There’s a bridle hanging on the hooks behind my bedroom door. It’s made of smooth, reddish brown leather, and is stamped with a rectangle-diamond-rectangle pattern. Two sets of braided leather reins hang over the same hook. Upstairs there’s a saddle with the same reddish brown leather and rectangle-diamond border as the bridle, and with floral tooling on the fenders and saddle skirt. I haven’t used them for nearly two years, but I still like to handle them; dusting them off with a microfiber cloth and rubbing a little oil into the glowing leather.

     I got my first horse when I was in fifth grade; and had him for four hard years. Drew was a stocky fourteen-hand Morgan cross. His light bay coat gleamed golden when brushed, with slight dappeling showing in the summer, and his thick black mane and tail were a joy the braid. He was a three year old when we bought him; would carry a saddle and rider, and respond to direct rein pressure. Drew was wickedly smart and absolutely fearless, but also very aggressive and pushy. Sure, we had a lot of fun together. We would have water fights; me splashing him with my hands, and he sloshing the water with his nose until we were both soaked. He loved to play in the snow too. We would run together back and forth across the pasture, me laughing and gasping and Drew snorting and arching his neck. He was completely bomb proof and spook proof, afraid of nothing. But he was extremely dominant, sly and passive-agressive. He was always trying to subtly (and often painfully) manipulate and one-up me. I learned alot from Drew. I learned to tie good knots, (he was a regular Houdini) I learned to be stubborn and give no room for monkey business, and to hold on tightly when I rode. Though he had several good points, he had quite a few bad ones, some of them dangerous, and most of the impressions he left me with were not good. I learned to be wary; you never knew when he would be acting sweet and agreeable then suddenly whip around and bite you. I learned to watch my feet (trying to step on them was a game to Drew) and to keep an eye on his feet as well; he would sometimes strike or threaten to kick. I learned to feel when he tensed to buck or try to break away from me. By the time we sold him I was wise, wary, and scared.

     Enter, Dancer. Nine hands of absolute sweetness, this darling miniature horse totally restored my faith in the equine species. A glowing chestnut, with a star,stripe,and snip on his delicate face, large soft eyes, silky flaxen mane and tail, and a small splash of white on his side, Dancer is a picture pony. He was sold to us by a sweet older lady who wasn’t able to keep up with her miniature horses. She had shown him in halter classes, (he has several championships and two grand championships to his name; which isn’t a surprise considering his perfect conformation and dainty bearing ) and although his ground manners were flawless, he was entirely unfamiliar with the concept of having a little human on his back. So since he was to be my little sisters’ pony, that meant I needed to train him.  It looked challenging to me, considering he’s too small for me to ride, and I was honestly scared of horses (even tiny ones) at that point, but he took the saddle and little rider with hardly a hiccup. And he was such a joy to be with! Drew would shove you with his nose preliminary to trying for a piece of your skin, Dancer would push his little muzzle under your chin and turn his head to one side, begging for a scratch behind his ears. Drew would passively resist me in every way possible, Dancer was all cooperation. And slowly, as I worked with this little dream, my built up anxiety around horses began to ebb. Dancer taught me to be gentle. Drew would push me around out of some inborn aggression, and the only way to keep your skin in one piece was to be more aggressive. That wouldn’t work on Dancer. He needed a gentle touch, not a strong one, and I needed to learn to let go of my fear and soften my hands. And I learned. Slowly, to be sure, but steadily. Sometimes I would catch myself being too heavy handed with Dancer, shoving him away, or slapping his neck when he nosed me, but he always let me back up and try again. He taught me what forgiving and forgetting looks like. And now I have a tiny horse that nickers whenever he sees me, and shoves his nose in my face for a kiss.

     So I don’t know what the moral of this story is. Don’t buy arrogant, green broke three year olds with dominance issues if you don’t know anything about horses, I guess. But really, it’s about hope. Hope, courage, and perseverance. That’s why I kept my saddle. The last time I used that saddle, I was totally out of control; aboard a runaway who had the bit in his teeth and was headed through small-town Applecreek at a dead run. A different kind of ride or die. Either I stayed on lunatic Drew, bucks and all, or I hit the asphalt. Not a good option!  I managed to ride him out, and Drew was sold within forty-eight hours. But I kept my saddle. It was kind of a token to me, a little bit of hope that I would ride again, that not all horses were like Drew.

     And sweet, beautiful, open hearted Dancer gave me the courage to try again.

Leah Troyer