Galloping
My husband Dennis and I are riding home along the old AT&SF road. We’re wringing every bit of daylight out of a bonus Sunday afternoon that feels like spring instead of dismal February.
Dennis’ Miss Morningstar is having an Arabian moment, cha-cha-cha’ing her way back to the ranch—teacup muzzle tucked to her chest, nostrils flaring, tail flying—although we’ve still got a few miles to go. The little mare looks almost like she’s remaining in one spot, but actually horse and husband are moving forward. With flare. Croup lowered, back legs flexing, the aerodynamically built, hot-blooded critter has barely broken a sweat during this extravagant dance. And Dennis sits her gait so pretty.
Caprichosa and I amble along behind. Too fascinated by the Arabian’s showy and unsolicited piaffe, I’ve been reduced to a mere passenger.
Then Dennis does what I suspected all of this pomp was leading up to. He lifts a rein just so, and Morningstar’s shining red hindquarters wind up for an all-out, no-holds-barred, pull-out-all-the-stops, take-your-breath-away gallop. Now good rider etiquette requires that you inform your fellow riders when you are going to haul off from a near standstill like you’ve got a jet engine strapped to your horse’s hindquarters. (And we do stick to the rules when we’re riding with the kids.) But not on this almost balmy, we're-all-on-our-own, get-too-full-of-yourself winter day.
Luckily, I go from sack of potatoes to rider in a second. Because I know my husband. And I know Miss Morningstar.
Dennis flashes me a brilliant smile from beneath the brim of his old Stetson
I let her go.
There is whooping, and there is hollering.
Flickr photos: Domain Barnyard; jasonraddin
