Lookin' for a Pony

I want a horse. Not just a horse, the right horse. The one that will capture some of the magic of riding that I used to have and enjoy. When horses were simple. When people were more simple, and didn't let horses get away with bad behavior.

Before Down Under Cowboys and Whispering Horsemen made millions telling you how to screw up your horse. When the 'Natural Horsemanship' way was to ride your horse, expect the best of them, and work with them to make sure they remembered that. When the respect between rider and equine was based on hours in the saddle, consistent discipline and praise, not trainers and bling halters and rubber horsey boots.

I am frustrated by what I find in this quest. I have made a couple mistakes in the past, mistakes that cost me time, money, and tears. Mistakes that nearly broke my heart, nearly made me turn my back on this dream forever. I'm sure my husband wishes it would have. Made me willing to never own a horse again, not broken my heart. He just doesn't understand the pull, the attraction.

You, reader, went through the agony of my last horse thinking he was a stallion and running around squealing, nearly tripping over his semi-erect penis. Ick. He didn't even have any testosterone, just some ancient memory of his true calling in life. Whatever it was, it made him unsuitable for my purposes, that is, to be a buddy to me and to safely take me where I wanted to go, with others or alone.

I must be the eternal optimist, looking at the prime riding weather looming, and wanting to have my own horse to take advantage of it with. Last year, the best (and only) riding weather was when my out-of-control horse was in training, draining the budget and my emotions.

I want this year to be different. I want to ride. Next year, where will I be? I don't know. Now, here, this summer, is all I can be sure of. And, at 56 and closing in on the next September birthday, how many years do I have to ride the way I can now? Again, I don't know.

So, ignoring the rolling eyes, the sighs and tightened lips of my spouse, I search on, looking, hoping, dreaming, trying not to give into practicality and age enough to give up. Maybe it's like a man who buys a sports car later in life. Or an older couple who adopt a child. It's like saying 'My life isn't over. I can still enjoy the thing that gave me such pleasure then. I don't need to be content with looking at magazines as others have the fun. I am still able...'

And, really, what's so wrong with that?

Happy birthday to the REAL king...

Vernon Presley, father, Elvis, Colonel Tom Parker. Google image

...the king of rock and roll with the velvet voice. Elvis Aaron Presley. Not MJ, despite the desperate attempts to link the two...(that makes me 'throw up a little in my mouth'...)

Jet-haired southern poor boy who rocked the music scene with his blend of black sound, blues, rock and roll, and pelvic prestidigitation. Who loved his mama, Gladys. Who loyally stayed with a manager, Colonel Parker, when he should have moved on*. Who made the female hearts of the world reach therapeutic cardio rates. Who captured the heart of a three year old little girl from the West, a baby who held a radio wire and acted as a human antenna for her teenage sisters as they did dishes. (Me, in case I was too cryptic)...

I loved his voice. I loved his lyrics. I loved his messages.

He made me think of life outside our dirty chaos-filled home. I thought of love and promise and happiness. I still have that feeling when I hear his music. Like there is more out there to see, to feel, to touch, to taste.

Happy birthday to you, Elvis. And thanks for the sounds, the dreams, the life-long crush.

*It is a fact that after Elvis' death an official investigation found that "both Colonel Parker and RCA acted in collusion against Presley's best interests. Colonel Parker was guilty of self-dealing and overreaching and had violated his duty to both Elvis and to the estate." --from Elvis Info Net and official estate documents