Deep sea
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I am feeling rather smug atop my big Percheron.
We are venturing out at a ground-eating walk down the rutted road just behind the ranch. Toby's hindquarters roll like dark waves and break over my hips, advance and retreat like the tide beneath my sitz bones with each step forward. We wade downhill into a cool pool of early autumn air. I am admiring the dolphin-like arc of my horse's neck, the coarse and unruly mane that is becoming less resistant to taming, the way the brand new bit catches the late afternoon sunshine.
When suddenly Toby's neck and head disappear between his two stiff front legs, and he is crow hopping. No! I correct him sternly. I pull on the reins, but this is like that time I went deep sea fishing and got a sail fish on the other end of the line. There was no way I could reel him in.
My rear end parts company with the bareback pad, and I am sailing through the upper regions of space, diving into the clear sky, cannonballing into the heavens, over my horse's withers, broad shoulders, neck, ... and I find myself thinking, clearly and distinctly—Oh man. This is going to. Really. Hurt. Bad.
I land in the mud, on my well-padded behind and a shoulder.
Sure glad I wore my helmet.
Remarkably, it doesn't hurt all that much. And as I come up for breath, slowly, tenderly, rubbing that big sore spot that used to be my butt, I see Toby standing a few feet off, head drooped, ears pricked forward, blinking once, apparently waiting for me.
I think I would be kidding myself if I said the young horse looks sheepish or guilty. Frankly, he seems more confused about what I am doing here on the ground when I was just up there on his back you know. But at least he does stand like a stone while I clamber up on board.
Not nearly so smug.
