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.

Free Flow with Horses

     This is the beginning of a free-flow blog post, and I have no idea where it intends to take me.  I only know it will involve horses; because, of course, it will, and it will join the ever-lengthening continuum of equine tales that seem to multiply whether I ask them to or not.  Horses and ponies are forever producing new stories, like furry, four-legged printing presses.

    I have also entered a new era of writing: the AI Era.  Artificial Intelligence has trotted (pun intended) into my creative life, ears pricked (another pun), ready to help.  The last two blogs have had an AI touch, and I plan to continue.  I have always said I needed a critique group and an editor; well, now I have both who don't require snacks or scheduling.  However, don't worry, the ideas, the voice, the direction are still mine.  I am simply using a new tool, like switching from a pencil to a pen that occasionally winks at me.

    So then - free-flow with horses.

    This weekend we held a party to celebrate the fact that I am, quite miraculously, still alive.  A dear friend brought me a coffee mug with a horse on it.  I do not need any more mugs (my cupboard is already a precarious game of ceramic cups,) but since my shoulder rotator cuff was injured a month ago - a pony-induced incident; they were fighting, I didn't move fast enough, gravity won - I have been using my left hand.  That weak hand dropped a mug with sentimental value.  I wasn't even reaching for it.  My friend must have remembered the story, because she arrived with a replacement; a mug featuring the image of a horse I had not thought of in ages: Chester.  He was a bright chestnut Morab with a personality as warm as his coat.  He was a delightful gelding.

                         

    Which leads me to a mystery: why don't I have more geldings?  Statistically they should make up about half of the horse population, yet mares keep showing up like determined door-to-door saleswomen.  Of the seven horses currently on the property, only one is a gelding - Spice, holding the line for his entire gender.

    We have had some wonderfully steady geldings over the years: Chester, of course; Buddy the Arab; Mac, the Shire (who mistrusted most human males, but adored women with the devotion of a Victorian poet;) Shilo, who now lives with his trainer and tries his best, although he failed spectacularly with my husband.  Spice cannot be omitted, although he is less than steady in his temperament.  Also on the list are the Miniatures: Bosley, Shadow, Donny, William and Leonard.  They were all tiny geldings with big opinions.  Yet somehow, mares dominate the farm like a well-organized matriarchal council.

    Bosley, admittedly, was a donation.  So were Buddy and Chester.  In fact Chester was a double donation - first to a Christian horse camp, then to us when he could no longer manage overnight trail rides.  He proved to be a solid partner for my students in our arena.  Then he was diagnosed with Cushing's Disease.  We cared for him until he crossed the rainbow bridge.  He died surrounded by a handful of mourning fans.

    Back to my recent part.  The horses watched us from the lawn - mostly mares, with old Spice representing the geldings.  They looked mildly offended that they were not offered cake.  And I had oodles of cake left.  The confection was cherry flavored, just like my mother used to make.  Plus we had gooey cookies and a few donuts.  I don't need the extra pounds.  I would have happily shared the sugar with the horses if equine nutrition weren't a thing.

    I guess I take better care of my equine's diet than my own.  The goodies remained in my kitchen, not in their tummies.

    It was a lovely party.  Sorry you missed it.  The mares and Spice would have enjoyed seeing you...though mostly, I suspect, in hopes you would drop a cookie.