Wednesday

(because I stink at titles sometimes)

My mother left a message on the answering machine this afternoon. I love her, but sometimes I end up banging my head on the wall. She talks to El Burrito more than she talks to me, when she calls. Usually I say "hi" and hand the phone to her favorite grandson, and that's about it. Her message today was telling El Burrito to enjoy the gorgeous weather we're having, fretting about DH's weight loss (she's worried about it ever since we told her the meds make him nauseous), and after she told me to take care of them, she added "and yourself." That was the extent of her "talking" to me.

It makes me feel like an afterthought sometimes. Sigh.



Today's the 16th of April, which means it's been 15 years since my old horse died, and pretty much took the last bits of my childhood with him. Okay, I was in college and over 20, so not really a child anymore, but he was a big part of my childhood, and after he died, "home" just wasn't the same. I got another horse for a few years right after that, but he was about as different from Smoky as he could be and still be a horse. It still feels a little off to go back to my parents' farm and not have a horse around (or hens, or our collie).

He actually died on the 15th (Tax Day - what a way to make sure I never forget), but I didn't find out until I came home from college the next day. My parents didn't tell me until I stopped at Dad's office to check in on my way home, because they didn't want me upset while I was driving. Good idea, because I don't know how I made it the few miles from there to the house. Actually, there's a lot of that whole weekend that I don't really remember. I tend to sort of block things out and go on autopilot for the big shocks, apparently. I know my sister and I went to a concert that weekend, but I swear, I don't remember any of it.

We don't know what killed him (no autopsy or anything - he was a grade gelding, no insurance or anything) but best guess is either a heart attack or lightning, since it had rained that day and the farm is on a hill that's some kind of a lightning magnet, based on how often the phone gets fried or the house gets zapped. Smoky was in his mid-20s - there was some dispute over how old he was when Dad bought him - but he was as healthy as your proverbial horse. Other than an injury or two and a touch of arthritis, there was only one day when he felt a bit off and didn't clean up his dinner.

At any rate, he was fine when my parents left for work that morning. He'd guilted Dad (he was a master at it) into giving him a bit of grain along with his hay, and he'd cleaned it all up. When Mom got home, he was laying near the fence closest to the house, dead. He hadn't struggled or anything, Dad said, it just looked like he dropped in his tracks. There was one little scrape in the dirt from a hoof, and that was it. Dad had him buried in the pasture before I got home. I keep meaning to get a marker or something, but I haven't done it yet. I don't know why.

One of the big regrets I have is that I didn't have many pictures of him at all, and most of the pics I do have are ancient and not-so-good.
This is the "old" man when he was about 14 or so, and I was around 10. This is about the time I started worrying needlessly about his health. It's all because of an article in Western Horseman about a barrel horse who retired at 13. I didn't make the connection at the time, but compared to a competing barrel horse, Smoky was pretty much retired. He was a backyard horse who went around the fields with me, occasionally got called on to move a few cattle, and rode in the Homecoming parade a few years. Not a really strenuous life, compared to some.


He was about the sanest, most bomb-proof horse I ever met, though. Mom used to ride with a couple of my cousins who had horses, and when I was really little, I went along. Mom packed a little snack in an old bread bag, and maybe a diaper or two, I don't know, and off they went. That would be me there, a little older than El Burrito is now.

That's me and I think two of my cousins. I remember riding him around the yard with 2 or 3 cousins with me, all hanging on to the kid in front of you, and the front kid holding mane while Dad led him. Occasionally, we'd get off balance and all slide off, still hanging on to each other, but Smoky could stop before we hit the ground. And then, of course, give us his "what are you doing down there??" look.


I still miss him. Especially on days like today, when it's sunny and warm and breezy and beautiful. It's the perfect day for a bareback ramble around a field.