You know you’ve been missing your horse when you’re mountain biking to the tune of “I Should’ve Been a Cowboy.” There’s something very weird about that.
Much as I love mountain biking, there’s nothing like being on a horse.
Yesterday’s return to the barn with a little country western playing on the radio felt oh, so right. I even enjoyed the long, long walk to the far reaches of the pasture — where the grass is so much better than right next to the gate.
Micah has shown little enthusiasm for my plan to teach him to come running at the sight of me and my carrots. I slog across the pasture, watching swallows sail through the grass, a few geese honking overhead, perhaps a hawk. The walk takes so long, dandelions pop up, mature, and go to seed before I reach Micah, in the far corner. He’s so far away, I can’t see any detail — I just aim for the biggest horse out there.
Sometimes Charlie, the youngster of the group, gets the herd riled up and cantering to the gate. I appreciate when he gets Micah to the gate for me, but no such luck today.