The Scent of a Horse

I don't remember quite how old I was - maybe 9? - when my grandma got her first horse.  She had long dreamed of getting her own horse, and you would think that because she lived on a farm, she would have gotten one long ago.  I guess only she could say exactly why she didn't get one, but it was probably a combination of raising five kids, working to keep the farm running, and a husband who thought that having an animal on the farm that didn't produce food in some way was a waste of money.

But after my grandpa passed away and all of her kids were independent and life started to slow down a little, my grandma bought herself a Quarter Horse named Skip.  I was in awe of Skip and if truth be told, a bit jealous of my grandma, because she had her own horse and that was the one thing I wanted most in the world.  (It would be a couple years yet before my parents would eventually decide I could get a horse too.)

Skip was a good-sized chestnut gelding, who had some working experience and cow sense.  He was easy to ride.  So easy that a grandma and a young kid could ride him out in the wilderness by himself without a problem.

I used to spend a month every summer at my grandma's farm.  It was heaven for me for any number of reasons.  I loved being on the farm and exploring the huge yard full of a maze of trees and shrubs and flowers.  My grandma had planted rows of bushes with little nooks full of flowers and wishing wells and other fun yard ornaments.  And there was a huge swing set way out back that was so isolated, it was the perfect place for me to swing and imagine all sorts of worlds in my head.

And of course, there were the chickens and the barn cats that always seemed to have just had a litter of kittens, a delightful dog named Boris, a goat named Annie, a herd of cows, and usually some kind of recently rescued bird.  (I remember once my grandma fished a young sparrow out of a five gallon bucket of water and it lived in the house for a bit.  One day, as it got bigger, it shot a piece of poop out that must have gone 6 feet across the kitchen.  Normal people probably would have been traumatized by that, but my grandma thought it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen and she would tell everybody about it, barely able to restrain her laughter.)

I would spend the month hanging out with my grandma.  She made me toast every morning that was buttered and had homemade strawberry jam on it.  It was the best toast in the world.  And I would often catch her up early in the mornings tuning into the PBS channel so she could watch reruns of a British comedy show called "Faulty Towers."  We would go to rummage sales (also called garage sales in other parts of the country) and visit my great grandmother and go to the local cafe and have visits with my grandma's friends.

But when my grandma got a horse, a whole new dimension was added on to the experience.  For a month, I could pretend that Skip was mine and I finally got to live the life I'd always dreamed of.  I think I probably rode that poor horse twice a day.  Once in the early morning before it got hot and then again at night, in the couple of hours before it got dark.  I roamed all over the countryside with him, and I would come across old, old buildings that hadn't been used for decades and imagine all sorts of interesting scenarios.

In the afternoon, though, I would brave the sometimes extreme heat (North Dakota summers are typically quite dry, but temperatures can soar into the mid-90s and even over 100) to go visit Skip in the pasture.  I'm not sure how big the pasture was - maybe 100 acres?  It was big enough that if the cows needed to be brought up to the barn, my grandma would use the truck to drive out there, and I remember it wasn't always that easy to figure out where they were.  But that didn't stop me from walking out there every afternoon to find Skip and visit with him for a few minutes.

After I found him, I would walk up to him and simply stand with him.  I'd lean on his shoulder and put my nose next to his skin and breath in the scent of horse.  It was the best smell I'd ever smelled.  To this day, I've never smelled a horse that smelled quite as good as Skip did.  I have no idea how to even describe it.  It was simply Horse.  A horse who lived outside much of the year, with little shelter except in the winter, when the cattle came to live in and next to the barn, so it was easier to take care of them during the extreme weather that is common during North Dakota winters.  He ate grass with the cows and roamed the pasture.  He drank from a big pond and stood in the rain and the wind and the beating sun.  He lived as his ancestors had lived and he seemed completely comfortable in his own skin.

I was reminded of my experience with Skip a few days ago when I saw Gemma sitting out in the round pen, sketching Star.  She had brought some of her art supplies with her and headed out to the round pen, which was where Star was spending her days at the time.  (She couldn't go back out with her old herd because of the risk of her getting attacked again.)  And Gemma stayed out there for quite a while.  So long, that I went out to look for her when I was done taking care of Donut.  And I found her and Star just hanging out.

 

It made me think about how little time I spend just hanging out with Donut.  I spend time with her every day, but there tends to be a purpose.  Grooming, trimming her feet, practicing tying or leading or some other skill.  Maybe it's time that I remembered the wisdom of young children and took some time to simply be in the moment and breath in the scent of a horse.