View from the North 40

Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to love horses — sure, it sounds like a catchy country tune, but really, don’t. Just don’t.

Horse people say things about loving horses — how they’re passionate about them, or how horses speak to their soul — but really it’s an illness, an addiction without a ribbon to help garner awareness or support for this tragic disorder of character.

Given the least chance, horse people talk about horses almost as much as they think about them: incessantly, even in social situations where no one has a clue or care one about them.

Just when the unwary are either mentally anesthetized by the horse-talk or desperately trying to get away like the black cat in a Pepe LePew cartoon, horse people inevitably say something catchy like: “My horse has an awful case of thrush around her frog,” and it doesn’t matter how asleep or desperate to leave people are, most of them will think “what the what does that mean?” and someone is foolishly bound to let a little “what?” escape their lips.

Invitation accepted, the horse-obsessed person thinks.

“Well, the frog is a long, thin triangle-shaped, fleshy pad on the horse’s sole. It gets a kind of fungus called thrush, which is like athlete’s foot only black and gunky, and it stinks like a nightmare that even bleach won’t kill. Yeah, see, smell my fingers. Whoa, hey, you have quite a touchy gag reflex there don’t ya. Where’d everyone go?”

Social skills like that’ll clear a room every time.

Fortunately, horse people are generally too busy obsessing over their horses to go to many functions. Besides, they can’t afford to do much because they’re spending money on horses, land, tack, shelters, barns, fencing, more tack, more horses, a pickup, a horse trailer and more horses. Always more horses.

If I had the money, I’d be like the crazy cat person of horses, which are exponentially more time and money consuming in proportion to the size difference between cats and horses. It’s true.

In fact, I just bought a new horse. Yes, she’s lovely, thank you for asking. I have big plans for her, so it’s amazing to me and everyone who knows me that I showed a great deal of restraint by not buying this new horse until I sold one of the three I already had. Yes, thank you for asking, she went to the perfect home. I couldn’t be more pleased.

OK, that’s a lie. This change up is killing me.

The old horse new things, routines, the layout of the land. The new horse is young, which means she tests boundaries and is not accustomed to making the best choices for self-preservation. As I watched her explore her new home — and get chased relentlessly by one of my other horses who is determined to assert himself as new herd boss — I cringed and realized just how not “baby-safe” my pasture is. Yes, she’s fine, thank you for asking, but still, I’m worried.

My walk-through assessment of my property was a constant litany of: Oh, that’s not safe. That’s probable deathThere’s loss of limb, unspeakable injury to-be, certain death, escape, escape, escape, some kind of blood-letting, broken bones, disfigurement, puncture, more death — and that one will be all fun and games until someone loses an eye. All I need is some kind of choking hazard to make my property a complete equine-baby death trap.

What was I thinking? That’s been my all-consuming question this week as I worry and work, obsessively, on the baby proofing. I haven’t even gotten to the training part yet. Plus, I might need new tack.

Really, what was I thinking?

Then she does something cute, or smart, or athletic, or pretty, or endearingly horsey like, well, anything, and my heart feels bigger, my soul fills, and I see way out ahead into the miles together to a day when I breed her to make yet another addition to my herd.

I know at that moment that, even though I need another horse like I need butt implants, I do not want a cure for this illness.

(I already have the stud horse picked out. No, I don’t think that’s crazy talk, but thanks for asking at [email protected].)