I love horses. When I was little, I was lucky enough to have a mother who understood that joining the neighborhood softball team was really not going to work for me, so she found other things for me to do. Lots of dance lessons, voice lessons, shows, and for awhile, horseback riding lessons. I know, I was raised to be an accomplished Victorian Lady, but it worked for me.
I didn’t ride for too long, dance got in the way, but I always loved it. And when I went to a summer camp that had horses, I was thrilled. Riding lessons cost an obscene amount of money, but since I was a staff brat, I was there for almost two whole weeks before the rest of the campers. So I got to help take care of the horses. All right, so the equestrian counselors were probably pulling a good Tom Sawyer “painting the fence white” scam on me. But I loved it. And a few times, I actually got to ride the horses.
I had been cleaning out the stables and was covered in water, hay, and probably a fair bit of poo. And one sweet counselor took pity on me and let me take a horse out into the ring. It had rained the night before. Things were a bit mucky, so we went nice and easy. But the horse wanted to run. He started going faster and faster, cutting bigger circles around the ring, getting closer to the fence. Then he slipped just a tiny bit, moved a little farther outward, and ran my sodden leg into the electric fence.
I don’t remember it hurting. It felt more like my entire right leg had instantaneously fallen asleep. I got off the horse, falling of course, since I couldn’t feel my leg, and walked around the rest of the day looking like that poor boy from Jurassic Park. I never blamed the horse though, just the fence.
And this week, I got to go riding again. I took my husband on his first horseback ride to see a desert sunset, and he loved it. I think you might hear some more about horse adventures in the future.