By Laura Kidder

          My coworkers at the office (back when I had a REAL job) used to ask me why I was so taken with horses and the horse life.  They knew that I dreamed of horses all day long at work and then lived them the moment I got home each evening.  “Anything you have to follow around with a shovel is too much work for me!” they would say.

Obviously, they had never pitched a tent on the beach at the ocean, tied their horse to the trailer with a hay bag, and listened to the soul soothing sounds of their horse munching his dinner while the sea gulls cried out, surf rolling in and crashing, soft salty wind blowing across their faces.  They hadn’t thrown a line in the water and reeled in a flounder, built a camp fire on the beach with fragrant pecan wood, sautéed the flounder in butter and had the best meal of their lives.  They hadn’t woke up at dawn the next morning to the sound of sea gulls, watched the sun come up from the soft, warm, furry back of their horse as they rode him bareback down the beach, hooves hitting the sand in a pleasant four-beat rhythm.  They didn’t know how much fun it was to ride out deep into the waves and have a big one knock you off your horse, where it was so easy to get back on because salt water makes them buoyant, and the horse was obviously enjoying it just as much.

Obviously, The Ones Who Don’t Understand had never spent a week camping in the forest with their horses and dogs, a therapeutic combination.  They didn’t know what pleasure truly can be, gliding down the sandy trails on a beautifully gaited horse, beneath the canopy of pine trees in Texas or Tennessee as the dogs lope ahead, eagerly discovering new scent trails and then putting on a show as they plop down in every creek and mud hole they find along the way.  They’ve never climbed a beautiful, Rocky Mountain trail in Colorado and reached its summit to see a stunning snow-covered mountain in the distance, ridden beside powerful, crashing white water rivers, or through a magical, fairy tale Aspen forest with its beautiful white bark and twinkling leaves.  Maybe they’ve never felt like they were a partner with their horse, privy to the things that go on in the forest when Man is not around . . . the bear claw marks on the Aspen trunks, a furry, shy bear scamper across the trail, seeing a doe and her fawn grazing . . . watching a beautiful hawk soar from tree to tree . . . a raccoon angrily scurry up a tree and look down in disapproval  . . . a wise old owl rotate his head as he watches them ride by  . . . a curiously orange marmot sit on a rock and study them . . . an eagle feeding her young . . . a mule deer and elk throw their tails up and run . . .

They don’t know how thrilling life can be to get caught in a summer storm and gallop all the way back to camp, racing the dogs, rain pelting their faces and running into their eyes as they fly on Pegasus down the trails.  Coffee or hot cocoa never tasted so heavenly as that cooked over a campfire while they warmed up afterward, and the winter rides are just as exhilarating, watching the steam rise from the horse’s body, white puffs of air spewing from their nostrils like fire from a dragon’s snout.  Surely they would love the mesmerizing feeling from roasting first the front side of their body, and then the back as they stand in front of a crackling fire and rotate to get warm. 

There simply can’t be a soul alive who wouldn’t thrill in the birth of a newborn foal, watching it stand and nurse for the first time, sitting in the grass nearby and watching it wake from a nap, meander over to where they are sitting and explore their face with their tiny little whiskery muzzle, soft breath, and bright, inquisitive eyes.  Hearing that little tiny, baby foal whinny just makes them smile inside and out, and they would have to marvel at the miracle of four shiny new perfect hooves learning how to handle the terrain, galloping clumsily beside their mothers.

Obviously, The Blessed Ignorant Ones go home at night and watch television, while Those Who Know And Are Afflicted (with the disease of “Horse-itis”) finish cooking supper, feed their families, put them to bed and then go saddle up, ride in the cool, evening air, listening to the crickets, thrilling in the fireflies that light up here and there, marveling that they can actually see their own shadows in the moonlight, dodging skunks and raccoons, and watching the baby calves run circles around their grazing mothers and play fight.

These poor Deprived Ones exude the same enthusiasm about their passions, and I begin to understand their confusion, as I can’t fathom how tennis (watching or being one of two people batting a ball back and forth over a net) could possibly be entertaining.  Baseball falls short, football is an elusive mystery, and watching fast cars zoom around an oval track just leaves me flat.  Golf, I find immensely boring, but I will concede that it doesn’t require the players to carry a shovel!

Obviously, I was born 100 years too late!  In a perfect world, I would have been John Wayne’s daughter – HE would have understood!