A Bit of Spice
All my memories of the first Morgan horse I’d ever experienced, leapt to the forefront, when an acquaintance of mine found one. She’d been shopping for a horse to replace the Belgian Quarter horse cross, she rode in Competitive Trail and Endurance racing and had come across one not far from where I lived. When she asked hubby and I to come along to look him over, I darn near vibrated with anticipation. Recognizing that expression on my face, the sparkle in my eyes, hubby quickly warned, “you’re not looking at him, she is … right?”
“Right,” I conceded, but not without a good deal of regret.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” it darn near killed me, but I agreed. After all, I wanted to see the Morgan. On top of that, apparently there were several other Morgans there as well. I hadn’t seen a real, live Morgan in years. This was going to be exciting.
The very second, I caught sight of the shiny, chestnut stallion, I wanted him. Still, I had made a promise to my new husband and a promise is a promise. My friend had no intention of taking on the horse that was so frightened of people it was doing its level best to climb the far wall of the boxstall, in an effort to get away from us. Surprisingly, I kept my mouth shut. It took superhuman effort and was an unbelievable struggle, but somehow, I managed it.
A couple of weeks later, we were driving along the highway, about even with the farm where the Morgans lived. Hubby quietly said, “If you want him, you can have him for your birthday.”
That’s how I ended up with my first Morgan, the first of many. Whenever hubby would complain about the horses, about how many we had, I would be sure to remind him, “Hey, you’re the one who started all of this Morgan business. You have no one to blame, but yourself.”
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