Horse Stories/Mort/Chapter2

Mort/Chapter 2

I had my horse. He was beautiful. About a hundred years younger than the lesson horses I had ridden on the local drill team. About 100 MPH faster too.
I had a week of board left at the full care stable he came from. I ignored the snickers, stares, and sympathetic head shakes.
My 14 year old insecurity guaranteed that I didn't question anyone. I assumed that they were laughing at me because I didn't deserve such an incredible horse. I knew I was too stupid to own him. I was convinced the sympathetic head shakes were for my wonderful horse, who was stuck with such a moron.
My 14 year old combative stubbornness guaranteed that I glared at them, put my horrible chain hackamore on him, crawled on bareback and rode out for the day.
The ex-owner offered to sell us his saddle, but Dad felt it would be good for my moral fiber to buy my own.
Considering that I was now supporting my own horse with my 75 cents an hour baby sitting services, it looked like it would be a hell of a lot of moral fiber.
My inability to stay on saddleless, steer, and slow down Mort at the same time, guaranteed he got to pick our rate of speed. I still didn't know I had bought a runaway. I just thought we liked to go.
I spent our first week together covering the park trails. Mort would go absolutely anywhere I pointed him. Since I was spending most of my time desperately grabbing handfuls of mane and sliding from side to side, my steering was pretty sporadic.
Off trail was fine with him. He'd blow through gullies, scramble up rocks, jump yuccas, straight and true wherever I sent him. Whether I meant to or not.
I still have about six inches of faint scar that originally went from wrist bone to elbow. My first wrestling match with a low hanging tree branch. I lost that one, and most of the many to come.

I rode by myself for that last week at the boarding stable. I didn't want my friends to see how much trouble I had staying on. I was embarrassed by my lack of a saddle, and I wanted to make damn sure I could ride him before anybody saw him.

Mort started to calm down. A week of racing through the pines with me clinging to his mane instead of his reins seemed to be his cup of tea.
We would lap the park a time or two, and he would eventually come down to a walk. I would find a clear grassy place, slide off and flop to the ground. Mort would graze, and I would lay in the grass next to him. I listened to the sound of his teeth tearing large mouthfuls of grass. The sweet smell of the newly torn grass would mix with Mort's sweat salty hide and drift over me. I would half doze in the sun.
Sometimes he would snuffle my hair, or gently lip my arms and face. I would reach over and slide my palm over his slate smooth hoof, or wrap my hand around his fetlock. My fingers would feel out his pulse. The steady beat of his heart, so much slower than mine.
That week I didn't just learn to sit him, we became friends. I trusted him completely. In our years together that never changed. He never let me down.
He never left me for home. He never spooked and stomped me. He always patiently stood by whatever fence, tree limb, or rock I used to scramble back on.
Then I would grab on like a monkey and we would blast for home.

I have said it before, and I'll say it again, God loves children, fools, and new horse owners.