The Heart of a Horse
“Come on Amanda, hurry up and get out of the car!”
I still cannot believe how I ended up here. Everybody thought me to be your ordinary teenager. After taking a survey at school however, my teachers found that I was so depressed, it was dangerous. A doctor that I like to call a Quack suggested I try spending some time with horses to lift my mood. I told myself there is no way I am going to get anywhere near one of those fat, smelly animals. My mom just loves them and their “distinctive smell” as she said once.
“Do I have to be around these horses mom?” I complained.” I mean I don’t even like horses. One of them could crush me beneath its hooves!”
“I doubt that will ever happen Amanda. You just have to be careful around all of these beauties.” My mom stated. It seemed there was a touch of wonder and amazement in her voice. Maybe it was that she couldn’t believe I didn’t like the big, hairy brutes. Although, it probably was just that the word “horse” or anything in relation to horses, was almost sacred to her.
I looked up at the beautiful building looming up in front of us, a quaint, little cottage with the words “Willow Stables” plastered to the roof. I thought that if all of Willow Stables was this pretty, I might not mind spending time here. But then I was dragged back to reality as that pungent aroma of sweat, horse poop, and hay drifted in under my nose.
As my mom dragged me into the office, which had the same “lovely” smell as outside, I prayed that somehow I could escape out an open window, or that they didn’t have enough room for another person here. But with all of my good luck, the windows were all closed and they had enough space for me. I was to start lessons immediately.
I trudged outside to write my will and meet my instructor. She seemed nice enough for someone who likes horses. She introduced herself as Mandy. She has a tall, slender figure. Almost all of her hair was pulled back into a loose bun at the back of her neck. Her brown glasses were thick and coated with dust. Then of course I had to meet one of those beasts. As Mandy and my mom walked briskly to the stables, I followed behind them, kicking up dust, watching it swirl. I listened in on their conversation, and my mother was telling Mandy all about my depression.
Finally we reached the stables. My mom left and I had to fend for myself. As my mind whirred with possible escape routes, Mandy practically dragged me to the stall where the horse that I would (not) be riding. She blabbered on and on about this horse, Zoola, a mare, 16.5 hands high, who is a Dun Barb. That means something along the lines of “ A tall girl horse that is yellow/gold with black mane and tail and is from the desert.” I could not have ever prepared myself for the sight of all those words and what they really meant though.
As I rounded the corner, Mandy whistled loud and clear, the trill noise bouncing off everything in sight. A gorgeous gold horse walked slowly towards Mandy, stopping right in front of her to breathe on her face. Mandy turned to me, took my hand, and placed it on Zoola’s muzzle.
“Feel her. Feel her warmth. Feel her power, beauty, and grace.” Mandy spoke loud and clear but gentle and soothing. It made all my fear melt away, and I could feel all of what Mandy had said flowing through Zoola’s free spirit. Suddenly I felt the need for that horse.
“C...c...can I r...r...ride her?” I asked stumbling over the words.
“Of course!” She came back a minute later with a lot of funny looking straps of metal and leather. She showed me how to tighten the girth, put the bit in the horses’ mouth, and most importantly, how to mount.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I questioned, my fear beginning to set back in.
“Oh yeah! Don’t worry; she’s a good horse for beginners.”Mandy commented. So I mounted and began learning the basic signals and commands for guiding a horse. Two hours passed all too quickly, and my mom came to pick me up. I went back there every day; soon I found myself enjoying my lessons. I also noticed I was happier and felt better about myself.
Pretty soon, I would turn fourteen and my mom would ask what I want for my birthday. I usually answer clothes or make up. I knew that our family couldn’t afford what I wanted anyway, so I asked for the usual. On my birthday I woke up and there was a note on my dresser. The messy handwriting said “Happy Birthday. Now look out your window.” My heart skipped a beat; could it be true? I slowly got up and looked out my window. Out the window was my dream! I cried with joy as I ran down the stairs, taking two at a time. I burst out the front door, and there she was, Zoola, my birthday dream! I cried into her neck with joy at the thought that she was mine, mine forever...
Points: 475
Reviews: 16
Donate