Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, July 17, 1995 TAG: 9507180130
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-7 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
More likely, it was his restlessness: weeks' worth of restrained energy, pent up in him by his confinement.
He was, supposedly, recovering from torn ligaments in his right foreleg; stall-bound for the duration of his convalescence, which no doubt had already seemed, in horse-time, a 30-year sentence to him. As he streaked across the field, we could see his bandage's careful red wrapping flashing in and out.
``Oh, no. Oh, no,'' the girls said.
The pony ran. And ran, and ran. Perhaps reinjuring himself. At the very least, undoing days' and days' worth of recuperation. He kicked up his heels at the other horses in the field, nipped, stomped, snorted.
And ran.
He arched his neck. Arched his tail. Pranced and danced a set of intricate, patterned steps that I, in my inexperience, couldn't see.
``Look at that. He's changing leads,'' one of the girls told me.
``Where?'' I asked.
``Boy, is he showing off.''
He was, in a word, spectacular. A stunning black against the silvery twilight sky, against the plate of the rising moon. Feeling his oats, in the true sense.
But he had to be caught and returned to his stall. His bandage had to be checked, and perhaps rewrapped. And so we started after him, across a pasture so filled with wickedly long-thorned thistles that I worried for the forelegs of us all.
One of the girls carried a cup of grain and a little bag of sweets. The other carried the gelding's halter. Their mother and I followed: she striding confidently (although grumbling at the pony), I stumbling along in shoes unfit for this task.
Of course, the pony saw us coming. And he'd had quite enough of us and his stall already, thank you very much!
Around and around us he galloped, by this time leading the other horses with him in great, looping circles. Their hooves thundered. In my ignorance of horses (which, at that moment, seemed desperate ignorance), I was somewhat taken aback by the awful truth of this cliche: thundering hooves. Hooves do thunder. They do!
And then, the gelding decided to run straight at us, and I learned the truth of another cliche: flared nostrils.
I didn't flinch though, as his shining, sweaty flank flew by. In truth, I couldn't. Which way does one move when escaping a thundering horse, with nostrils flared? I didn't know. I didn't know!
``Don't worry,'' one of the girls told me a second after he'd flown by. ``A horse won't ever really run you down.''
Well, at least that one didn't.
And in a few minutes, the girls had rehaltered him, while their mother held off his restlessly milling, horsey companions.
``Look,'' I said, ``I think I'll cross the fence here and walk back on the road. These shoes, you know.''
``Sure,'' they said. ``Sure.''
So by the time I'd rejoined them at the barn, my pulse had slowed, the sweat had dried on the back of my neck. ``Quite an adventure,'' I said. Lightly. Cheerily!
``Look at that moon,'' the mother was telling the girls. ``It must be full.''
The pony thrust his head out of his stall and rolled his eyes at me.
Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times columnist.
by CNB