Horse Stories/Mort

I loved the responses from you guys on my last post. Thanks. I had a hard time writing that one. I feel guilty on many levels for going public with that stuff. But my guilt is for another day.
I need to leave the dark side for a while. I'm thinking I'll intersperse these tales of whoa with some favorite horse stories. Here's my first.

Mort/Chapter 1

Mort may have been the love of my life. Tall and handsome, volatile, funny and totally unpredictable. He was ill-mannered, wild, and lived fast. The first time he leaned over the fence and blew into my nostrils I was gone.
I was a lot like Mort. Not as tall, definitely not as good looking, but the rest pretty much fit.
One look into his big golden brown eyes and I was ready to follow him anywhere.
My parents, in a somewhat desperate attempt to help me find some balance in my life, were letting me buy a horse.
This horse would come with strings. I had to support him myself and keep him in a self-care facility. Good behavior on my part equalled keeping him.
Entering the horse world meant I had to take on the work and expense myself. They figured this would prove soon enough if I really wanted a horse. Eternal poverty, here I come. I never looked back.
I knew absolutely nothing about what I was getting into.
My experience consisted of a few years of riding lessons at the neighborhood riding stable and a close friend who owned horses.
I watched a lot of John Wayne, Roy Rogers, and Bonanza.
Bring em' on.
My poor parents were even more naive than I was.
When I tried Mort out the owner was waiting for my dad and me. He held the pretty dun, already saddled, his hand wrapped tight in the bridle. I got on, he handed me the reins and backed away. We headed into the city park at an extended trot. By the time we hit the trees we were at a fast lope. As we rounded the first bend in the trail we were at a dead run. I might have figured out he was running away with me if I had ever tried to stop him, but my reins stayed slack. I only steered, and he always went where I pointed him.
This was how John, Roy, Little Joe, and now I rode.
When we blew into the barn an hour later I knew we were meant to be.
"I love him!" I shouted as I swung down, already showing my developing prowess as a horse trader.
"Really?" The owner said, his eyebrows shot up high enough to make his Made in China, wool felt hat almost slide off his head. "Er, that's great."
As soon as it could happen I was the proud owner of Charro, soon to be known as Mort, a registered grandson of Poco Bueno.
Already in love, I failed to notice a few warning signs that a more seasoned horse woman might have picked up on.
The fact that he was the only horse at the boarding stable kept in a padlocked, six foot high run.
His scarred and lacerated tongue.
The two inch scars on both corners of his mouth.
The mechanical hackamore with a rubber covered, bicycle chain nose piece, that came with the horse.
The constant toss of his head that only subsided when he was running flat out.
The wicked glint in his eye. (OK, I saw that.)
I did notice the only things that mattered to me.
His big cheeked, heart stopping face.
The perfect diamond on his forehead.
The way his muzzle fit in my hand.
His blazing speed.
The power he was willing to share with me.
The way he laid his head on my shoulder, for just a second, after I dismounted from the first of thousands of rides.
It was all I needed to know.