The Nature of the Beast

I’m not big on house-keeping.

The other day, I cued up a dvd and, on a whim, wiped the dust off the video screen. Astonished to discover that the flick was actually in color and not in black-and-white.

Took my old pal on a ride through the woods yesterday.

It was a little like that.

Something in the air.

Colors cleaner, crisper, more vivid.

Like somebody had wiped the dust off the world.

Quiet.

Soft thud of his hooves on detritus-carpeted ground, punctuated by the crunch of fallen leaves.

Occasional crack of a twig underfoot.

Distant bird.

Mouse silently scampering across the path.

But mostly just the wind, suggesting sweet and obscene delights to the trees in a soft, hoarse voice...

Cool in the shadows, warm in the sunny patches.

We take our favorite course, one he knows as well as I do.

Either of us could follow it blind-folded.

The uneven ground, strewn with obstacles, is good for the old boy.

Keeps him sure-footed and sharp.

Some days, when we reach a certain open field, I can feel he wants to run, and I let him go. Other days, like today, he’s content to amble along, grabbing a leaf-snack here, giving a snort there.

He’s not a youngster anymore, but still has all the heart you could ever hope to find in anyone. And he’s still the boss of his band, and only rarely has to flatten an ear to remind anyone of it.

I think of him at times when my workouts are tough, when I pull an injury, or when the accumulated abuse nags me in irritating little ways.

We do what we do, because what we do is what we are.

He’ll never stop being a horse, doing horse-things, as long as he lives, because that’s his nature.

I just have to figure out mine.

sj