had outsmarted the gardener to enjoy a private feast.

    I texted the gardener:  all good, horse retrieved, no casualties.

    Being the wise woman she is, she asked for a lesson on catching a loose horse.  The next day, I showed her the treats, the ropes, the halters, and emphasized the golden rule: never run after a horse.  Strolling is the correct speed.  Preferably with a pocket of horse approved snacks.

    But really, I doubt she will need the lesson.

    My husband has installed a strand of electric fencing across the gate opening.  It should discourage a horse.

    Perhaps.

    Maybe.

    But that grass is very, very green. 

Donny and Splash

      Over my living room sofa hangs a painting of two old horses, and every time I pass beneath it, something in me softens.  A dear friend painted it, her brush somehow catching not just their shapes, but their souls.  A palomino Paint and a tiny Miniature stand dozing before a barn that, like them, has surrendered to time.  Donny and Splash.  Two names that still echo in the tender corners of my heart.

 

                                           Painting by K. Jenness

       They are an unlikely pair, stitched together not by logic, but by some quiet intuition I barely remember making.  Yet, once they were side by side, the world seemed to nod in approval.  Donny and Splash.  They loved each other with the uncomplicated devotion that animals offer so freely, and that humans spend a lifetime trying to deserve. 

    Splash was the elder, born with a hind end that never quite obeyed her.  A horse's power lives in the rear, and she had been shortchanged at birth.  Still, she tried.  She carried riders in her youth, pulled a carriage for a time, and then settled into the role she was born for; my golden-spotted companion, my gentle watcher in the covered arena where the footing was soft and the world was kind.

    Donny, by contrast, was a spark wrapped in a tiny palomino body.  Thirty-two inches of purpose.  He had been our Miniature Horse stallion, but, later, as a gelding, he was also a teacher, a cart-puller, a toddler carrier, a visitor of libraries and nursing homes.  Donny was endlessly willing, and endlessly good.  He was a little horse with a heart that seemed to glow from the inside.

    Why did I pair him with Splash?  Perhaps because Donny loved everyone, especially mares.  Perhaps because he was too small to harm her fragile hindquarters.  Perhaps, because Miniature Horse manure is a blessing to anyone with an "apple picker."  But whatever the reason, the result was something far beyond practicality.

    They became each other's beloved partner.

    Their grooming sessions were a kind of choreography.  Splash would stretch her neck to reach Donny's withers while he worked diligently on her upper leg.  They adjusted for their differences without hesitation, as if love had its own mathematics. 

    When I toss hay, I always plan for disagreements over which pile is superior.  However, I soon learned Donny and Splash shared without quarrel.  Splash, despite her size, never claimed dominance.  She simply made room for her dinner mate.

    On stormy Pacific Northwest days, when the rain blew sideways through the open arena, Donny would tuck himself beneath Splash's belly.  She never minded.  Perhaps she even welcomed the warmth of him under her.  I sometimes wondered if his small body steadied her when the wind pressed too hard.  And on hot days, she offered him the favor of shade in the shadow of her broad, golden-spotted frame.

    Time, as it always does, moved forward.  Splash grew older, her hind end weaker.  Donny, too, began to show the gentle wear of years.

    Some days Splash struggled to rise.  She slept more.  During lessons, she would lift her head from the ground as a lesson horse trotted by, but she no longer bothered to stand.  She was too tired.

    Then the afternoon came when she couldn't rise at all.

    I called the veterinarian.  My students and grandchildren gathered.  My son drove miles to be with her.  Donny stood with us, steadfast and solemn, as Splash began her journey across the Rainbow Bridge.

    Afterward, thinking I was doing him a kindness, I moved Donny to a pasture with his Miniature Horse family.  He ignored them.  He stood as close as he could to Splash's covered body, refusing food, refusing comfort.

    I realized my mistake.  I brought him back to the arena, back to her side.  He nibbled a little hay.  He breathed easier.

    Two days later the rendering truck arrived.  Donny watched as Splash's body was removed. Only when she was gone was he willing to rejoin his herd, though he cried for her.  Horses grieve.  Anyone who has lived among them knows this truth.

    More years passed.  Donny remained remarkable: steady, caring, endlessly willing.  But eventually, his time came too.  It was nearly midnight.  The world was quiet.  He was in my arms when he slipped away, leaving pain behind, and I wept for the little horse who had given so much.

    Through my tears, I whispered to him that he wasn't going to be alone.

    Donny and Splash.  Together again.  Now Splash is strong, and Donny is young and somewhere beyond our sight they are running, manes flying, hooves drumming.  They are two golden spirits finally free of the the weight of time. 

     

     

Paper chase

      My relationship with registration papers has evolved considerably over the years.  At this stage of my life.  I no longer feel compelled to chase down documentation for every horse on the farm.  Of the seven equines I currently care for, three could be registered if I were willing to pursue the paperwork.  I am not.  My priorities have shifted.

    This was not always the case.  When my husband and I acquired our first horses, I was genuinely delighted to learn that they came with papers.  Jodee was a registered Quarter Horse and my heart horse, Splash, was initially registered as a Paint.  Later, I even had Splash double-registered as a pinto.  (Paint horses trace their lineage to Quarter Horses or Thoroughbreds, while pinto registration is based on color rather than breed.)  Splash qualified on both counts and I took pride in that.

    The prevailing theory in the equine world is that registered horses possess greater market value.  This is true in a broad, generalized sense, but the reality is more nuanced.  A horse is only worth as much as a buyer is convinced they are worth.  Registration papers can certainly aid in marketing, and they provide verifiable lineage witch is an asset in breeding programs where genetic predictability matters.  Yet papers alone do not confer quality, temperament, or suitability for a particular rider or purpose.

 

One registered, one unregistered  

 

    Draft horse owners especially, tend to be pragmatic.  Geldings, being outside the breeding pool, are often left unregistered.  My own gelding Shire, Mac, eventually received papers - not as a Shire, but as a dressage competitor.  His value lay in his performance, not his pedigree.

    My enthusiasm once extended to the point of obsession.  Even my little PeeCheeYoureSoCute acquired papers - from a mock registry, no less.  At the time, the symbolism of documentation mattered to me.

    When we were marketing Miniature Horses, registration became a practical necessity.  Most of our minis were registered with the American Miniature Horse Registry (AMHR), which operates in conjunction with the American Shetland Pony Club (ASPC).  The AMHR has two sections.  'A' minis are under 34" with the 'B' animals 34" - 38". The American Miniature Horse Association (AMHA), by contrast, accepts only the smaller, 34" and under, animals.  I used both registries where appropriate.  Although the shorter minis often command higher prices, I have always preferred the slightly larger ones: they present a more balanced appearance in harness.

    My memories of AMHR shows remain fond.  The culture was collegian, supportive, and genuinely enjoyable.  When registering foals, the office staff even noticed my naming pattern.  For example I would call a foal Friend Abby or Friend Leonard, always using the word "Friend."  They kindly asked whether I wanted exclusive rights to "Friend."  I declined.  Generosity seemed more fitting than ownership.

    All of our Exmoor Ponies were registered, not for prestige but for preservation.  Exmoors represent one of the most ancient and genetically significant equine types.  Their rarity makes responsible breeding essential to maintaining the global gene pool.  Although we hoped to contribute foals to the breed, nature had other plans.  the best we could do was provide a  home for the four animals, and do promotional work to inform people about the ponies.  Stewardship, even without breeding, is still meaningful.

    With time, my priorities have changed.  I am no longer inclined to rush paperwork through registries or insure that my name appears on every certificate.  Age, experience, and a shift away from breeding and showing have all contributed to this change.  Registration now feels less like a necessity and more like an optional formality. 

    My most recent acquisitions - a registered Kentucky Mountain Pleasure Horse named Summer, and her unregistered companion pony, Rosie - illustrate this shift.  Summer's papers are in my possession, and she could even be double-registered as a palomino since she is a glorious golden girl. (Palomino is another color registry.) Yet, I have not pursued the transfer of papers.  The friend who sold the horses to me shares my indifference toward paperwork, as neither of us felt compelled to complete the process.

    Rosie, by contrast, has no papers except my bill of sale.  Short of genetic testing, her ancestry is unknowable.  Does this make her less valuable?  Perhaps in a market sense, but Both Summer and Rosie are important to me and my business.  Their worth lies in their work, their presence, and their relationship with me - not on a registry database.

    Registration papers do provide a form of proof of ownership, but only in a limited sense.  I currently hold papers for several horses whose certificates do not bear my name.  The documents exist, but they do not fully reflect the lived reality of care, responsibility, and relationship. 

    In the end, my evolving attitude toward registration mirrors a broader truth: the value of a horse cannot be reduced to lineage charts or official seals.  Papers may document ancestry, but they cannot capture personality, partnership, or the quiet daily work of stewardship.  Those qualities, arguably the most important ones, reside outside the margins of any registry. 

  

Bosley

         I had no intention of adopting him.  None.  I had enough Miniature Horses, enough responsibilities, enough hooves to pick and harnesses to polish.  I certainly didn't need another horse, but...life has a way of slipping small miracles into the spaces where we aren't looking.

    For years I had been teaching horse care, riding, and, somewhat unusually, carriage driving.  It is a niche skill, one not many instructors offer, but the the rise of popularity of Miniature Horses breathed new life into the art.  Most of my students have been children, but more and more adults  had begun seeking the quite partnership that comes from working a harness horse.  I taught many of them, including a woman who had once come to me as a beginner and blossomed into a devoted driver.

    When she called, her voice carried the weight of change.  Life was shifting for her; she needed to downsize.  She had a gelding she was marketing.  Was I interested?

    I told her no.  Firmly.  I had enough driving minis.  I did not need another one. 

    "I'll give him to you," she said gently, as if that might tip the scales.

    It didn't.  Or at least, it shouldn't have.  But then I made the mistake of mentioning the call to our barn manager, Tee.  Tee's eyes lit up like a child hearing sleigh bells.  "Let's go look.  I'll go with you." 

    And so we went.

    There he stood - Bosley.  He was a class "B" Miniature Horse with a pintaloosa blue roan coat that shimmered like storm clouds, and bright blue eyes that seemed to hold their own weather.  He was striking, almost otherworldly.  His papers, once something I chased with enthusiasm, meant little to me now.  His registered name was S&T Spirit of Shaman, but he went by Bosley.  Why?  I never found out.  Somehow, the mystery suited him

    His owner explained that he had been bred and trained for the show ring, but she had never clicked with him.  I wasn't sure I had either.  But Tee?  Tee was smitten.

    We were told buyers were coming that weekend.   I was certain he would be sold.  So, with the kind of careless promise one makes when convinced it will never matter, I said, "Okay, if they don't take him, I will."

      I walked away believing that was the end of it.

    But on Monday, the phone rang.  "I'll be bringing Bosley to you tomorrow," the voice informed me.

    "The people didn't buy him?" I asked, stunned.

    "Oh, I told them not to come.  I want you to have him."

    Tee was ecstatic.  I was bewildered.  Bosley, when he arrived in the back of a converted SUV, looked equally confused, as if he, too, was wondering how fate had shuffled him into this new chapter. 

    However, he settled in with the quiet confidence of a soul who knows he has finally landed where he belongs.

    He became one of the hardest working equines on the property.  He pulled a cart with pride, learned new skills with eagerness, and proved, yet again, that the larger minis are every bit as worthy as their shorter cousins.

                                   

                                                        Pretending to be a unicorn

    He carried small children with a gentleness that made parents exhale.  Before I rolled out of bed, he became the early-morning jogging companion of a professional woman who adored him so much she bought him expensive boots to protect his feet on the town's concrete streets.  Later, she taught him agility, and he took to it with the same earnest heart he brought to everything. 

    He was unflappable - except when he wasn't.  During one parade, we discovered he was terrified of bubbles.  Not horns, not engines, not flags or loud music.  Bubbles.  And goats.  Goats, in his opinion, were suspicious creatures.  We worked with him until both were tolerable, but he never fully trusted either. 

    Bosley became an ambassador.  For years, he attended a festival at the local campus for disabled folks, soaking up attention with a serenity that made him beloved by all.  He
calmed nervous horses, charmed nervous humans, and accepted adoration with the grace of a seasoned celebrity.

    I had not intended to bring Bosley home.  But he became a treasure, one of those rare beings who quietly stitch themselves into the fabric of your life until you can't imagine the weave without them.

    He spent many, many years in my care.  And when he finally crossed the rainbow bridge as an old fellow, he was mourned by many people, including me.

    Some horses arrive because we seek them.  Others arrive because they are meant for us.  Bosley was the latter: a  gift I didn't know I needed, wrapped in blue roan and bright blue eyes.