There was a hobby that I had in my life for the longest time, ever since I was 7 years old and on. I kind of reflect on it quite consistently because it was something that both me and my mom did for the longest time. She got me into it, because she used to do it as girl and so, for many years, tried to get me to do the same.
She was a horseback rider, I got into it in my late teens. This is when I can say that my mom started to like me, since she fully admits that we could not stand each other when I was younger and she didn’t think too much of me. Hey, it’s her words, not mine, the lady is painfully honest sometimes. That’s where all the breyer horses came from, was me yearning to have my own horse as a kid and having to ride on lesson horses. I tried all the different riding styles, one of my favorites was hunter/jumper.
Jumping on a horse is an experience that is absolutely an adrenaline rush in the best way. It’s exciting, dangerous, and wonderfully magical at the same time. Being airborne for those few moments, feeling the rush of the air hitting your face, the sense of their muscles beneath you bunched together is something else. Nothing was ever as perfect as when I got my own horse, and jumped her. Her excitement for jumping over fences was electric, I felt it course through me and she’d prick up her ears and I’d hold my breath in anticipation.
She brought my mom and I together, we both loved her like crazy. Her personality was like no other, which is why I can’t go back to the hobby, I can’t return to it. A horse is just a horse, but there was only one of her. She was the biggest brat I ever met, but yet that’s what I loved the most about her. How much fire she had, how she’d stand her ground and toss you off her back if you punished her for something she didn’t do wrong. Whenever I come across pictures of me and her I choke up. She was beautiful, and I still have dreams that we didn’t put her down.
But, we did. She was getting worse, not eating, in constant pain, even though you could tell she tried not to show she was in pain. She was tough like that, I miss her every day. My mother misses her every day. No one knows that she was put down besides my family, and the man, except for 3 people at work. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t of told them, because I’d rather not have them think they know what I went through, what I still go through today. They just don’t know.