More than ...
I do yoga this morning with Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler lolling on her back against me, freckled paws in the air, grinning. She licks my face during each downward-facing-dog part of my sun salutations. Grrrrrrrrrs at me, a taunt. I rub my head against her belly and grrrrrrrrrr back.
Down at the barn, Charlotte Gray stares up at me from her hidey hole in the hay feeder, green eyes luminous in the dawn. I bend down ever so slowly in hopes of touching her just this once, but the aloof feline scampers across the paddock in a frizz-tailed frenzy, followed by her feral teenaged siblings.
My daughter’s white Andalusian horse Caprichosa swaggers up to me, demanding to be fed. Breakfast. Immediately. You’d think she was starving to death. J. and I just gave her a bath on Saturday, so she still gives the white clouds hanging over the mesa this morning a run for their money, with the exception of a few dirty spots here and there. White horses, I grumble.
Teyla chases Cap away and then backs those formidable spotted hindquarters right at me, until I am tummy to tail with 900-pounds of grouchy mare. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think I was about to be kicked, when really all she’s after is a good butt rubbing. I give her polka dots the full treatment, not wanting to miss the opportunity to reciprocate the friendly feelings of the rescue mare who didn’t want to be bothered until just a couple of months ago.
Toby dismisses Teyla with a flourish of his muzzle and thrusts his big head towards me, sniffing my hair. I stand perfectly still, enjoying the Percheron’s early morning hello, running a hand along his fine jet coat.
My son’s quarter horse Pinon makes big huffa-huffa-huffa sounds deep in her belly and circles me like a jumbo jet coming in for a landing. I lay my hand on her withers and press my nose into her mane. She exhales deeply, letting me. My nostrils fill with the scent of hay, earth, sky.
The aristocratic Miss Morningstar, my husband’s Arabian mare, stands imperiously by the barn gate, liquid eyes shining. I place my palms on either side of her finely sculpted head, give her teacup muzzle a quick kiss. Something not often allowed by our resident royalty, but today the four-legged Bedouin princess is all for it. Nostril to nostril, we breathe each other's breath.
Back inside, getting ready for work, Dennis asks the inevitable question—"How’s my girl? " (I, of course, understand that he is speaking of his horse.)
I give him the inevitable answer—“She says to tell you hello.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“But I have to tell you—she told me that she loves me more than sugar cubes.”
“Oh, really?” he asks.
“Yep. More than apples.“
He sighs …
“Even more than oatmeal cookies.”
and shakes his head.
