Of Horses and Hand Grenades…or It’s the Thought That Counts

Hey Freakin' Angel readers, I'm sharing my first ever guest post! You're in for a treat from Rachel Gilmore, Judson Press author and host of The Gilmore Girl's Blog. Enjoy, and then check out her site and her books!

So I’m thinking life in cornfield-turned-suburban-sprawl Illinois is pretty tame compared to life in sunny Pennsylvania. In fact, dare I say it, I’m beginning to fear Pennsylvania and all its Freakin Angel residents. Mad-dogs, emo spouses, fireworks at the church picnic…what is this world coming to? However, I do hail from the state that spawned the esteemed impeached governor (currently on trial), so perhaps she who lives in a glass house shouldn’t cast stones…but I digress.

And while I don’t have an insane dog who eats like a goat, runs like a deer and swims like a fish, I do have a horse with ‘tud. She’s 20 going on 12 and has totally mastered the tween/teen eye roll, head snap and tail flick (which is equine for “Whatever!”), and, like my children, she teaches me valuable life lessons, the most recent of which was that it’s the “thought” that counts.

Now typically, LadyJ doesn’t get turned out with the herd because she’s kind of a trouble maker, with a capital T.  A little eye roll, a little head snap, a little tail flick and a nice healthy buck with her back hooves and that girl’s in a whole world of hurt, literally.

And, sadly, thanks to all the recent rain that flooded the front paddocks, we arrived at the barn to discover that she was out with the masses, and had no intention of coming in. The closer I got, calling her name, the deeper she moved into the herd, turning her head and flicking her tail.

However, trouble with moving into the herd to get one horse is that everybody tends to get a little antsy as they sense perhaps that lazy grazing time is over. Nervously they glance about, their ears flattening and raising like satellite dish antennae, and you can almost hear them thinking, “Is it me? Is it me? Is it dinner time? Do I have to go in? Can I go in? Can I race you? I’ll race you to the barn. No, first I’ll rear up. Then you rear up. Then we’ll all turn on our heels and race to the barn. Who’s up for a stampede? On your mark, get set, GO!”

So as I’m crossing the field with its 3-foot high crop of whatever the heck it is that grows back there, I quickly discover it’s also flooded with 3 inches of muddy water, along with meadow muffins too numerous to count, and, I’m quite sure, the occasional corn snake (which I know is waiting for me). I desperately want to look down and watch where I’m going but also just as desperately I want to keep an eye on the herd, which is eyeing me suspiciously and starting to snort and paw the ground. I know what they’re thinking, and it’s not good.

And, horrors upon horrors, my sweet baby girl has apparently been rendered deaf and blind, as she gives no indication she knows I’m approaching, calling her name and making kissy face noises. Instead all I get is a full equine moon at 2 in the afternoon. Finally close enough to make contact with her rump and begin talking to her in earnest, I can tell it’s too late. The herd is ticked, and there’s restless movement around me, a sea of horseflesh tensing and flexing, muscles on high alert. Then Dantor gives the signal, an eerie guttural scream, rears up and tears off, racing the rest of the herd who’s half a pasture ahead of him. And that’s all she wrote.

Having not peed my pants yet conveniently decided my gym shoes were actually water shoes, I slog back across the pasture, without regard for meadow muffins or corn snakes (they can’t swim, right?). Praying that my daughter is still standing and had time to close the mid-field gate, I hear her sweetly calling LadyJ and watch in disbelief as that darn horse trots ever so daintily and agreeably over, slips through to the side pasture and gives Kailie a kiss on the way in. Yet all I get is another full equine moon, and I’m quite sure a head snap, eye roll and tail flick. Whatever! My new motto is simply: “Be alert! The world needs more lerts.” Because, gentle readers, it’s the “thought” that counts with horses (and hand grenades).