For six years, my horses and I made a living together.
Riding lessons, birthday parties, school functions, field trips, weddings, movies – we did it all.
My black Tennessee Walker, Percy and my gray Missouri Fox Trotter, Marlon, gave thousands of kids their first horseback rides. After a few years, it seemed like a child could not turn six in the metro New Orleans area unless at least one of my horses was present.
Our move from the
heat and humidity of
Louisiana was spurred
by Percy’s allergy to mosquitos and Marlon’s anhidrosis (a sweating disorder), which makes summers particularly hard on him.
Over the past 18 months, Marlon’s other condition – laminitis, a condition that affects the hoof – flared up. Three vets, two farriers and many thousands of dollars have gone into saving him.
Along with being an excellent lesson horse, Marlon is a warhorse. Most days, he can barely stand, but he perseveres. That horse just will not quit and I will not stop until he does.
But just for a minute, I almost gave up the other day. Friends from New Orleans, whose kids learned to ride on Marlon, had sent money to help with his feed and medical bills. I had bought an entire truckload of his special feed, which costs about three times as much as regular horse feed. Anyone with livestock knows the satisfaction of having enough feed for the foreseeable future. That and a full tank of gas and a fridge full of groceries go a long way to making the world feel secure.
On the way home, I stopped at the Murphy Ingles for less than five minutes.
When I came out, one bag of feed lay broken beside the truck. Two bags were still in the bed. The rest was gone, nearly $400 worth, plus Marlon’s special vitamins.
I got a bag and started gathering the spilled feed from the asphalt. Not crying. Definitely not crying.
I did a trick that my mom taught me: when you are upset about something, speak it out loud. That tends to put it in perspective.
So, standing in the parking lot, staring down at that busted bag, I said, “I’m angry because somebody stole my horse feed.”
It worked. I started to laugh.
Then I went home and fed my horses with the feed that was left.
I did not think to call the police. I suppose I should have, but after 15 years of living in a major city, I do not call the authorities unless bloodshed is imminent. The person I spoke with at Ingles said their cameras do not cover that part of the parking lot. Oh, well.
I sincerely hope that whoever took that feed
had horses that needed it even more than Marlon does.
I am thankful that I did not catch the feed-thieves, because I might have wound up in jail.
Robbi Pounds is the staff writer for The Graham Star. She can be reached by phone, 479-3383 or by email, rpounds@grahamstar.com.