Horses

As I drive to the farm I see Colby whiz toward me on a bike. He leans forward over the handlebars, and wears a baseball cap, long pants cut off below the knees, a t-shirt and a backpack. He grins as he whips around a corner and is gone. "What is Colby doing here in Houston?" I wonder. But of course this kid isn't my kid. This kid is not Colby.

When I get to the farm five horses are lined up along a fence. These are the demonstration horses that will be used in the various presentations. I approach the first horse as I normally would and stretch out the back of my hand toward his nose. Most times, a horse sniffs it, then looks at me, then drops his head and licks his lips. This is a sign of trust and acceptance. This horse raises his head and wiggles his butt as he looks around for guidance and help. I make him uncomfortable, so I move on. The second horse actively moves away from me, as do the third and fourth horse.

But for some reason the fifth horse reacts differently. This horse sniffs, drops his head, licks his lips and takes a step toward me. Then he places his chin on my arm. While my gamut of emotions has upset the other horses, this horse chooses to embrace me. Why? I ask someone what his name is. "Sundance," a girl replies. "Of course," I think. "Sundance." Sundance was the name of Colby's beagle/basset/doxy dog. He passed away three years ago this March. Sundance was the epitome of love. He never met a stranger and always wanted to help. How ironic that this equine Sundance feels the same way. Tears well up and I move away, biting my lips to try to stop the crying. That horse will never know the extreme gratitude I feel toward him. His kind gesture gave me concrete evidence that there is hope that I will heal.