By: Keri O’Neal

After years of pleading with my mother, circling classified ads, and annually attending the Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show I finally convinced my mother to buy me my very own Arabian. We already had two horses, a very sweet but slightly crippled mare and an unruly Thoroughbred gelding, both given to us, but I was in love with the proud and beautiful Arabian. I suppose it all stemmed back to Walter Farely’s magical series: The Black Stallion.

By: Nicole Wiitala

If you close your eyes and concentrate, maybe you can envision it in your mind as easily as I can.  Wherever you are right now, whether it’s sitting on your couch in front of the TV or on your bed under a reading lamp, whether you’re nestled comfortably between to branches high in a tree or sitting on a lounge chair next to the ocean.. forget that place for just a moment. 

By: Karen Bragg

We met him on a cold, crisp December day. His owner was a college student desperate to find him a home before Christmas Vacation ended, and my four-year-old daughter was equally desperate to have her own pony. When we saw him for the first time he was standing in a field looking at us. At least, from the glow in his eyes through his thick coat, you could surmise he was looking at us. Dad got on him bareback with just a halter and lead rope and cantered across the pasture without getting bucked off, so we figured he’d be okay for Katie. That is how Rebel came into our lives.

By: Jenny

As a little kid, I always imagined myself owning a light silvery grey horse with a black mane and tail and black points. We would win all sorts of ribbons and awards, eyes would turn to look at us, the girl on her handsome grey steed. I never forgot that fantasy, keeping it in my heart.

By: Mary McCandless

Cassie scowled nervously. This horse show was one of the biggest shows she and her horse Babette had ever been in, and important people were watching her. This was part of the culmination of long years of struggle to be noticed by somebody - anybody - with enough money and influence to buy her a world class horse and sponsor her in her bid to make the Olympic team. She grasped the reins just below the bit and pushed Babette forward, walking up and down, up and down in the holding area outside the arena. One more rider to go.

By: Hannah Driskell

I have a story that you might be able to use for the new book called
Chicken Soup For The Horse Lovers Soul. It is about my 7 year old arabian
gelding that had a terrible accident last spring. This is how it goes.
Since I was 2 years old my dream was to ride horses. That dream came
true on my sixth birthday. I took my first lesson and loved it. I have been
riding ever since. I have now been riding for almost 7 years. Last winter I
outgrew my pony I have had for three years.

By: Tanya Boyd

It’s 3:00 a.m. and the shrill of the telephone roused me from a deep sleep. My husband, who reacts to the phone or doorbell as if it were a city band at the foot of the bed, was already standing in the middle of the floor, one foot in a pair of jeans. I reached for the phone.

By: Gail Lee

“Are you ready to leave yet?”

“Yes, I’m going out to the barn now,” was the reply on the phone.

“See you somewhere in the middle. Bye.” I hung up and headed for the pasture to catch my horse.

Three miles separated the home of my best friend Gayle from mine. During the summer before our 6th grade year we had discovered new freedom. Our parents now allowed us to go horseback riding together and we rode as often as we could. It was our routine to leave home at the same time and start riding toward each other. Once we met, somewhere in the middle, we would then decide where to ride.

By: Leah Stitchick

There is nothing like fair week. It’s fun, exciting, crazy, hot, and hectic all in one day. You wake up at 4:30 in the morning, do what you have to do at home, then you go to the fairgrounds and feed your horse. While your horse is eating, you have to feed yourself a doughnut that someone brought and a Sunny D. Then when you’re done, you saddle your horse and practice and warm him up for the day ahead of both of you. Then you put him back in the stall until two hours before your first class. So you get him ready and handsome, then you get yourself all dolled up. And all you can smell is Pepi coming out of all the barns. But this one week, there is nothing else like it.

By: Rebecca S. Colaw

I want to tell you a story about a little bay quarter horse mare. Reminiscing over the last few years as I start this story brings tears to my eyes as I remember what was, what could have been, and what now is. But the tears in my eyes are not ones of sadness–far from it. They tears of joy and pride in the spirit of a little horse named Docarita Chili.