A Barn and a Gray Mare

A story should have a beginning, a middle, and ultimately an end. I never wanted our story to end. I knew was coming and dreaded it every day. Now our story ended almost three years ago. I feel as if it is all just a bad dream. I miss her, my best friend. My shelter from the storm, my rock, my sanctuary. Our story began when I was only 14. My dad bought her for my 15th birthday. He never anticipated that a birthday present would save my life. A $2500 horse not specially bred, just a breeding stock paint, a simple Gray 4-year-old mare would end up saving my life. She is just a horse. Just a horse named Sunfish.

The smell of an old horse barn has always been my favorite. That combination of hay, horse, and a little manure always makes me smile. Nothing competes with the smell of horses. My first job at 14 was mucking stalls, not very well, and feeding horses for some cash at a local ranch. They trained and showed a variety of western disciplines and sometimes I was able to ride when they needed an extra hand. That is how I got to ride her. She was just a gray mare that they used to work cows. John, the owner's father-in-law, usually used her, but he was not there, so they had me ride her to turn back cows for them. I had not paid her much attention before, but as I brushed and saddled her a sense of calm happiness came over me. The whole time I rode her it was perfect. She seemed to know what I was going to ask before I asked it. Riding her was like breathing.

Stanley just called her “that gray mare”, so I asked John her name. I remember the slight smirk when he said “Sunfish.” “What? What kind of name for a horse is that?” He let out a deep, low chuckle. “It's her registered name, but when someone buys her, they will probably call her whatever they want.” “She’s for sale?” I asked looking away from him and into her piercing blue eye. “Yeah, they are downsizing and she's on the list to go,” he said quietly as he took his saddle into the tack room. Later, when my dad pulled in to pick me up, I ran out to get him. We have been looking for the right horse for me after selling my last gelding. She was the perfect horse. “Dad, I found the horse I want. She is perfect!” I could see the apprehension in his face. I still smile remembering it. This ranch had many high-dollar horses, and I knew what he was probably thinking

I took him to her stall. He looked at her, saw the blue eye, but no other white on her body. “What is her breeding?” “I don't know,” I told him honestly. “She's a breeding stock paint we use her for turn back and gathering.” My dad gave me a look and then glance around the barn. “If you want to paint, there is a nicer looking one, a real one,” gesturing across the aisle to Kat, a beautiful Bay paint with a notoriously bad attitude. She had her pretty head over the stall door and penned ears when we looked at her. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “I don't want just any paint. I want Fish.” I was gearing up for a fight. I have a stubborn streak when I heard the chink of spurs and John's distinctive gate coming down the barn aisle. He shook hands with my dad. “She is a good hand for me, but you should see Kandi on her, you would understand.” John is an old-school cowboy who my dad and I greatly respect. I saddled up Fish. I do not know at the time what my dad saw, but I know what I felt. A bond, my heart in time with her hoofbeats, my breath in sync with hers. A horse and rider like one single unit, something I never felt with another horse.

When I was done and going to put her up, I notice my dad was gone. I was walking to the truck looking for him is when I saw him coming from the office with a bill of sale and her papers in his hand. He only said two words. “Happy birthday.” She was mine! I ran back into the barn, kissed her nose looking into that beautiful blue eye. I said, “you're my girl now, Fish!”

On the way home, he asked what I was going to call her after he saw LX Sunfish on her papers. I just grinned in amusement and said, “her name, Sunfish.”

It is the best birthday I ever had.