Wings to Fly

By Kathleen Livingston

It was definitely love at first sight. He literally took my breath away. Tall, strong, straight legs. Hair the color of a darkly burnished copper penny, hanging rakishly in those liquid brown eyes…eyes that you could get lost in. He flexed his neck as I approached, nostrils flared, watching my every move. Nervous. We both were. And I knew he was younger…much younger than my 25 years…very green and inexperienced as I was. Perhaps we could grow up together.

And we did.

He was christened Red River Dude but I called him Red. He was a cowboy’s horse, born and bred in Texas, out of Music River, by Cricket Red. I thought them magical names then. And he was magical as only a first horse could be. After waiting years to make a dream come true, a young girl, horse-crazy since birth, he was my companion and friend for twenty years.

I gave him a safe and comfortable home and he gave me wings to fly. And we did fly, literally…across fields of golden wheat, down hard-packed, dusty back roads, through thickly wooded forests…across time.

And the years flew by as well…almost as if we weren’t watching or paying attention. We both grew up and grew old. The hair turned gray and our strides became less fluid, our rides shorter and shorter. We still took pleasure in one another’s company, the ordinary pleasures of crisp early mornings and soft gentle nights.

Each spring as I combed the long winter hairs from his coat, I saw signs that I chose to ignore…the coat getting duller, the muscles flaccid, bones where fat used to be. And as he grew thinner and thinner and the tender spring grasses no longer worked their magic on his body, my heart began to break…knowing our days were limited.

That last summer as he stumbled to keep up with the younger horses…his great spirit still willing but his body broken by the years, I realized it was time for us to move on. My journey would be harder than his. More complicated. But, I made the arrangements for us both…packed my bags and got my affairs in order. Then made the call to the vet. A gentle good night…that was what I wanted for this old friend of mine.

As I climbed the hill to the stable one last time, held his halter for him to slip his nose into, nuzzling my hand gently, and walked him to the great oak tree in his paddock where they waited for us, I had no sense of sorrow but one of quiet and peace…a release for both us…my final gift to him, to myself…wings to fly.

Wings to Fly

I was going through a major upheaval in my life at the time I wrote this...ending a 30 year marraige, moving from Michigan  where I had spent my entire life to New York...and having my horse put down...and starting over at 50.  As most who love or own horses, they really epitomize the freedom of our spirits as we would like them to be.  Even as I am now "horseless" my own spirit still resonates with how I felt back in my younger days and how my horse bandaged a lot of wounds that no one else could heal.