Part 3 of Charco’s story.
As Charco and I got to know each other, I got busy with the business end of owning him. If he was to stand at stud, I had to do some promotion. I took him to one horse show, but only one, as the angst he displayed whenever I was out of sight wasn’t worth it.
No matter where I was working outside, even in the farthest reaches of the pasture, if I looked to the pens, he would be watching me.
Despite not showing him, he became very popular and a rather busy fellow. After the first few mares, he was predictable to handle and I had no concerns. Until the grey mare came for breeding, that is. He took one look at her and said ‘no’.
Now, Charco and I used to have big, in-depth conversations, and this is how this one went.
“What do you mean … no? This is your job, buddy … get on with it.”
Charco, “but … I don’t want to.”
Me, “what do you mean, you don’t want to? What kind of an answer is that? This is crazy talk.”
“But,” he sighs like I’m stupid for not understanding, “she looks different.”
“She looks different?” I’m astounded, “You’ve got to be kidding me? Why, because she’s almost white, and you’re only experienced with dark mares? Shame on you, Charco, snob. Enough of this nonsense, earn your keep.”
He heaves another big sigh, then does what he’s suppossd to.
After that time, there were occasionally mares of different colours that came in. He would seem to have a bit of a think about it, then as if remembering our discussion, get down to business.
Charco came to us with a finicky gut that was a constant source of concern. He never colicked, but we always kept a gallon of kaopectate on hand. He would drink it right out the bottle. As he aged, feed became a bigger problem. For the last 3 years of his life, he lived on senior horse feed mixed with kaopectate. We built him a pen with it’s own little pasture, so he could experience the joy of grazing on real grass. When he first arrived, we sacrificed the back section of our beautiful, 7 foot high, chainlink fence, so he could socialize with the gelding in the pen behind him, and they could play ‘tug the halter’. In the last year of his life, he suffered several strokes. We’d find him with a bit of a droopy lip, only able to move in circles. We would guide him to his feed bucket, set his nose into it and he would happily eat. Within a few days to a week, he’d be his old self again.
Taking a drive through the back between the pens one Christmas eve morning, he followed the car with his usual, giant trot, and we said a cheerful good morning to him.
When we returned from the city a few hours later he was gone. He was memorable in so many ways, for so many reasons. I see him in his get, and in the get of his get, and I realize I was privileged to have had the opportunity to know and loved such a great personality. And that is Charco’s story.
Leave a Reply