Growing up all I thought about, all I dreamed about, all I talked about, all I wanted was a horse. But just not any horse. Bays, (brown with a black mane and tail) were out. Not because they weren’t nice looking, but because everyone had one. I thought I wanted a paint horse, the kind Tonto rode. Then I went through a phase were I wanted a Palomino like Roy Roger’s horse, Trigger. Palominoes are the yellow horses with white manes and tails. A friend of mine calls them “the blonde” horses. I went through a spell where I read all The Black Stallion books by Walter Farley so naturally, I decided a black horse would be perfect. Time wore on, years passed and still no horse. Color didn’t matter anymore. The horse could be purple with yellow poka-dots for all I cared. Just get me a horse!

When the day finally arrived when Daddy said, “Let’s go buy a horse,” I thought I’d pee my pants. I quickly learned, however that the kind of horse dear ol’ Dad thought perfect for his daughter was not the horse I had in mind. Dead-heads! That’s what Dad wanted for me. What’s a dead-head? Old mares and broken down geldings who’s top speed was a jog-trot. Lord God. What was the matter with Dad? Did he not know me at all? I wanted a kick-ass , flashy, young thing that could haul ass. Of course, Dad was just being a father. The only thing I knew about horses was that I wanted one. He wanted his daughter to be safe.

Yeah, right. Screw that.

I had about given up hope finding a compromise between Dad’s deadbeat and my race horse, until . . . King. It was love at first sight. The minute we drove up to the farm house and I saw that sorrel gelding, I knew he was the one. Four years old, skittish as hell, and just the right fit. King was created just for me. Daddy didn’t know this and neither did Mama, but I did. And so did King. A sorrel horse is reddish in color. King had a red coat that when washed, shone like deep, rich mahogany in the sunlight.

King came home to live with us. He was perfect. Except. He wasn’t registered. You need a registered horse to show and compete with, plus I wanted a barrel-racing horse. While King could run like the wind, he wasn’t a barrel horse. So, off Daddy and I went on another horse hunt.

But this time, Daddy fell in love instead of me.

Daddy bought a Golden Buckskin filly. A buckskin horse has a tan body with a black mane and tail and black stockings. They also have a black dorsal stripe running down their back. A Golden Buckskin, however, shimmers like liquid gold in the sunlight. They weaned that little girl when they brought her to us. I thought it most cruel. Poor little thing was scared too death. Her Mama gone. A strange home. And a stupid, sorrel gelding slobbering over her!

Even though King was a gelding, he was all man, and that hot, young thing in the barn drove him nuts! When we finally let the golden girl out of the barn, King about ran her to death. He dogged her steps, licked her neck, and was just downright annoying. Daddy said King’s love reminded him of Miles Standish’s infatuation with Priscilla. Bingo! From that day on, the Golden Buckskin’s name was Priscilla. We called her Prissy for short.

Prissy was a full-blood quarter horse with a huge barrel chest. Orney as hell. She kicked Mama, chased my brother up a tree, knocked daddy out, and tired to bite me more times than I could count. But. Lord, God, could that girl run! And she was good-lookin’! She and King were soul mates. And. She was too much horse for me. I hated to admit that, but Prissy was a man’s horse.

I never bended a pole or circled one barrel on her. She was Daddy’s golden girl from the get-go. I hardly ever got to ride her. However, I was glad for Daddy. He recaptured some of his youth with her. And the bond he and I forged riding together was as golden as Prissy’s satin shoulder.

A Buckskin horse will always be a golden memory for me.

But give a sorrel gelding with a blazed face and four white stockings any day!

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  1. Try again. Thanks for sharing your special story. I left a very good comment the first time, but as you know we’re only that clever at the get go. So … keep writing your stories.

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