The Horse of My Heart by Callie Smith Grant ed

Author:Callie Smith Grant, ed. [Grant, Callie Smith, ed.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: PET006000, NAT016000, REL036000
ISBN: 9781441245847
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2016-02-10T16:00:00+00:00

The Horse Who Taught Me to Take a Second Look

Nicole M. Miller

My mother and I waited at the Chevron station along Interstate 5, eyes peeled for a truck and horse trailer exiting the highway.

It was our last chance to say good-bye.

Eight months earlier, when this straggly, four-year-old, chestnut Thoroughbred gelding arrived at my house, I was annoyed. I had grown out of my Arabian mare and wanted something more flashy for the 4-H show ring.

A racetrack reject was not what I’d wanted.

He’d been abandoned. He needed a home. Our family friend, who was a trainer at Emerald Downs track in Washington, had heard about this starved, neglected horse. He knew we’d provide a good home.

Southern Buddar was too clumsy to be of any use on the racetrack. His knees were as knobby as coconuts and his hooves as wide as platters. His withers arched high on his back, emphasized by the lack of fat and protruding ribs. He had a long face, Roman nose, and tiny eyes. I couldn’t show this gelding. I couldn’t even ride him—he was barely broken.

Full of fifteen-year-old pride and wisdom, I made it clear that this was my mom’s horse, not mine. I only cared about my own riding career. I couldn’t win any ribbons with an ugly horse. And this oafish Thoroughbred joining the family meant that finding my next show horse would be delayed.

Great.

When he arrived he was nervous, shaking, and thin. So thin. My mother kept him on a steady diet of hay, petting, and carrots. I kept my distance.

During the first few months of “Bud’s” residency, my mare exhibited her dominance and picked on him incessantly. The 14.2-hand Arabian had the 17-hand Thoroughbred running for cover. In our greenness as horse owners, we didn’t separate them quickly enough, thinking they’d work out their differences.

They did, in a way.

One night, a thunderous bang echoed from inside the large, open stall they shared, and we found Buddar with his back hoof severed and nearly cut off.

Since our barn and pasture were thick with mud and the stalls were open for turnout 24/7, we took Buddar to a nearby stable for recovery.

The hoof was wrapped, cleaned, rewrapped, and it needed to be treated daily. I helped my mom even though I disliked this horse. Our “free” horse was far from free. He required a lot of time and money, which detracted from the showing I wanted to do.

One of the first times I changed the bandages myself, the irritated gelding jerked his foot free and kicked out enough to hit my thigh and give me an eggplant-size-and-color bruise. I grumbled but finished wrapping and treating the wound. Ungrateful.

As the days turned into weeks, changing the bandages became a routine task, and Bud accepted it without protest. As he recovered from the pain, built up his body mass, and settled into life at the stables, his personality rose to the surface, and I came to expect soft nuzzles and perked ears. I even took him carrots regularly.

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