Yesterday, in search of the missing peace, I spent a little time with my horse. Well, with the horse who came with my horse.
My horse, Seven, is a stunning true black Quarterhorse mare with a flowing black mane and tail. She is powerfully built with a "neat" head and huge brown eyes. The moment I saw her three years ago I knew ... it was corny... it was true... it was fate that we met.
And she was a package deal with Colorful.
Now, Colorful is a gentlemanly sort of gelding. He's three times Seven's age, and he's an Anglo Arab. What the heck is that, you ask? Think of him as the guy Scarlett O'Hara wanted to marry, the one who chose Melanie instead. If I could think of his name, that would be good. Suffice it to say that Colorful is no Rhett Butler. And with a name like "Colorful," who could be?
The girls renamed him Two Spot in an attempt to give his manliness a boost, but it was no use. He is trained through-and-through for dressage, and no amount of rodeo name change will alter the scent of this rose.
Weird metaphor mixing aside, he's a nice boy and good to hang out with in the paddock. He leans his dishy head in close for a forehead rub. He lowers his unbelievable eyelashes and gazes at me with soulful brown eyes as though I am the only girl in the paddock. Well, I am. Seven is off at the trainer for a couple of months. Because she's Madeleine's now. There's no stopping the passage of time, and Madeleine and Seven, they're like that. Two peas in a pod, two firey comets shooting through a youthful sky, the whole ball of wax.
Two Spot is nearly twenty, which is middle age in horse years. He's seen a lot, done it all, and is phased by nothing. Sort of like me. (Did I hear a snort?)
So yesterday I was communing with my horse, pondering the fact that my true horse love has chosen to bond instead with my daughter, and that my whole comfort system is a little off right now. When not even the act of pulling weeds in the dewy morning will lift my spirits, we know (mysteriously, like Miss Clavel) something is not right.
Whilst leaning in to the warm shoulder of Two Spot, baby monitor clipped to my pocket, sun shining on my farmgirl bandana head, I leaned just a little too far. My right shoulder contacted the top wire. The one that keeps the horses from reaching over to greener grass, you know, the electrified wire?
The shock of that wire traveled right through me into venerable old Two Spot. He barely flinched, which is more than I can say for me. Maybe I'm not as bomb proof as I thought.