When we first met she was kind, less sure of herself then she is now. She did not want to hurt me, but she did not want to hurt herself. I was nervous but when I felt her strength through the reins I knew I would be safe.

"Tell me about yourself." I asked.

She replied with a buck, and I hit the ground hard. She looked at me, her reins snapped from where I held on a moment too long. She was testing me, wanting to know if she ought to try to get to know me.

Three days later I rang her owner and said yes.

"Tell me about yourself." She wanted to know if I am a fighter, or a quitter.

"Tell me about yourself." I wanted to know if she was bad to the bone, or just spirited.

She bucked and reared, ran when I wanted a walk, walked when I wanted a run. She would not collect, would not bend. She ran me into fences, into trees. I did not fall off. She began to stop.

"Tell me about yourself." We had established the most basic trust, tentative and wavering from day to day. I told her about myself, and she listened. She listened when I came to see her, she knew my moods from my step and the changing tremors in my voice as I opened her stall. She learned about my day from the way I pushed against her for a hoof, or the way I lent on her while she ate.

"Tell me about yourself." I asked.

"I think I like you." She came at my call, nuzzled me for food, some days even nickered. She was happier, calmer. I felt her relax, and felt her ease when she stretched out on the ground and basked in the sun.

"Don't move." I would say as I rested on her, my hand loose around her lead rope, her head bent to the ground. I really meant "Don't change."

We began to work together. Understand each other. People would say "she's crazy" but I never knew if they meant me or the horse.

"Do you trust me?" She asked. I put a eight year old on her back. She carried her quietly, not putting a single foot wrong.

"Of course I trust you."

Summer rolled on.

"Would you miss me if I went away?"

My holiday came, and she bucked and reared and bolted. I came back to a lame horse and a nervous rider. She saw me and nuzzled me and said "Why did you ever leave?"

I got cocky, and she taught me that pride goes before a fall.

"Would you hate me if I made you leave?" Summer was over. Times had changed.

"Would you hate yourself if you made me leave?"

She answered me with snorts and clattering feet and little rears as I forced her up the ramp. She left me alone, staring down the drive after a trail of dust and a tall white trailer with a dark shadow inside looking back at me.

I answered her when I realized she'd left a hole in my heart.


To Rose.