I remember the first time I was stepped on by a horse. I was leading Mark from one field to the other. The fields were large for a single horse, but eventually he would mow the grass down and the weeds would grow up as tall as my knees unless we cut them down. So I would move him to the other field to work on the grass over there for a while. It was summer, terribly hot. The flies would bite Mark, and when he swished them away with his tail, they would bite me.
The flies were not the reason Mark stepped on me. He stepped on me because he did not know what to do with his excitement about moving from one field to the other. Most of the time, Mark's life was boring and lonely, but the days when he got to go run in a new field were wildly exciting to him. He saw that the other gate was open, and he began dancing his hindquarters back and forth as I led him. That was all right, but he forgot for a moment - his head high out of my reach, his eyes focused on that luscious new grass ahead - that I was walking next to him. Mark put his foot down on top of mine, his shoulder pressing my shoulder.
"Hey!" I said. I stopped walking and pushed his shoulder. "Get off!" I felt pressure on my foot, but it did not exactly hurt. He wasn't leaning on me. It was more as though he set his foot down for somewhere to put it, but his weight was still back in his hindquarters. As soon as I pushed on his shoulder, Mark brought his head down and looked at me. I remember the exact moment he realized he was standing on me, and the spark in his eye as he all but jumped away. He put his head down and looked me over. I rubbed his face, and led him onward. My foot did not bruise. Mark was always a little more careful with his feet after that. I think I was eleven or twelve years old.
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