A Lonely Horse

Three months ago, Cool, a horse I raised, died suddenly from acute colic.  Cool was a friendly, inquisitive character.  He investigated everything, knew when you forgot to shut a gate totally, knew how to open things, never missed anything that was occurring.  Fun and funny and well loved.


Cool, the other orphaned horse I raised.


So well loved in fact that the photo on the back of On the Rim of Wonder is of me holding his bridle while my friend’s exchange student from Austria, Klara Kamper rides him.  Apparently, I am not the only one who misses him.  Rosie, my other horse, decided this past week that she needed to be as close to the house as possible so she could see me through the window.  For the last several days, when I awaken, there she is complete with her nose prints on the window.




This morning I decided this had to stop for several reasons, one of which is that she is trampling all the flowers and grasses I have tried to grow in this caliche area.  It is also not easy to get her to leave.  I have to hike around the house and drive her reluctant self out along the edge of the canyon.  A fence around a propane tank covers part of the width between the house and canyon–the area through which she walks.  About fifteen feet in front of it a large old log sat mostly for decorative purposes.  It occurred to me that I could possibly move this back between the fence and house.  It is so heavy that to do so I had to pick up one end and move it six inches then go to the other end and do the same.  By doing this repeatedly, I did manage to move it.  However, a small gap on either side still existed.  Since horses can jump, she could jump the foot or so over it if determined.  I found another dead piece of juniper to put across the top and two old log pieces to put at either end.  Now I can only wait and see if this deters her.



When I return from my trip to Africa, I think I must find another horse to keep her company.  In the meantime, she must endure sadly.  Here are some photos of both of them when Cool was still alive and well.







While writing this, I heard neighing and checked to see.  Poor, sad Rosie stood at the other end of the obstacles I set up.  It was as if she were calling to me to please, please, please let her get back by the house.  I ignored her pleas.  Eventually she gave up and walked away.  Now I am just hoping that she does not find the little walkway by the garage that goes to the front door, which I frequently leave open for the summer breeze.  She would just walk into the house.



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