On my Facebook page this morning, I commented that I’m more at home riding a horse than using a computer. A cousin friend agreed. That started me thinking about the beauty of horses and how the memory of one particular horse will always be with me.
When I was a girl, we lived at the end of a long driveway. We had some cows, pigs, chickens and one horse, a beautiful black quarter horse with a white star in his forehead. His name was Chappo. He was named after a horse in a western song. He actually belonged to my older brother, the same brother who paid for my early piano lessons. Chappo had an exciting beginning. His mother, Bonnie, had been caught in a flood before he was born and was kept from drowning only because my brother managed to get to her and hold her head above the water. Chappo was born a twin and his father was a Palamino. Sadly, his twin, who looked like their sire, died. Chappo the quarter horse lived.
Anyway, Chappo never was “broken” as we think about riding a horse until he knows who’s boss and finally stops bucking. Chappo was a family pet and we rode him when we wanted to. Or, when he decided to let us ride him. If he knew I wanted to go for a ride, he would decide it was a good day to go to the other side of the pasture. Finally, I hit upon a sneaky but workable trick. I held a carrot in one hand, holding it coaxingly in front of me while I did the “come here, horse” whistle. In the hand behind my back, I carried the bridle. When Chappo saw the carrot, up would go that beautiful head, he’d whicker softly and come trotting for a treat. Then, while he ate, I’d slip the bit between his teeth and the bridle over his ears. I was a little too small to heft the saddle up on his back, so I’d lead him to the woodpile, climb up on a chopping block, and scramble on, bareback.
I would try to convince Chappo to go down our long driveway. He’d keep looking back at that tasty green pasture grass but at last we got to where the driveway met the road where I’d turn his head toward home. He started off walking. Next came the trot. A trot is more than a little uncomfortable on a horse’s bare back with nothing between him and me but his backbone. So, I’d lean forward and urge him faster. He would break into a long mile-eating gallop as his legs stretched out and tucked the driveway behind us. The wind blew his mane back and blew my hair into my eyes. I didn’t care. That smooth, fast ride home was worth all the coaxing.
Back at the woodpile, I’d throw my leg over his back and slide off. Then, he’d eagerly trot into the pasture to make up for time lost munching grass with the cows. I’d hang the bridle in the barn until next time. Thanks for the ride, Chappo. After all these years, I miss you still.
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