Best case scenario, that pet is a horse. Here?s why:
I am forever self conscious about revealing my equestrian soul. It certainly isn?t anything I?ve ever had in common with my peers?I can?t name another who spent her adolescent weekends on seven-hour trail rides in the company of exclusively middle-to-old-aged rednecks from South Carolina. ?Even friends who?ve known me for years can?t connect to that part of who I am. So, whenever I?m away from the barn, the pasture and the scent of timothy hay, the girl who loves horses recedes in my character profile until there remains only a vague image of her. It?s as if someone shifts the focus of the lens that will shoot my portrait. Instead of horsewoman, equestrian, etc., I become the girl whose computer background is the photo of her pet; whose car is tagged with an inconspicuous horse sticker; whose closet floor is tempered with dirt knocked off of broken-in-yet-seemingly-retired riding boots. The passion that swells my heart every time my step turns to a barn flickers under the duress of months away from my muse. Well, not exactly?even now as I type about the idea of horses, that adulterated love has shortened my breath. I suppose it is more accurate to say the passion is veiled, rather than to suggest it ?flickers? as if fearful of being cooled by my current removal from its subject.
At the risk of boring whatever unfortunate reader I may have, perhaps I shall endeavor to justify this character trait of mine.
My first memory occurs at age one and one half. It is Valentine?s Day. My mother has gone up the road to my grandfather?s farm; she has been gone all day. As I usually get to go with her, I am rather peeved (as peeved as a toddler can be, I guess). My father and brother have been trying to entertain me, but they like fishing and who really likes fishing? No one. Well, at least not 1-year-old Katie. Anyway, I?ve spent the greater part of the day sulking in the lower branches of our magnolia tree, measuring the leaves against my palm. I distinctly remember my father coming to find me when the shadows were starting to lose their crisp, hard edges. He suggested we all go for a bike ride. To the barn. Knowing now what was in wait for me there, I can?t imagine dawdling as I did on that bike ride. In all of my poutiness, I let the two men of the family outrun me, pedaling as if I couldn?t be bothered. It took me a full thirty minutes to go a quarter mile. A full thirty minutes to get to my first horse.
For the next 17 years of my life, I saw Huckleberry every day. The plucky little brown horse, whose ear tips are now at my eye level, was not only a partner in adventure?I will not attempt to estimate the number of miles he?s carried me?but also a trusted friend. Huckleberry knows me as well as my own mother, if not better (he can tell when I?m in a sour mood). And what?s more, it?s a partnership. A trust must exist between horse and rider in order for them to achieve anything or go anywhere. Huckleberry carried me, always so safely; and for what has essentially been my entire life, I have been responsible for his care.
You know?now that I?ve thought of it, maybe that?s the part people can?t identify with. From an incredibly early age, I was held responsible for this animal, this horse, this Godsend; this living, breathing thing relied on me. Yes. Yes, that must be it. The compassion my first horse, and every subsequent horse, taught me, the compassion for an animal, isn?t something everyone gets. Admittedly, friends who?ve always had pets of their own, dogs especially, seem to relate more than others.
But I think the difference in the horse-Katie and the non-horse-Katie is a selfishness that comes when one is responsible for nothing other than oneself. I?ll not go so far as to generalize this to humanity as a whole, though I am now convinced that animals are a crucial part of the formative years.
I can?t imagine a life without taking care of some animal or another, certainly not without taking care of horses. Hopefully, I?ll never have to.
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