A story about horses, part four

            I remember the new green bucket. The old red bucket was older than me, and it had suffered greatly in its years of service. It had been kicked, stepped on, tossed in the air. I had worn it on my back like a turtle, peeking my head out and slowly creeping across the barn floor. The old red bucket had one handle; the other had broken off at some point. And then one day I was mucking stalls, and the single handle broke off. The old red bucket was retired and the new green one with yellow handles came to replace it.
            Mark did not like the new green bucket. He did not like how large it was. He did not like how shiny it was. He did not like the noise it made, which was ever so slightly different than the noises the friendly old red one had made when I dragged it across the ground. When he saw the new green bucket, Mark would throw his head up in the air and shake it back and forth. He would neigh and snort and back up to get away from it. And when he was far enough away, he would put his head down low to the ground and snort and look at me with the most pitiful expression, asking me to take away that scary nasty unfriendly bucket. It just made him feel wrong to see that thing in his stall or his field.
            So I talked to him. I stood in front of the bucket, and I told Mark that it was all right, I would not let the bucket eat him. I had that bucket under control. It wasn't going to get up and chase him around, because I would not let it. He looked at me doubtfully. But Mark wanted to trust me. He wanted to believe that I would keep the bucket from doing something terrible to him, that I could fix the wrongness of it somehow.
            I brought the bucket out into the field. Mark got a good look at it from all sides, but a good distance away where he could dash to safety if it showed signs of life. It didn't. The bucket just sat there, and Mark decided that maybe it wasn't alive after all.
            I brought out his halter and lead rope, and led him around far away from the bucket. When he was calm, I brought him up to it and let him sniff it. After a moment, Mark looked at the bucket, looked at me, and nudged it gently with his nose. "Ok," he seemed to say, "I guess it's ok now."
            Mark did not ever spook at the bucket again.

A story about horses, part three

            I remember the first time I combed out Mark's mane without having to get a bucket to stand on to reach the part near his head. His hair was fine and wispy, and it tangled if you so much as looked away from it for a moment. He hated to have it combed, but without the combing it braided itself into wild ridiculous patterns as though a child had tried to tie it in knots. I could always comb the part near his withers, but Mark would bob his head up and down to try to keep the rest of it out of my reach. He always succeeded, because I was only about eight years old, maybe nine, and I was not tall.
            But this time I was gentle combing out the tangles. Instead of trying to pull the comb through as quickly as I could (thinking that the sooner it was finished, the better), I went very slowly as though I were combing my own hair. It had just occurred to me that if it hurt my head to yank the brush through a tangle, it might hurt Mark too. So I carefully picked out the knots, working my way up his neck toward his head. And slowly, Mark let his head down. I combed all of his mane, and all of his forelock. It was still dusty and yellow from the dirt, and the hairs that had been twisted tight together lay crooked and kinked in odd directions. But it was not tangled anymore. Mark sighed a big sigh, and I hugged his head.

A story about horses, part two

            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.

A story about horses, part one

            I remember the first time I rode a horse all by myself. I was four years old. I had been sitting on horses since before I could walk, but always with a grown-up right there to catch me. I had never been afraid of a horse, and it did not occur to me until years later that anyone could ever fear horses, or what a horse could do to a child. 
            The first time I rode a horse all by myself, it was night time in the summer. Mark, the palomino gelding I had always known and who was truly my first horse, was munching away at his grain in his stall. I was sitting on his back, rubbing his shoulders and just generally feeling calm and happy. I was warm, I was comfortable, and I felt love for Mark and love from Mark. My parents were outside the stall, in the barn aisle, tending to the other horses. 
             A fox began to bark out in the woods. Mark never did like to be shut in a stall, so the outside door of his was left open. My parents never thought he would leave at dinner time, but that fox made him really curious. He lifted up his head and looked past me over his shoulder. I could feel him thinking, "What's that?" 
            Mark turned around, still slowly munching a mouthful of grain. He swiveled his ears back and forth and peered out into the darkness. I sat up and looked, too. Then he shifted his weight forward, and on we went out into the night to see what the fox was doing. I knew just what to do. I sat up, looking forward, and gathered his long white mane into my hands. I remember feeling peaceful and curious, and not at all afraid. Mark stepped out at a walk, but upon leaving the confines of the stall moved into a gentle trot. I held on, comfortable and unperturbed. It was fun, and I laughed. Mark would take care of me, and we would have a little adventure.
            My parents were alarmed. They shouted, but not too loudly for fear of spooking the horse, "Whoa! Whoa! Hang on, we're coming to get you!" I did not understand. Why were they coming to get me? Mark and I were doing great. We were going to see the fox.
            Dad came out through the stall, and jogged after us. But Mark and I paid him no mind. We trotted over to the fence and stopped, looking out into the trees. We could not see the fox, but that was all right. We were just curious, anyway. Dad came up next to Mark and reached up, pulling me down into his arms.
            "It's all right, I've got you," he said. I said, "You didn't need to. I was fine."