Horses, there were always horses when I was a kid and growing up. First, work horses, left from the days when they were the main motive power on the farm, and at the same time and later, saddle horses for working cattle and getting into the canyons and far pastures to ride fences and check livestock.
By the time I was a teenager, I had evolved more toward motorcycles, trucks and jeeps. But the bond with the horses always held; they are amazing animals, sensitive, ornery and complex, in other words very similar to people.
When I think of the work horses gathered around the barns and immediate pastures where I played as a boy, I think first of a big black and white paint horse named Dream. Dream was huge and beautiful. And, I always suspected, a bit crazy. He was also one of my father's favorites, one of a matched pair. But for the life of me, I cannot remember the name of Dream's mate, a more quiet, gentle sort of a horse..
Dream always stopped me cold, watching me with his insanely bright blue eyes, very unusual, the only horse we had with eyes like that. I still see them today. Dream stared at you with an intensity of being impossible to ignore, or at least so for a five-year old boy. Let's come right out with it, Dream scared the hell out of me. I gave a wide berth when walking through his pasture, just knowing that he'd just as soon kick me or bite me into oblivion, just as he used his big thick tail to wipe away all horseflies or pesky little black flies that liked to swarm on his big thick body.
Actually, most of the negatives I associated with Dream were, I realize now, somewhat of a projection on my part He could probably have cared less about me. He never in any physical way actually threatened me. He just went about his business, eating massive quantities of oats and hay, accepting and relishing whatever difficult and dirty work laid before him.
Dream, you see, had a level of presence and dignity few humans ever approach. That was what intimidated me so, he remained totally oblivious of any of my wants, being and presence. Dream and my dad were true partners, working together and fully respecting each other; I didn't enter into the equation.
I think as the years went by, and I grew up more and learned more, I would have become more comfortable with Dream. But that was not to be.
To this day, I vividly remember the horrible day when he and many of his mates were loaded into a truck, replaced by a tractor, and never seen or heard from again. I remember by father's reluctant sadness and the weight of the terrible decision he had, had to make. I was only eight years old. I remember my mother and I quietly standing off to one side as the horses were loaded into the big semi-truck, my dad gently helping and wanting to be alone.
That terrible, dark day still makes me want to cry, even as I write about it all these decades later. Dream, I miss you and all your kind. You were way too good for what happened to you.
