the stable – way back when – had a whole bunch of horses, stall upon stall in a long barn.

but i remember four.

buck and hercules and mardigras and lucky.

buck was a, well, buckskin-colored horse. he was kind of elderly, perfect for new riders. i imagine that in his heyday he was quite the looker – tan with black forelegs, a black mane. he was gentle and slow-moving, predictable and sweet.

hercules was a palomino. a smaller horse with spirit and a real love of people, hercules was a favorite and could be counted on for a good ride, wherever and however you might adventure together.

mardigras was a stunner. a big black horse, highly spirited and capable, he was my favorite. he loved to canter and gallop, and he jumped with ease, graceful and fluid. he was a horse who could go the long haul, trail rides of miles, paddock-training for hours, show jumping with the best of them.

and then there was lucky. lucky was a bay. he had attitude – but not the i’ll-cooperate-with-you-let’s-go-for-a-ride-together kind of attitude. his was an impatient i-want-what-i-want-no-matter-what kind of mindset, i-do-what-i-want behavior. he had a dubious reputation. no one was entirely thrilled with drawing the ride-lucky straw. but there were days that was the straw you pulled.

i was assigned lucky on a trail ride. we saddled up in the paddock and rode past the barn. we rode nose-tail-nose-tail, following each other up into the woods. as taught, i held the reins in my hands, concentrating on good posture and the messages i was sending my horse. i leaned over under his mane and hugged him, speaking quietly to him, trusting we were working together. in retrospect, i’m pretty sure he smirked at my innocence, curling his lip back and thumbs-upping his true nature.

once we were way up in the woods and had ridden for some time, it was the moment we turned back toward the barn.

lucky tossed his head and whinnied loud. every other horse looked at him, surprised at how noisy he was.

and then he took off.

no one had warned me that – at any moment – lucky – undeterred, unconstrained – would likely take his head, that he would show no mercy. on this first trail ride with him, i was shocked and scared at his out-of-control.

he ran – down the trail – not caring if branches were thrashing at me, not caring if i were jostled around, not caring – at all – if i were still on his back. by the time we neared the paddocks, my young, strong body was exhausted from merely holding on. we got to the barn and he reared up on his hind legs, throwing me off to land hard in the dirt. he swaggered off, uncaring, heading for the feed troughs.

my instructor immediately got me up on another horse, handing me the reins, encouraging me to ride more, getting me past the trauma.

there were other lessons, other trail rides, horse shows after that.

but even at nine years old, i knew better than to ride lucky, knew better than to trust lucky. his base desires had overrun all his kind-horse-ness, all his he-knows-better. his willfulness had overrun all his goodness.

lucky had taken me for a ride once. i wasn’t going to allow it again. there were other choices, other horses to ride.

“there is nothing to be learned from the second kick of a mule.” (mark twain)

those of you whose base rage overran your decency, who voted for the sneering, contemptuous no-mercy agenda of maga-land, where did the nine-year-old in you disappear to? how is it possible this mule kicked you a second time??

lucky is smirking.

again.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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