The Eye of the Beholder

My fluffy grey pony was ill, so ill he had an expiration date.  At fourteen, I couldn't wrap my mind around the vet's words, all I knew was that they were scary.  Final.  A year, maybe.

Cancer.

What could a kid do to cure an old, sick pony?  Nothing.  

I didn't know how to deal with this horrible new knowledge, the inky foreboding that lurked at the edge my periphery.  Sadness wrapped its unrelenting fingers around my heart, crushing me from the inside out.  I didn't shower or even bother to change my clothes for several days.  There was no point.  Water couldn't wash away the grief; a new outfit couldn't mask that the world as I knew it had ceased spinning.  

He grew frail, his life ebbing just as the vet predicted it would.  Almost a year from his diagnosis, he had all but faded away.  If one could ever be lucky in losing someone, I guess I'd hit the jackpot.  There was no opportunity to feel blindsided or suffocate under an avalanche of shock at the suddenness of it all, as I had six months prior when I'd happened upon his herdmate peacefully asleep--gone--in a stall.  My pony and I had been saying our goodbyes day after day, for months.

The hunt began for a new horse to distract me, to attempt to replace two horses lost in the same year.  We tried a sweet little bay Arab mare who belonged to a family of a schoolmate, but no spark ignited between us.  Mom called a couple of ladies who owned a breeding facility down the road to see if they had anything for sale.  They did.  A couple half-brothers foaled close together--chestnut geldings named Moe and Patrick.

When we arrived at the farm, there was a blonde girl younger than myself riding a copper-colored horse around in front of the barn.  This was their "arena", and it was edged by a large barn, various farm machines, a big lean-to, and a large pile of two-by-fours waiting to be used in some yet unnamed barn project.

"That's Moe."  The woman indicated with a nod, leaning back against the fence.

He rivaled the shade of a polished penny, his flowing mane and tail several degrees lighter.  His body was overly-compact.  There was barely room to place a hand between his front legs.  His legs were spindly, his hooves big.  Each of his legs were white nearly to his knees, with the exception of his left hind leg, which was a stocking.  His face was dishy, common to his breed, with an alarming canvas of white around his irises.

She offered to let me ride him to see how we did together.  Nearly fifteen, I had spent most of my life riding horses and ponies who were either trained well or trained well enough.  Moe was six and, I realize now, had barely been saddled.  At the time, I hadn't ever ridden a green horse, and I wonder why my safety-conscious mother ever allowed such recklessness.

Under saddle, Moe swerved and ambled at the walk, unsure of where I was asking him to go.  As we moved around the riding area, I am certain I saw turtles lapping us.  He tested me with each step to see how little he needed to do to make me happy.  When I worked up the nerve to ask for his bouncy trot, he dragged me so far out into the circle that he ran smack dab into the pile of two-by-fours with his knee, making himself bleed.

It was love at first sight.