My first love was a horse. Only a few days old, he picked his feet up high and cavorted around his mother, his head held high. He snorted, as if we humans were so unimportant, and he was the greatest in the world.
I named him Prancer.
A few years later, after his injury and the training we went through, and many adventures, we were riding in a big parade—just me, sixteen years old, and Prancer. It was a very large parade, the Apple Blossom Parade in St. Joseph, Missouri. I’d sewed myself a white satin shirt with black fringe around the western yoke, and I had my new black saddle with shiny nickel studs that I’d spent all my savings for. I wore boots and a cowboy hat.
Prancer was a classic pinto, with a big brown spot on his back and chest, a lot of white, and a white mane and black tail. He was quite beautiful. That morning, I had washed him down and used conditioner on his man and tail. He was sparkling!
He was a young horse, and the crowds along the parade route were crowded with people. When we came to a turn, the crowd noise bothered him and up he went in a rear.
“Easy, boy. There’s nothing to worry about. Easy, now,” I called to him softly.
The two of us, we’d spent a lot of time together, first when he had his injury and I went to the barn four times a day to tend to his wound and keep him company, and then the hours I spent learning to train him. We’d happily ridden across the farm, imagining many adventures.
This day, I am a sixteen-year-old girl surrounded by a hundred people and my horse is almost panicked. I talked softly. I trusted him. He trusted me.
His muscles relaxed, his front feet came down, and we continued down the street. The crowd cheered. They thought, of course, that the horse had reared on command and he’d been trained to do so. They didn’t know.
Prancer trusted me. And I loved him.
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