(photo by Lisa Fowler)
Yesterday I strolled through the horse barns at the Delaware County Fair. Horses and their barns beat the rides, elephant ears and corn dogs (OK, maybe not the corn dogs) any day. I might be 53 years old, but once I am in the presence of a horse, I am 12 again. My daughter went through the same love affair a few years ago.
Horses are magnificent. So much bigger than me, they are beautiful in their majestic, sleek power. Their huge, brown eyes mesmerize. And oh, those velvet muzzles: irresistible. One of the horses I was talking to yesterday took a liking to my arm and began nudging, then licking it. He must have just known I'm crazy about horses, and he returned the fondness.
No, I didn't own a horse, ever. When I was in the desperate loving-and-wanting-a-horse stage, my pragmatic father said: "you know, for every hour of pleasure riding a horse, you'll have ten hours of work."
He was probably right, but still. I'd go over to the fair again just to see and pet and smell and visit with those horses. Yum.
