By: Cathy Elliott

“Quit doing that! What’s wrong with you, horse?”

I couldn’t see the speaker but the frustration in his voice made me cringe. Would he harm the horse? Maybe not if someone was watching. Urging my mare into a brisk trot, we rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop. About twenty feet away were two sailors dressed in white uniforms, one astride a buckskin and the other standing, facing a big, bay gelding.

My hand flew to my mouth in alarm, and I caught my breath. The bay, a favorite of mine named Dragonfly, was being tormented by his rookie rider. The sailor pulled the reins taut one minute, then flung them high the next, trying to place the joined leather ends over the horse’s neck, but missing the mark. Each failed attempt resulted in an angry assault of words from the sailor.

Dragonfly planted his hooves into the gravel road and strained against the pull of the reins, eyes wild and nostrils dilated. He looked like an angry bull, making low snorting sounds, then tossing his head to evade the sailor’s attempts to remount.

“Didn’t you say your name was Roy Rogers? I wouldn’t even call you Dale,” laughed the man atop the buckskin. Then he put his hand up as if warding off an attack. “Hey, don’t look at me. I’m not getting off my horse!”

“Well, you’re no help,” the sailor said, disgusted. “Guess I’ll just have to walk back.” His shoulders seemed to slump in resignation.

“Why not ask her?” The buckskin’s rider pointed my way. “She looks like she knows what she’s doing.”

Uh-oh. What had I gotten myself into?

The sailor turned around, seeing me for the first time, and looked embarrassed. “Do you think you could give me a hand, Miss?” His voice sank a few decibels. “I got off to pick up my wallet and now, I can’t get this horse to let me back on.”

I slid off my mount, tied him to a branch, and walked toward Dragonfly, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. Taking the reins from the sailor, I let them go loose. The horse’s head relaxed and he turned to nuzzle my shoulder as I stroked his neck. I began to murmur the words of comfort I always used for my equine friends, “Good boy, Dragonfly. Easy now. You are such a pretty boy,” then adding, “I wish you were mine.”

How many times had I wished that over the past years? To have a horse of my own had been my constant desire throughout my childhood. My copies of Old Bones, the Wonder Horse, Misty of Chincoteague, and The Black Stallion were dog-eared from dreaming. Bisque statues of famous steeds lined my shelves and piles of paper were stacked in my drawer, each covered with my drawings of horses rearing, prancing or in full gallop. I lay long hours on my bed, imagining what it would be like to care for a horse, to ride and love him. Would I have a colt or a filly? A palomino or a pinto? In my mind, I settled on an Appaloosa of Arabian descent – if there was such a blend. It seemed I had waited a long while for a horse of my very own. And I was still waiting.

I stood on tiptoe and scratched behind Dragonfly’s ears, running my hand down his shorn mane, my fingers feeling the rough, brush-like surface. He was still handsome even without his flowing locks and I often thought the style for horses mimicked the short, no-fuss haircut that the military favored for it’s recruits. I knew a lot about the military because my dad was a career Naval officer. An interesting life for our family, but not one that was conducive to owning horses. Too many uncertainties, too many “good-byes.”

As I felt Dragonfly relax, I thought about the first time I had come to the stable for lessons, determined to become a good rider. I not only took the first session, but also repeated it again and again, just to be near the horses. Eventually, the owners allowed me to hang about, grooming the horses for hire, cooling them down after a ride, mucking out the stalls, and cleaning hooves. As my pay, I was allowed to ride any horse that hadn’t been exercised that day. I thought it was plenty fair, except maybe I got the best of the deal. But I kept that to myself, just in case they changed their minds, and imagined that each horse I rode was my very own.

Dragonfly had never been a frequent ride for me – he was popular and often requested – but I rode him when he was available. The rest of the time, I gave him curries and kisses and appreciative pats whenever I could. Now, as I stepped back to admire this amazing animal, I wondered what I could possibly do to help the sailor. Could I find a way to separate the reins so that they could easily be gathered up? Should I help the sailor back into his saddle and then lead him on my mare? Would it be better to go to the stable for help?

“He seems to really like you, Miss,” the sailor said.

“I really like him,” I said. “He’s my friend, aren’t you, boy?” I hugged the horse one last time and stroked his sleek coat, enjoying the closeness. Not sure what to do next, I gathered the reins into a loop and lifted them high enough for Dragonfly to see what I was holding. What happened then was beyond anything even I could imagine.

The horse flicked his ears forward and then lowered his fine head toward the ground, almost a bow. I laid the reins behind his head and onto his long neck. When he raised his head again, the reins dropped to his withers, ready for a rider to grasp.

“Did you see that?” exclaimed the sailor, mouth hanging open. “That horse practically got down on one knee so this little gal could put his reins back. Did you see it?”

The man riding the buckskin nodded his head, astonished. “If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it, even if Roy Rogers himself had said it was true.”

I held the reins while the sailor scrambled aboard Dragonfly, whispering my thanks to the horse that had just made this eleven-year-old kid look good. The men were still talking about how “that horse just knelt down for that gal” and that “she sure had a way with horses” as I mounted my mare to continue our afternoon exercise. Grinning with pride, I twisted around in my saddle to watch them go.

The sailor was patting his horse on the neck and saying, “Good boy, good boy.”

Dragonfly, whose reins now hung loose, seemed to glance back at me, too.

And maybe it was just my imagination, but before he turned toward the trail, I could have sworn I saw him wink.