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    My Dream Horse | A Horse Story

    By: Karen Castelletti

    My parents were hardly surprised when their ten-year-old daughter entered the much-dreaded phrase known to dismayed parents everywhere as “Wanting a Pony.” Yet, like many children in this phase, I did not simply “want a pony”; I neglected food and rest in favor of concocting the wondrous creature I was sure would soon be mine.

    He would be beautiful, naturally: a rippling, dappled gray with luminous eyes. Slender limbs would flow into delicate hooves whose graceful motion would scarcely press them to the earth at all. Most importantly to the greedy possessiveness which only a child and some wealthy individuals can truly manage, he would be entirely mine. In short, he would be a bit of perfection taken equine form for I alone to keep.

    The dreams of children seem, somehow, always to wane before the logic of an unconvinced parent. Simply put, I was thought to have taken absolute leave of my senses.

    There were a million reasons why mine was an unreasonable request. The sport was dangerous. Lessons at the nearby stable were ridiculously expensive. I was allergic to horses! Most importantly, why on earth should my parents buy an animal I wouldn’t know how to ride?

    They had their points. I also had mine, though they mostly consisted of “Pretty please, Mommy?” and “I love you, Daddy… Can we go look for a horse tomorrow?”

    Despite my less than convincing arguments, my parents eventually decided to arrange for me to take riding lessons at the local stable. I was, frankly, nearly delirious with excitement. More accurately, I was thrilled until the lessons actually began.

    It seems I never really considered the fact that the horses, though stunningly beautiful, would have no particular desire to listen to a tiny, basically clueless child. Riding, oddly enough, was starting to seem rather a lot like work! Yet, being the completely bombproof, schooling horses that they were, no big deal was ever made of the refusal to listen beyond the fact itself. I was honestly starting to think the sport required far more effort than it was worth.

    Shortly after I began riding, a new pony showed up at the stable, and I was one of the first few students to ride her. The lesson progressed routinely, or at least it did for roughly the first fifteen minutes. At that point, the roof overhead erupted into sudden, thunderous noise. I realized it was only rain hitting the top of the barn, but the new pony had no such notion.

    We crossed the arena far more quickly than any stark beginner could wish to, heading for the door out of the barn. The pony realized rather suddenly that the aforementioned exit was barred off and immediately skidded to a halt. I, of course, had no such luck.

    I flew neatly through the bars, imagining the whole time how painful it would be to hit one of them. Toppling to a stop outside the barn after my graceless ejection, I looked up at the little mare with betrayed eyes. She stared at me in open fascination, apparently proud of herself for how thoroughly she had removed me from her saddle.

    Aching rear, dusty jeans and all, I realized something as I trudged back to remount the pony. She certainly wasn’t my dream stallion; nor was she gray or even particularly graceful. Somehow, I felt a completely irrational affection for the mischievous mare. She wasn’t perfect, but maybe she was something far more precious altogether.

    My dream had had one fatal flaw I hadn’t noticed before: my “ideal” creature was flawless. I don’t think I could ever have loved such a one-dimensional character.

    That lesson was the beginning of a passion for all that is equine which continues even today. I have yet to come across a truly “perfect” horse, but I can honestly say that I hope I never do.

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