Homecoming

I have been having trouble lately, but don't tell anyone, especially the wolves. The whole world has been kind of slanted, and sometimes I slant with it, and sometimes I have to scramble for it to straighten out. Mother has been giving me lots of cookies and extra attention, and has had the vet come out to see me several times, and given me shots. But nothing fixes this.

It is very depressing. I would look to Mother for help, and all she had to offer was cookies.

Then, Mother lead me out to the back field, and Aunt Nancy came along with us. It seemed a strange place for an exam, but sometimes in the past Mother had me trot in hand for the doctor... with so much grass out here, maybe she needed me to demonstrate my eating!

She gave me a shot, which I thought was like normal sedation (which, I must be honest, I really like), but I found myself feeling really woozy instead, like the times when I had surgery.

The next thing I knew, I was dreaming. I don't remember dreaming with my other surgeries, but it must have been a dream because I was drifting above Mother and Aunt Nancy and a very handsome grey horse which I realized looked an awful lot like me. Mother was leaning over the grey horse and I saw she was crying as she ran her hands over his body, and gentle touches around his face.

When I woke up I found myself in a large and beautiful field that stretched as far as I could see, filled with many horses. There was a lovely flowing stream so clear you could see the pebbled bottom. I looked at all the horses around me in the field; some were frolicking, some grazing, some rolling in the grass, while a few dozed quietly in the shade of a large oak tree. To my surprise, I knew many of these horses, and I saw my own father, and other horses I had known but hadn't seen in a very long time, and some I don't remember having met but who I seemed to simply know, if you know what I mean.

Every horse was at their most beautiful. Perfectly muscled, perfect feet, nobody seemed lame or even old. I noticed that my leg, which had been bothering me so, was as perfect as if I was a young horse. I couldn't help but run, leap, and buck, reveling in my strength again! Whatever Aunt Nancy had done to fix my bad joint, she had done a great job. And nothing about the world was crooked. Everything was straight. I took off galloping and galloping and galloping.

I saw that Spirit Horse was galloping along with me, and I stopped glorying in my ability to just run and run, and started looking around... and I remembered then: MOTHER. Spirit Horse, after all, was who had told me to choose Mother... where was she?

I slowed and started looking around me. Really looking. I noticed something odd about some of my companions in the field. While all were in their prime, fit and strong and seemingly perfect, I saw some were not quite perfect. They were missing chunks of their manes. I asked Spirit Horse why.

He merely turned his great head and gazed at a pretty mare across the meadow who was one of the ones missing mane. I saw a human approach her, the mare nickering delightedly, and the human hugged her around her neck. As the human held up her hand, the mane hair clutched in it touched the horse, and the mare was once again perfect. The human swung up onto the mare's back, and they cantered over the rise and out of sight.

I asked Spirit Horse where my human was. Would Mother come for me like that? He nudged my neck, and I realized I, too was missing some mane hair. Not like when Mother chopped all of it off over a few burrs, but a small swath like the mare whose human came for her. I was filled with happiness, because that means Mother will come for me.

So, it has been some time since I have been in this field, and it is wonderful. There aren't any flies or prickly bushes or burrs or rocks that hurt hooves, just grass and fresh water and ancient shade trees and horses. I spend my days grazing and grooming with friends, galloping and loafing by turns. Everyday is a perfect sunny day, although when I think it has been perhaps too sunny, a cloud will blow across the sun, and even a gentle rain shower may pass when I would just have hoped for one. Everything is so nice, I almost don't remember any other life.

From time to time a human comes, but so far it has not been Mother. There are times though, when my mane is blowing in the breeze and I see the piece missing, and I think of Mother. I know I will see her again, since Spirit Horse promised me. So I am filled with happiness.

And after these times, when I have thought of Mother and go back to my grazing, I always find some Mrs. Pastures cookies, nestled in the grass.

Cookies... Yumm!!!

Harsh Realities

Instead of playing with me on this glorious weekend (well, glorious until the rain started, anyway), Mother was off ghost sitting. And Corgi sitting. And Manatee sitting, Melon sitting, and Jack Russel Terrorist sitting, but worst of all, she spent many minutes giving cookies and hay and water to other horses!

One of them she claims is very near and dear to her heart. She laments that she can't bring him home to retire him, as she is short of funds. He still is ride-able, and small jumps occasionally, but his people would be happy for Mother to have him, giving him an easier life and them more stall room.

I wish she would bring him here... I would chase him and batter him and show him and Mother that I am the most important horse!

I mean really, how can she take this seriously? Look at him! What a doofus! That tree isn't hiding him.

And he's afraid of cameras! All Mother does is take pictures with that little flashy thing. And clippers, and you know Mother spends lots of time managing my surplus hair with the clippers. He could never make her happy the way I do... I'm sure she doesn't want to ride or pet on him, just because she's known him for 18 years and taught him to jump many years ago and blah blah blah.

I am the important one, Mother. Don't you forget!

A Younger Me

Mother found this on her deceased camera. It is from her second visit to my old ND home. She still hadn't really decided to commit to me and was taking videos and making comments to review later. I had already visited with Mother a bit that day, so was comfortable with her just walking up like this.

Note right before Mother moves my forelock, it is actually as long as my nostrils. Sigh. I miss it sometimes.
 

Once I really met Mother, ie she pet me that summer day on her first visit , I knew she was my person. I just had to wait while she figured it out. The second day of that autumn trip, she brought one of the hay women with her. I wouldn't let them near me. When Mother approached by herself, I was happy to visit with her; then the other human could come up. I was like that for a really long time, weeks actually, using Mother as my buffer, until I realized that humans were not going to eat me, and are (mostly) OK.

Freedom for Comfort: Stalls

Recycled photo from last summer

Domestication requires many tradeoffs. Well, really just one, that all the others fall under: Freedom for Comfort.

In today's Freedom for Comfort installment, I'm going to tell you a little more about one of  humans' favorite Freedom-takers, the Stall.

Stalls are creepy for reasons other than the obvious lack of mobility. Most of them have solid parts up to nearly wither height, so when you are eating your hay you have to keep raising your head up to look about and make sure there are no predators at hand. Not all stalls are like that, though...

One of the hospitals I went to had a door (and a ceiling-to-floor window) that was barred, and you could still look for predators, even when you were laying down. That was nice.

Rood + Riddle Equine Hospital. Stock photo. Horse in stall is not me.

The barn with the groundhog had nice gaps between the boards between my stall and Jay's, which I thought was great. And when I came home from surgery, my stall at Aunt Marilyn's was a sectioned off part of the run-in, with two windows into the barn, so I could talk to and groom the Badger mares, and a half wall into the rest of the run in, so I could chat with Belle.

Photo from 2008. Gosh, that was a long time ago! Look how dark my face was. And note my beautiful Jeanie mare on the right... sigh.

The gate was a pipe gate with wire grid, so it was really see-throughable, and the stall was a double wide, so a lot better than normal stalls. Actually, when I lived at Uncle Jeff's, if I wasn't out with Snap my stall was a double wide there, too. That's the way I prefer if I have to be in a stall.

Another creepy thing about all too many stalls is that you can't touch anyone else. It's just you, and your own company, and four walls, and if there is no food left... I mean what do you want me to do? I could go mad in there like that! Like when I went to Equine Affair, there was nothing to look at. Solid walls on three sides, and a green wall past the front. I could smell and hear other horses, but I couldn't see anybody. Well, at times I could see the mule next to me's lower limbs and/or ears, as she attempted to scale the wall to get in with me. She didn't like the isolation, either. (Fortunately Mother spent a lot of time right outside the door with Aunt Karin, and when they were there I could put my head out and see others, and Mother took me out many times a day to graze or lunge or just walk around.)

By this point, you are wondering why any intelligent horse would be willing to subject themselves to a stall. Stalls aren't all bad. I mean, when I first met shavings, I was in love. So warm and comfortable in cold weather, compared to laying out on the frosty ground. And no backsplash! And it is convenient to have food and water right at hand. There's no bad weather, although sometimes odd noises.

To sum it up:

• Stalls are more likely to have food
• Stalls always have water
• Stalls are more likely to be shady in summer
• No one chases you when you are in a stall
• Stalls don't have rocks in them to trip on or hurt your feet
• There is no ice in stalls, or if there is it's just on your water bucket and the humans will come by several times a day to remove it and make sure your water is nice and warm
• Stalls in summer have a cooling breeze box, which Mother calls a "fan"
• In winter, there are less cold breezes in a stall

On the other hand, without a stall:

• You can see all around you at all times, or walk to a place you can see all around you at all times
• You can warm up by running about if you are cold
• You can huddle next to your herdmates for warmth, like penguins

From my old Nokota home. None of these horses is me. The one kind of reminds me of my mother, though. My horse mother, not Mother Mother.

• You can reach out and touch someone anytime you want (but the way the barn is set up at Aunt Marilyn's you can reach through the windows and confer, so that is not such a  strong point in favor of freedom... hmmm)
• You can scavenge for food over a broader area than a stall offers
• Fresh air and lovely landscape. If you're in a stall with poor maid service, it is way, way less than ideal
• You have freedom! You can do whatever you want, whenever you want, as long as what you want is there in the environment. Which all too often, it's not...

So, I suppose I have already shown you who is the Winner: Domestication

Of course, I have a triple wide bedded run-in on an acre with my Belle. Best of both worlds, although I wish I had more like 278 acres.

Oh, well.

Terror-ble Treats

The other evening, after a pretty good day ~ nice brushing, good dinner, etc. etc., I was out munching on my hay, when Mother came out to give me my goodbye kiss and treats.

Usually she carries the Herballs in her hand, or in a pocket, I suppose, and a few times even in a bag, but this time she was holding a small plastic container. OK.

She kissed me on my schnozzle, and as she straightened up and offered her hand holding the treats, I heard it:

Tat tat TAt TATAT Tat.

SNAKE!!!RATTLESNAKE!!!!!

I leapt backwards a horse's length, spun around, leapt one more stride then spun around again to spot the rattler and to check on Mother's welfare. After all, I did just kind of leave her there when I heard the shake of his scales.

If I didn't know better, it almost sounded like it was coming from Mother.

Mother looked pained. Oh, no! Was she bitten? Then I realized it was because she was trying not to laugh. Not the reaction I was expecting...

She advanced toward me, right over the place where the snake obviously had to be, and I heard the subtle rustle of the rattle again as Mother moved. She offered me a few treats. I was concerned, and ready to run if the snake made it's location known, but I ate the Herballs.

Mother then proceeded to Belle, where I swear I heard the rattler again (Is it following Mother?), but Belle seemed unruffled as she accepted a few treats. Mother made her way back to me. I regarded the whole situation with suspicion, but finished up the treats she offered.

Mother reassured me it was OK, she only had treats, that the sound was coming from the Herballs in the plastic container moving about. Um, no. Are you trying to train me that rattlesnakes have treats?!?
I don't think so.

It was a very stressful experience.

Mother laughs that "You can take the horse out of the feral, but you can't take the feral out of the horse". Um, I believe you are using an adjective as a noun, and anyway, that's not being feral, that's just good common sense to stay away from rattlesnakes. I have no idea what she is talking about. And her saying that there are no rattlesnakes where we live is just plain foolhardy.

You can never be too cautious.

Just a walk in the park...

 Mother found a beautiful online representation of our ride...

Hippo in the Park ~ Leslie Sealey

She found out about the artist on the Riding Aside blog, and then went to HippoHoopla! for more giggles...

I am not sure if I am amused or offended. The George Washington is quite august, and the Spanish Riding Hippo is quite athletic, but still... hmmm.

I wonder what hippo cookies taste like.

Alternate Universe

I had a lot of time while Mother was away to spend daydreaming and thinking on my life. Soak up sun, dream... think about things.

Mother says there are many things I could have done. Now, she says I am only good as a model...

Hmmph.

Well, I think they should at least be interesting models... Like, if an artist wanted a good example of a war horse for a Civil War statue.

Mother thinks I would make a good broodmare model. I resent that.

I think I would be a great headless horseman model.

Oh, wait, the rider is supposed to be the headless one? Scratch that idea.

But in the course of my daydreams this week, I found myself thinking in the human way, WHAT IF...?!

I would have done so many things. I am naturally balanced...

I could have done dressage... you just try to move big and look pretty, right?

But I wouldn't want to always stay in an arena... there's so much to do outside!

Eventing!... can't you just see me galloping up to the fences?

Or endurance... you just try to cover ground at a pace you can maintain forever, right? I was bred for that!

Barrel racing... I'm not sure I see the point of running around in circles just to end up where you started, but I do like to fly...

I think I could do some cow work...

I even would be willing to give William Pendelton's family a nod, and try some three gaited. I've got the mane now, after all. Mother thinks I'm hopeless, but if I had really applied myself, maybe...

Ah, well... they are just day dreams, after all.

When Mother met me in North Dakota, she put her arm over my back and showed me thoughts of us galloping through green fields, jumping over things. I didn't know what they meant, but we looked happy in them; I knew Mother was the human I needed. She told a friend later that it was funny, when she did that with Devlin Pony, he felt happy, and eager to learn... when she did it with me, she felt from me confusion and a sort of emptiness, but peace. I had no other way to tell her about my bad joint, but she understands now I was trying to tell her I couldn't really do those things. But I was always happy to be with her, and I would try.

Mother says the best thing about me is I have always done everything she has asked of me. It's not my fault I can't really do anything with my bad leg. But I was willing to try...

She is the best cookie and care human I could wish for. She still sees ME.

I have other legs, you know

I am usually a very stoic sort. I've had three surgeries, after all, and Mother calls me a "tough old bird". She sounds admiring when she says it, but it doesn't really sound as dignified and appealing as I know I am.

While I am tough, I have a confession:

My feet hurt. They're not hot, and my blood isn't racing in them, but they seem to hurt. I don't like to walk on them. My legs feel stiff and heavy.

Lying down feels better, but if I stay down wolves will get me. So I am napping a little longer, but not too long.

Mother seems concerned, which is good. She says I am not showing the typical signs of laminitis, like heat, pulse and stance, but some of the early signs are there. My diet has not changed. There are no noxious plants in my field (as if I would eat them!). She has been talking to the vets. She gave me some of the yummy powder. She said I will see one of them tomorrow, unless I have more trouble tonight.

Maybe they'll sedate me? I really like sedation!

Long Distance Dedication

Mother often reads Brays of Our Lives, written by Fenway Bartholomule. When Fenway was having trouble with his leg, his resourceful FarmWife decided to raise funds for his veterinary needs by offering custom poetry. Mother requested a poem for me, which I think turned out quite nicely. 

Mother is still off crying somewhere.

If you would like commissioned poetry of your own, or just wish to admire more of FarmWife's efforts,  you can find her and Fenway's poetry here.

I am Boyfriend, I am Loved

by Fenway Bartholomule

Some friends are loved for ribbons won

Or miles travelled, running.

Some horses earn a lifetime’s keep

By donning tack and jumping.

Still others carry little tots 

With legs and hands a-thumping. 

I do not win, I cannot breed, my bloodlines end with me

Yet I am loved—Oh how I’m loved! I’m loved for being me.

I am Boyfriend, I am loved

For every heartfelt reason. 

I do not race a record mile, 

Nor travel in show season.

I’m loved for me—for who I am!

For what I give to her.

My human loves me just for me,

As I love her for her.

My leg is shot, I shan’t grow sound, 

I’ll never stand to labor,

Yet every day my human comes

And thanks me for my favor.

The favor of my company,

The wisdom I impart.

I play, I teach, I learn, I seek—

And love with all my heart.

I’m beautiful, I’m clever too,

I’m physically quite grand,

I’m sweet and smart and brave,  it’s true, 

but please do understand:

I am not loved for how I look, for with what strength I surge—

My mother loves me just for me, as I love her for her. 

Now I need to commission a poem about how much I love Mrs. Pastures... YUMM!!

Keeping up appearances

I work very hard to maintain my image.

I am a leader. It is important to have the respect of your subordinates. I try to fulfill my duties with decorum and grace.

Most of the time.

Mother just had to go and dig up this old picture. 

She thinks it is funny. Hey, running a herd takes work. It can't always be pretty.

Pride and Prejudice

I have been disfigured! Look, look, it's clearly visible!

 What do you mean, you can't see it? Stop looking at my fat donkey in the background. Look at me!

See it? You can hardly miss it. Mother, in her questionable human wisdom, had me wear my fly mask. It is a black, funny film that goes all over my face and down my nose. It also has tight yet strangely stretchy tubes that trouble my ears.

I told her I didn't want to wear it. She was insistent, and I acquiesced. Well the bottom moved around on my poor little schnozzle all night as I chewed, chewed, chewed out in the pasture. 

I got a rub spot. 

As if that wasn't bad enough... NOW look at me!

Pink Swat, too? Aren't I allowed just a little pride, a little dignity? Has she no shame?

No discretion? 

Sigh. She'll probably try to say that, on my dark skin, it looks purple.

But I know the truth...

Le Dauphin

Mother may have discovered my true name!

Mother often laments that my name is Boyfriend, because apparently other humans think it is kind of a funny name for a horse. She spent the first few months that she owned me trying other words, but none of them was my name, if you know what I mean.  I tolerate Bif because that is what so many people call me. Uncle Jeff called me Nokota and I answered to that, because it was technically correct.

So, last night Mother was running her hand over me and she kept brushing off lots of little grit. It made her think of dolphins, who continually shed their skins to be fast fast fast, and she remembered there is a royal title named the Dauphin. It happens to be French, like my real name. So she tried calling me Dauphin, and I knew she was talking about me! It's about time she realizes my true status.

Of course, she'll probably just keep calling me Boyfriend, because she sounds a little strange and pretentious, and her lips look funny when she tries to pronounce Dauphin.

As long as she brings me cookies, either name is acceptable. And yes, that is pronounced "EYE-ther". I'm royalty, after all.

The Alien Spaceship

Hi. I'm the interloper. I mean cousin.

 I am a Nokota, just like Boyfriend.

My name is... well, actually I'm a bit confused on that part. I'm Coyote, Blue Man, Little Man, Raising Cain, Romeo, Romies, or Soldier. Aunt Mommie mostly calls me Romeo, Romies or Soldier.

Aunt Mommie is who Boyfriend calls Mother. I want to call her Mother, too, but she says I can't. So I call her Aunt Mommie, and remain hopeful.

Boyfriend very begrudgingly, I mean graciously, let me use his blog tonight so I could tell you about my weekend at the Alien Spaceship. That's how Aunt Mommie described it to some people:
Imagine you're on an alien spaceship. You only know the alien guide who is leading you around, and she provides you with good food and has never injured you, and you've never been hurt when you've been around her. So when you walk around this spaceship and there are hundreds of 500-fanged 6-limbed monsters (with 8 eyes on stalks), you just don't look around at anything but your guide. You're just looking for a clear spot you can walk through, and you follow your guide. Of course, if you saw one of those monsters in your own home, you'd have a terror-filled walleyed fit.
I did not see any monsters quite like that, but I saw things that defied explanation.

We were actually at what the humans called Equine Affaire. We arrived and stayed in stalls with LOTS of other horses around, all sizes, and some strange animals that I think were horses, but I'm not entirely sure. Aunt Mommie made sure I got out from time to time, to walk around and stretch my legs and eat grass. I saw things on those walks I will never forget. There was even a train on rails way above the ground. A lot of times, we just stood around and posed for pictures.

I saw what I thought were itty bitty foals that weren't foals (their legs were too short). One was pulling a human behind it in a bizarre contraption. The more I walked around, the more weirdness I saw. There were creepy fat snakey cables on the ground, and most everywhere we walked was hard, hard ground. There were gigantic horses, and black horses covered in shiny tin, and horses that spun and spun for no reason I could see.  There were painted horses, and little horses that floated alongside young humans like ghostly leashless dogs, and enormous balls that bounced alongside humans. There were humans in every place I looked, and some were in moving chairs or loud contraptions, and little humans were pushed around in more wheeled contraptions. There were horses whose hooves trit-trotted over the ground so quickly I was dizzy. Over it all, the odd smell of sugar and grease overwhelmed everything. I just followed Aunt Mommie.

On one walk, we went into one of the huge buildings, into a small little fenced paddock, and I was pet by many small humans, and everyone stared at me, while Hay Man's voice boomed out much louder and stranger than I'd ever heard it.

The longer he talked, the more people came over. Lots of little humans... it's something about being blue, I think...

She rode me, too in that strange place, "just for an outing", with lots of humans around. I'd never been ridden anyplace like that, especially not with so many humans around. All weekend, humans everywhere!!

We did a strange talk in a big ring with humans rising almost to the ceiling, and my cousins were ridden around, while I walked along the fence with Aunt Mommie, and stopped to get pet by children (that's what Aunt Mommie says is the proper word for human larvae). Aunt Mommie is waiting to get more pictures of that part; I am trying to forget all that happened!

Aunt Mommie was very proud of me. I should say so! That was a very strange place! I was very happy to be back home again.

Aunt Mommie says it was very important what I did, letting people know more about Nokota horses, and how affectionate and sensible we can be. I don't know about all that. I just think humans are nice when they pet me, and there was nothing to be afraid of up there. If anything wanted to attack something, it would have gone for one of the gazillion humans around~ I am so fast, it would never have caught me!

And it would have tripped over all those humans before it could get anywhere close to me, anyway.

Interview with Mother

Owning Boyfriend is a joy and a curse.

Watching a six year old, very newly castrated, hardly halter broken horse leery of most people (and frightened of most things a normal horse can take in stride) transform into a self composed, barn favorite, friendly to all, magnificent and intelligent horse... well, I imagine it's a bit how a parent feels.

He's been smacked twice by me for a nip, in two years. He is graceful, always conscious of people around him, and next to never offers violence. I trust him more than is wise.

He has lovely ground manners. He is beautiful to look at. He is my joy and my heart.

He has cost thousands and thousands upon thousands for several surgeries and related vet bills, trailering, etc. I could have purchased a REALLY nice horse ready to event, especially in this economy. Ah, hindsight...

I can not ride Bif anymore. I barely had him started under saddle: walk, trot, trail and a few canters when I realized there was definitely something not quite right. I couldn't quite place my finger on it.

One of the best surgeons in the country went in to remove the bone cyst that was visible on the digital radiographs. After he performed the surgery, the cyst being the least of the problems, he told me there was nothing but pasture for Bif, and even then how long he'll be comfortable is uncertain. He has a degenerating stifle joint, with cartilage that is rippled and cracking down to the bone surface. It actually will cause more bone cysts to form. Every movement increases the amount of deterioration. The little cheese grater that is his joint has already started shredding his meniscus from both sides.

The doctor said that he was surprised by how bad the joint was when he got in there; Boyfriend didn't present with the degree of lameness he would have expected for the degree of malformation. I attribute it to both the joint supplement he'd been on for 8 months already by that point, and the fact that he is a "tough old bird", with a very high pain tolerance.

None of it is genetic, neither his face or the stifle joint, just good old fashioned bad luck.

He is comfortable now, as far as I can tell. He gets a comprehensive supplement for his joint, Smartflex Repair. He also gets SmartPak's Smart TLC, which is a non-pharmaceutical pain relief probably as strong as bute, without the unwanted gastric problems and other unfavorable effects.

So, that is the horse that is Boyfriend:

A horse that I chose, despite a pus crusted face from an infected tooth, because he chose me.

Surgery on a face, and months of twice daily detested cleanings, weeks living with his vet, CT scan and surgery again. Not a bit head shy, ever.

The joy of going from a horse that had never had its feet touched, much less held, days of just touching the feet, shifting the weight off it, days of lifting it marginally, of holding it just a second or two; to one who happily holds the next one up as you go around to pick. I can't describe the pride I felt when my six year old did that the first time. Six years of range horse instinct.

A horse that for months would only eat Hilton Herballs, or the beloved Mrs. Pastures cookies, but wouldn't touch any other treat, carrot, apple, you name it. He has finally broadened his tastes.

He can stand quietly in crossties for hours, if needed.

He will watch me, seemingly all the time. Contorting himself if necessary to see where I go as I move about the barn. It is gratifying to be the center of someone's universe.

I'm in the loft to throw his hay. He looks up at me, right in the eye, head craned back and body tilted, waiting... OK, he will do that for anyone in the loft. It is TOO cute.

He hates supplements and I soak his grain just right to get him to eat them all and not waste... sigh...

I watch him rest the bad leg more and more, and worry and wonder. I fear that he will suffer more than I know. Will he let me know before it is too bad? Will he just be irrevocably three legged one day?

Boyfriend has been such a blessing. A chance for me to stretch my skills working with unsocialized horses. I've had horses with somewhat limited human contact before him, and turned them out nicely. I have no desire to go as far as an aged BLM caught horse, which is a good thing to know about yourself, too! Limits. I turned out a very nicely mannered horse in Bif. Granted, he's an exceptionally nice tempered animal, I'm not a total glutton for punishment. But I know that my instincts, my basic fundamental belief and system of how to train and work around and educate a horse is sound. That is a gift he has given me.

That I can not take that challenge to the furthest extent, in the saddle and in competition, is perhaps a gift, too. I need to go back to school, get a higher degree, expand my self in other areas, not just in my horse life.

Thanks, Boyfriend, for another great year. I hope for many more with you.


With love,
Mother

Welcome to my world

I am Boyfriend. This is my chance to tell how I came to be, and how I am still here.

Boyfriend is what Mother calls me, but most people find that too embarrassing, so you can call me Bif. When I say Mother, I mean my human, but that is how she refers to herself, "Mother", so I go along with it. No one is brave enough to point out to Mother the inappropriateness of naming a horse Boyfriend and then that that same horse should view her as mother. That is at least two kinds of wrong. Maybe three. Math isn't my strong suit. Rest assured though, our relationship is 100% agape.*

I have, over the two years of our lives together, taken to using her technological devices. In the beginning, I didn't understand that she could use that tiny black flippy plastic box to communicate to other humans. Horses don't need those. We talk with our minds. Why complicate things? I knew she wasn't speaking to me (well, it took a few funny incidents, I admit), but I didn't understand that some other human far away in the world was physically hearing her, and that is why Mother was talking. Since then, I call people, they call me, I send and receive emails. She mutters about the cost of Wi-Fi down at the barn and how I must keep the keyboard under my mats and that is why I sometimes paw them up. Silly human, I don't need a keyboard. I mean, really, that is just silly. My hooves are too big for the keys and my tongue isn't nearly as limber as that. No, I use the power of my mind to express my wishes, and they are put into print. And I am trying to reach Jay's hay under the wall.

Hey, it's no weirder than radio waves. Besides, the willing suspension of disbelief is crucial to a well rounded sense of humor.

Why, you may ask, am I special? It is not my grasp of technology... lots of horses write blogs. I am special because... well, in part because I am holey. Or at least in some ways that's how my specialness is revealed to people.

Every horse has a hole in it. My holes just happen to be physical. Literally. I had a hole in my head when I first met Mother. And after that was all over, she found out about the hole in my leg, stifle to be precise. And after she fixed that, well, let's just say you can't fix that. They took out the hole (sounds kind of paradoxical, doesn't it?), but I'll get more holes. I am very holey.

But if you ask Mother, she'll say I am special because I chose her. I had the chance, lots of chances actually, to pick a human before, but none were quite right. And it is foolish to wait around for the right one, in some respects, because if you take too long you can be sent away from the choosing fields. I was already six, long after most of my brothers and cousins of my birth year had picked their humans (or just been picked by the humans, which is rather brave and a touch foolhardy on those humans' parts). The story of my choosing my human will wait. I must tell you the secret, though, that is me. And while Aunt Nancy says I am the luckiest unlucky horse in the world, I know it isn't luck...

I am special because I am Horse. Spirit horse told me to pick the human I did, because I could learn to be with humans and be able to still be Horse. And despite my holeyness, I am still here. I am all that is strength and beauty and cooperation. And sometimes fear. I am impatient, peaceful, master, prey. I am Horse.

They say horses are noble. They look at my beautiful arched neck, my graceful head (I am not being vain, just stating facts), and say how lovely and noble Horse is. I have a secret for you, though. No matter how Horse we are... Really, I just want a Mrs. Pasture's horse cookie. Mother gives me a kiss on the schnozzle every night before she leaves and then gives me a cookie. She gives me "one for the road", sometimes, too. I just love those things!!!!

Yummm, cookies...
Bif



*Agape: Unconditional, self-sacrificing, thoughtful love. The highest and purest form of love, one that surpasses all other types of affection. Roughly paraphrased, thanks Wikipedia.