I wrote this up in a flurry to enter in a contest to win an expenses paid trip to the World Equestrian Games next year. I'm going no matter what (I already have my tickets for the Freestyle Dressage and Three Day Eventing, yay!)  but if someone else was going to pay for my hotel and flight, well gee willikers!

They asked for a 150 word or less essay on your relationship with your horse, and I went back and forth first of all on who to write on.  Ralphy and I have the most illustrious career, having competed at Nationals Together, and Jurnisa was positively heroic when she stepped in last minute as an older mare to be my State Championships horse when Starr was injured.  Any of the mustangs or burros seemed like a great idea just because of how desperate I am to promote what wonderful animals they are. 

But in the end, I couldn't help but go back to the horse who genuinely made me the person I am today.  She was the one I rode every day, or would just go sleep on bareback in the sunshine.  She's the one who gave me my "sea legs"  and unshakable confidence in the saddle. She's the one who dumped me when we tried to carry an American flag, walked backwards in fear for the first two blocks of the Fountain Green Lamb Days Parade, and sat her chubby black ass on the ground when my younger cousin rode her, refusing to pony a novice even one more step.  She's the one who used to dunk her head in the trough up to her ears, and chase my mom around the fairgrounds for Paydays, much to the amusement of all my horse friends. She's the one who HATED having her ears touched, loved having her tummy itched, and " made a man" out of more of our geldings than any of us care to remember. She's the one I have in the back of my head when I imagine going to Heaven- the very first thing I would want to see.  

And, as I mention in the essay but don't have the chance to elaborate on, this silent animal who mostly slept and ate and obeyed,  is my conscience.  She is quiet soul who I go back to, that reminds me of me on the inside, and makes decisions in silence.  It wasn't that her soul was entirely clean-in fact she had a lovely streak of wicked- but that her character was so enthralling, her expressions so earnest, and antics so hilarious, you just got sucked into the unconditional love-game, and after that there was nothing I wuoldn't do for the sake of a horse. 

holy cow, I've already written a novel on my childhood horse, and haven't even pasted in the essay yet. If you're still reading, here it is:

"I often say of my childhood, “I had more chores than friends, but I was happy.”  Growing up on a working horse ranch in rural Utah, The only friend I needed was Poco’s Brass.  A swarthy bay mare, Poco’s companionship was my constant motivation to be a better horsewoman.

Every horse lover has that “first horse” story, but she was more than the first. She was my friend, my teacher, and remains my conscience. I have a few memories of winning ribbons and trophies with her at the local 4H meets, but none of them captures her in my mind like the memory of her falling asleep with her heavy black head in my arms late one night after a long horse show. It was a moment of perfected companionship, ritual, and trust. 

I enjoyed every ride with Poco, but I enjoyed the friendship so much more."