I did a good half an hour of ground driving with Toby last night. We marched all over the field.

Yes, marched.

That Percheron’s legs are way longer than mine. And he has four of them. (Not to mention the advantage of his 4 tender years compared to my almost 45.) It would not be exaggerating to say that the big jet horse strode forward, all business, sleek hindquarters fully engaged, glossy tail swishing back and forth just above the ground, while I jogged along behind.

And I had help. My (now) 10-year-old-daughter J. trotted right along behind me, holding the trailing ends of the long lines, mirroring my every move. “I want to learn too,” she was saying, breathless, always aspiring to become a trainer. (Her legs are even shorter than mine.)

The three of us walked cruised through the pinon trees like some kind of strange and unusual train—

Big-Black-Steam-Engine Percheron.

Middle-Aged-Mom Freight Car.

Girl-Equestrian Caboose.