The first thing we did at the new place here was build a shed for the horse. Before we had running water restored in the house. Before we repaired the toilets, before we had a shower. Two months before we moved in, there was a new extension onto a small tool shed that provided a place for the horse. A place where he could get out of the scorching sun in the summer and out of the lancing wind in the winter. A place of safety and shelter, a place of relative comfort and provision. He seems to really like it.

I often see him standing out in the pasture, looking at the shed in quiet admiration. I see him casting looks of appreciation and deep respect when he takes a break from pacing around the round pen. That, by the way, is directly connected and open to the shed. He can go in at any time. Even on the coldest days, when the harsh edge of the wind sends ripples through the bare branches and blows his tail into his eyes, he stands outside, almost reverent in his regard for the shed.

What he doesn’t do is take advantage of its shelter. He’ll stand outside and endure the elements.

I’ll go down for the morning feeding and to move him over to the large pasture across the drive and he’ll be pacing around the pen, ice in his mane and frost on his whiskers. There he’ll be, walking back and forth in his own muck, ignoring the fresh hay in the corner and the fresh water by the gate, enduring the affliction of his existence as if he had no choice.

Sometimes that horse can seem so human I just want to slap him.

H. Arnett

1/19/11