From the moment I first experienced being around horses, I was hooked. From the tender age of 8, when I first looked into the eyes of the little bay mare with the kind big brown eyes, I knew I wanted one of my own so that every day I could look at them and feel the same joy as I did ten years ago.
Now, at the age of 18, with a better understanding of money, how it is needed daily, and my parents denying my wants is more rational than ever before. I simply couldn’t keep myself, my flat, my job and the overgrown man-child I call my boyfriend afloat along with a large animal that needs everyday care. Nor could I afford to keep it on full livery where I barely get to bond with it anyway. Instead, I turn to other means to get my equine ‘fix.’
As any good horse-lover should, I have a collection of hundreds of large informative books detailing everything from breeds, to riding, or to what brushes you use on your smooshums tummy to make sure it doesn’t hurt them. There is a box full of drawings from my early age that look like stick-legged sausages, to my newer sketches that haven’t changed much. There’s a multitude of models from tiny thumb-sized appaloosas, up to a huge black walker that is kept in the loft and was large enough for me to sit on it when I first bought it. However, no matter how large a collection I have, I’m still missing a core ingredient to my addiction: a horse of my own.
The expenses are too high and it takes up too much time are the excuses I’ve heard from those in the same situation as I am, yet there seems to be an equal amount of people who get along just fine and manage to keep themselves and their non-horsey lives on track very easily. I suppose I’ll just accept my fate and join the other people who can’t have what they want due to various constraints, or I’ll find a way around it. I could return to loaning a horse, to mucking out quickly then tacking up and heading out for a nice long hack, or working in the arena on the gorgeous mare I rode who would jump the moon if you asked her. Maybe I could go back to riding school, but I think I’d quickly go stale of the circles and instructors shouting at me for miniscule things. I’d maybe consider returning to the trekking center I once haunted, bearing frozen noses, toes and fingers for a half hour ride on a highland pony who wouldn’t go faster than a walk even if you set off a bomb behind him.
Those would all satiate it for now, but why would I do that, when I can sit and be patient, save up and hope that the opportunity for my own 15 hand baby crosses my path. Only then will I truly understand how much people give up for the sake of something so wonderful that touches our hearts so deeply.