Although the author doesn’t find the horse she’d envisioned, something convinces her that he still has just the qualities she’d been seeking.

My horse died, and I was not there. My beautiful, slightly neurotic, 27-year-old Thoroughbred mare dropped dead in the driveway while a friend was leading her to the barn at feeding time.

There was no warning, no gradual decline. Until the very end she was sound and sleek. Her dark bay coat shone almost black, and she could still run the fenceline like a champion, until that very last moment, when it is probable that one of her major blood vessels ruptured.

I got the distraught call just as we were sitting down to my son’s birthday dinner. My husband and I had taken our sons to see the Atlanta aquarium; it was an ill-fated trip from the start.

In the impeccable logic of horsewomen, I packed in the last 5 minutes before we left the house. My thought process, I have realized, goes something like this: If I am packing for a horse show, I can do it on autopilot. If I am packing for another occasion, it does not really matter. Either way, it only takes a few minutes.

The last thing I recall about leaving was that my husband, Joe, was impatient with my horsewomanly ways. Apparently, normal women are concerned with clothes and pack ahead of time—who knew? The boys were squabbling, and since we were almost ready to leave Joe carried them out to the car and turned on the video player. That seemed effective, until we stopped at a restaurant four hours later and realized he hadn’t put shoes on their feet. We made an unscheduled stop at a shoe store.

Arriving at the hotel late, we did not bother to bring everything up to the room, as our car was parked in the gated hotel lot. That night someone broke into our vehicle and stole all of my son’s birthday presents and the video player too.

Horsepeople are a superstitious lot, and I am no exception. Perhaps the frantic call from my friend was just the inevitable third event in a series of mishaps. Still, my mare’s death hit me hard. I spent much of the return trip in contemplation.

When you have a horse for 16 years you get to know every whorl of hair, every quirk, every mood. I never wona single blue ribbon with my mare. The best we ever did at a show was a third in a low jumper class. Yet she gave me an entire higher education in sensitivity, with minors in patience and perseverance. Most of all, she taught me to appreciate bona fide spirit. In her case that meant she gave me the sense that she would go over or through anything. Riding her, you felt that she would fall over before she quit trying.

The Sensible Thing

In many ways my mare’s restless nature was both her strength and her downfall. In her early days, when she was on the track, she washed out before races. An event trainer bought her but could not keep weight on her. I bought her from that person and began my long education. I learned about nutrition, and I learned what it really means to ride off your seat.

However, a good dressage score remained elusive the entire time I competed my mare in lower-level events. Some judges are very insistent (and rightly so) that “canter” is not the same as “hand-gallop!”

Spirit manifests itself in different ways. Once, I was riding my mare alone on an asphalt overpass that was littered with broken bottles. We had to cross over a highway to get to a network of trails.  I heard the roar of an all-terrain vehicle approaching rapidly from behind, and none of the outcomes I envisioned at that moment were good. My mare was pulling at the bit already; what would she do when the four-wheeler went buzzing by at close quarters?

Anxiously, I turned her to face the approaching ATV. She trembled but stood her ground, and it went harmlessly past. I spoke to her and stroked her neck. She tossed her head, impatient to get over to the trails where she knew I would allow her to move faster than a walk. Movement was all that mattered to her; it soothed her Thoroughbred brain. It was the essence of her nature, but at certain times she showed surprising self-restraint.

When I boosted my sons onto her back to lead them around she walked slowly, calculating each step. Once, I put my younger son on her back when he was just 2 (with Joe walking beside, of course), and she refused to move at all. Her message was clear: He was too little, and that was that.

I am too busy to be overly sentimental, but I found myself thinking about her at odd moments through the winter. At the same time I wondered whether I should get another horse. I stay so busy with the kids and with work that I couldn’t even seem to find time to go look at horses. Certainly this was a sign, wasn’t it? With a few sedate boarders on my place and the boys’ pony, I get my daily horse care fix regardless.

In the past 15 years I have ridden a number of horses in addition to my mare, but all of them found their way to me. They were horses I bred, or training projects, or giveaways. I told myself to wait, surely another horse would turn up in my life. Still, my computer cursor seemed to drift to horse websites, and Joe caught me looking at horse classifieds so often that he threatened to stage an intervention.

The sensible thing to do, I told myself, would be to get a nice calm Quarter Horse with some trail experience. I can work on the finer points of flatwork and jumping, provided the horse has a willing attitude. A nice, family-oriented Quarter Horse would be just the thing, I told myself.

Horse Search Gone Wrong

As with all sensible plans that do not reflect one’s true desire, this idea led me down the wrong path. In this case that meant I headed west on I-40 one Saturday afternoon to look at what I had been told was an appendix Quarter Horse gelding.

I was driving into a storm of apocalyptic proportions, which perhaps I should have taken as a bad sign. Weather alerts came through on the radio several times. I had left my older son at a birthday party, and my youngest was at home with Joe. It had been so long since I did anything horsey that it felt strange to leave my sons, throw my saddle in the truck and set out.

The break from my routine, as well as my natural optimism (“This one sounds great, he’s just what I need.”), kept me in ignorant bliss until I arrived at the farm.

The trainer was not there when I arrived, which was odd, as I had spoken with her just 10 minutes prior. I tried her again but got only her voicemail. The wind was getting strong, and clouds with an ominous yellow undertone were churning in the sky. I found the horse in question. He was stalled (with no water bucket, I noticed), but, of course, I did not take him out. He looked smaller and, well, more sausage-shaped than the ad would have led me to believe.

Still, I was trying to keep an open mind. When you shop in my price range you have to kiss a lot of frogs (“14.5-hand boy horse, rode good on trails before I got hurt”) to find one princely mount.

A small white station wagon with a mail carrier sign on the roof came careening into the barnyard, and a woman emerged.

“Sorry, things got crazy at my house. They’re repossessing my truck, and I had to clean it out.”

Now, I am well aware that anyone can hit a rough patch in life. I’ve hit a few myself. I’m still not sure I would introduce myself that way, but anyhow… I murmured something about how the high gas prices could break anyone’s budget.

Mercifully, we turned our conversation to the gelding, apparently bought by his absentee owner because she could pull on his tail without him kicking her. She thought he would be a good influence on her other horse. Several months down the line I guess the novelty of pulling his tail had worn off, and the gelding had failed to train her other horse.

Despite the fact that the gelding did not look athletic in the way that I was seeking—his shoulder and hocks were straight as could be—I did not want to have driven an hour and not at least sit on him. We saddled him quickly and led him out just as lightning started to strike about a mile away.

The trainer free longed him for a minute and warned me that he was somewhat lazy under saddle. I got on, and he took a few steps. I encouraged him gently with my legs and seat. Suddenly, he stopped and humped his back in what I easily recognized as a precursor to bucking and/or rearing. All thoughts drained from my mind but this one: I am not being paid to get hurt on this horse! Thus ended the shortest trial ride in the history of horsedom. I got off.

In all fairness to my plan to buy a nice Quarter Horse and school it for lower-level shows, I don’t think that gelding really was a Quarter Horse at all. His head was almost as long as his neck, like some Standardbreds I have known (only he lacked their willing intelligence), and his wavy tail and round body were reminiscent of Morgans. Not that there is anything wrong with either of these breeds; he was just different from what I expected.

There was another problem with that horse, almost as serious as the fact that he was completely unsuited to my goals. His name was “Thunder Joe.” If I bought a horse named Thunder Joe, I felt I would have to give my husband Joe some additional moniker to indicate his superior ability to rock my world. I might have to call my husband “Seismic Joe” or “Tsunami Joe.” This in turn might cause some awkward moments at parent-teacher conferences or at church.

Not So Rational

In any event it would be naïve to expect the first horse one sees to fit the bill. After a few more weeks with no luck I guess my brain stem, or whatever primal part of me is attached to Thoroughbreds, took over the search.

My friend had a new barn manager, Mike, who spent years in the racing industry. One day when I was buying hay at her farm I heard myself asking him whether he knew of any Thoroughbreds that needed a home. It didn’t seem to matter that the rational part of me was thinking I don’t have time to retrain a Thoroughbred straight off the track, and anyway, what will happen if I get hurt? Who would drive the children to school? Mike apparently did not hear my negative thoughts and promised to ask his father, who still trains a few race horses in the Northeast.

The next week I got a call from Mike Sr. He said he had a nice horse that would be perfect for me, a 17-hand, 16 year-old Thoroughbred gelding. I hemmed and hawed, trying to think of a polite way to refuse a race horse that had seemingly been on the track for 14 years.

Then he explained: This was his “pony” horse, the bombproof mount that accompanies the race horses to the gate. I envisioned a hardened horse that only knew one job, but Mike was on a mission to persuade me his horse was versatile. He said the gelding had been shown over fences, that you could ride him English or western, and that he is quiet with children. I began to think I should give him a chance.

Mike assured me he was sound. The only thing was, he was anxious to place “Favor” before the end of the month. Mike didn’t do enough training anymore to need a pony, and he was paying board for Favor to stay at a farm in Delaware. I promised I would think about it and call him back.

The Real Thing

Once I decided to take Favor, I faced the challenge of logistics. It is difficult for me to find an hour for myself, let alone the two days I would need to make the round trip between North Carolina to Delaware. I finally left on the last Saturday of the month.

I didn’t get a particularly early start—instead I was helping Joe get the boys into their Little League uniforms and feeling bad about missing the game. Still, as crazy as my plan was, I decided to follow through if for no other reason than to refresh my thinking.

It seemed strange to drive without the boys screaming in the back seat and dirty socks whizzing past my head, but the truck and trailer were handling so well that I began to enjoy the trip.

Everything went fairly smoothly, except for the part when I had to give myself the Heimlich maneuver after accidentally inhaling an M&M. This was in heavy traffic just south of D.C. If things had gone differently I could have tied up I-95 for hours, but luckily I was able to dislodge the problem. The headlines were flashing through my mind, though: “Horse Nut Brings Beltway To A Standstill” and, in a related article, “Horses and Chocolate: A Deadly Combination?”

The next morning I met Mike Sr. at the farm. He was congenial to me but obviously unhappy that Favor was not in the barn as he’d requested. He said he’d been traveling a lot and hadn’t checked on him lately. We walked through several pastures and up a hill.

Mike pointed Favor out to me, and from a distance the tall bay Thoroughbred gelding was majestic. A closer look told a different story. He was at least 200 pounds underweight. Someone had banged his tail, but it couldn’t hide the rain rot on his back. His knees were buckled over with arthritis. He had such an aura of wisdom, though, and the star on his forehead reminded me of my mare.

I was taken aback at his condition, but something, the same feeling that had compelled me to drive 500 miles to pick up a horse I had never tried, made me feel that things would work out. This feeling had to be either the result of divine guidance or complete delusion. We walked Favor down the hill. I had my saddle, but it was clear there would be no test ride that morning.

The farm owner and trainer had appeared and were exchanging barbed words with Mike. Even if the atmosphere hadn’t been so tense, I doubt I would have had the heart to saddle a horse whose spine protruded so painfully.

Instead, I decided to make Favor trot a few small circles at the end of a lead line. I expected him to be visibly off, but to my surprise he moved evenly in both directions. This proved either that he was not lame, or that he was equally lame on both sides. Favor was wearing what appeared to be a nylon pony halter, extended at the throatlatch by baling twine. I replaced this with a sturdier, padded halter for the long drive ahead. Favor walked on the trailer without hesitation and began eating timothy from the haynet.

The trainer found a moment to speak to me out of Mike’s hearing. “Our vet says he’s in his 30s,” she said pointedly.

I found this statement plausible but only nodded, having already decided to sort things out when I returned to North Carolina. I could always, I told myself, give Favor to Mike Jr. I collected his health papers from Mike Sr.

“I think you can start jumping him over small jumps next week,” he said, perhaps in an effort to express his faith in the horse. I found this statement a tad optimistic, but there didn’t seem to be any point in saying so. The sensible thing to do would have been to leave the horse right there in the barnyard, but he had such a kind eye, and he had trotted sound. Whether it was divine inspiration or simply that I felt sorry for Favor, he was definitely coming with me.

As I pulled out Mike yelled after me “If he takes ahold of you DROP THE REINS!”

Thus in the span of 5 minutes my new horse had doubled in age, and my conception of him as a quiet older mount was blown. As I made my way back to the highway I smiled at how little I have learned over the years. It struck me that the best thing to do would be to find a hot cup of coffee for the long road ahead.

If you enjoyed this article and would like to read more like it, consider subscribing. “Bona Fide” ran in the February 12, 2010 issue. Check out the table of contents to see what great stories are in the magazine this week.