This past April, we were finally ready. In the months prior we (Best Husband Ever and I) had discussed the finances and logistics of this major life decision in mature and rational conversations.
Then I cried.
As a result, in April, I started seriously looking for a horse.
I've wanted my own horse since I knew what a horse was. My parents initially thought I would grow out of it, the way many young girls who wish for ponies do. I did not grow out it. In fact, I passionately lobbied for my own horse every birthday and Christmas for a steady, obsessively consistent, eight years. In response (desperation?), my parents finally agreed to pay for riding lessons at a gorgeous stable that came complete with a trainer from Ireland and a barn full of beautiful horses.
From the moment I arrived at the stable, I was fundamentally changed. The scent of the barn - hay, leather, horse sweat, dirt, and manure - was intoxicating. The horse's warm breath and soft muzzle were soothing to my shy preteen spirit. My toes were born to be in saddle stirrups and my fingers were meant to grasp braided leather reins.
It was like that scene in The Sorcerer's Stone when Harry first held his wand in Ollivander's shop - a perfect match.
I have since spent almost 20 years riding and loving other people's horses. I couldn't afford my own horse and I was moving around the country too frequently to keep one. I always made a friend who had horses, or found a stable that needed someone to exercise horses, and I satisfied my addiction that way. Riding other people's horses is not the same as riding your own, and as grateful as I was to have generous, wonderful friends who let me ride, I ached for my own horse to love.
That all changed in May.
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