Some time ago I had a horse, a kind of dappled gray. His father was Arabian; his mother, who can say?
His real name was India, we never called him that. We named him Indie just for short. We should have called him Brat!
His body was magnificent. He walked with head held high. Yet he was scared of his own shadow, and we never found out why.
One day while riding on the trail, that horse thought he’d skedaddle. He whirled around and took a leap with me still in the saddle.
Thank heaven for that big pine tree that stopped us in the air. If it wasn’t for that conifer, we might have died right there.
Well, Indie made it back again without a single scratch. I lost my coat and saddlebags. That horse was quite a catch!
The other riders said to me, “You should let Indie go. The next time that you’re riding him, he’ll stomp you, don’t you know?”
I said I’d give him one more try. Each horse deserves a chance. I’d see if he would come around. I had to take that stance.
It wasn’t but a day or two, a doctor friend and I, were riding on the river’s edge. Who knew my time was nigh?
Well, all at once a deer jumped out. Old Indie leaped up high. I came down on the saddle horn. I tried hard not to cry.
My doctor friend rode up and said, “Hey, Bryce, are you all right?” I said, “I’ll sing soprano if I make it through the night.”
He checked me over, spoke again, “I have some stuff for pain.” I moaned, “No thanks, just shoot me now before I cuss in vain!”
Well, Indie’s gone. I sold him cheap. I think I got a deal, ‘cuz he was bound to spook again. Next time I might not heal.
Goodbye old horse. Good riddance. Your owner’s been informed. Although you are a beauty, your mind must be deformed.
A skittish one like Indie, you don’t forget, of course. And I wonder how they’re doing—new owner and old horse.
So I check the papers every day. The obits I peruse. And thank the Lord that neither one has made the daily news.