One of my greatest pleasures in life, each and every morning, is being greeted at the pasture gate by one of these beautiful creatures.

As I was getting firewood this morning, my percheron horse Toby caught sight of me from where he likes to start the day, at the top of the pasture in the sunshine, and came rollicking towards the gate in a great floating trot, 1,800 pounds of enthusiasm, leaving a bevy of highly pissed off mares in his wake.

I've never raised a horse from a really young age before. We got Toby when he was a little over one. He's five now. I remember when the sleek, strapping fellow stepped out of the trailer in my driveway, eyes rolling, ears twitching, nostrils flaring, scared to death, but scared in place, four hooves rooted to the ground, fixed right next to the woman I was buying him from. And I stood there wondering what in the world I'd gotten myself into. We'd made the deal pretty much over the phone, and I'd only seen photos of Toby (then Eclipse) up to that point.

It was a good trade. My thoroughbred mare (the high-strung beauty who had no temperament for the mountains but who was destined to have beautiful babies with the sport horse breeder's Friesian stallion) for one young Percheron gelding. Beneath all of that youngster stuff, all of the full of himself young horse energy, the big boy showed good sense.

And that whole brimming over with life thing is something I hope the horse never completely loses. Maturity will temper that, I know. But the energy will still be there. It will simply change a bit over the years.

Kind of like my own, I guess. I still brim over, but in a middle-aged, more sensible kind of way. Most of the time, that is.

I'll always remember this time of having a sweet young horse who rushes to greet me on a bitter cold morning, and hold it dear. It's almost as if I carry the big horse around with me during the day, hidden away in my coat pocket. I know he's there.