When men hit their forties, they want a corvette. When women hit their forties, sometimes they want a horse. I'm not exactly sure which is more dangerous.
As I'm writing this, I should have ice on my shoulder and knee. Or a bag of frozen peas. Or perhaps a sign on my back that says "Dumb New Horse Owner". I blame my mother for putting a paperback copy of The Black Stallion in my hands when I was ten. Then it was My Friend Flicka, The Red Pony, Black Beauty, etc. I soaked it all up like a pathetic four-eyed sponge. I had plastic Breyer horses of every breed and color lined up on my bookshelf until I was eighteen years old.
A horse! That would make like complete! I begged my parents to buy one. They refused. But my mother did drive me back and forth to riding lessons for quite awhile. I happily shoveled poop on Saturdays to earn an hour of extra riding time.
So... fast forward thirty years. Two kids, a husband, a Jack Russell terrier, a mini van and a mortgage. That was my reality. Until a week ago, when we watched as a 12-year-old Rocky Mountain gelding named Top Secret Mission was unloaded at our new boarding barn.
(more to come)