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Aquaarius The ad read, “Half Arabian Pinto for sale.” The gelding was running in a small herd of horses of various ages, sizes, colors, and charisma. But the half-Arabian pinto just didn’t “feel” like my horse. Major disappointment. As I turned to leave, I saw another herd in the far end of an adjoining 65-acre pasture. I asked the owner if any of them were for sale. Without answering, he walked over to the pasture gate and yelled out “Aqua-a-a-rius!”
A head came up and a gray Arabian mare instantly started to run around the other horses and push them in our direction. She drove them from behind until they were galloping toward us then passed them to lead the entire herd up to where we stood watching in amazement at their beauty. Of course, I fell in love immediately and could see no other horse except her. If they hadn’t been willing to sell her, I probably would have never owned another horse, but sometimes there is a meeting of souls that just can not be denied. Aquaarius was not yet three and because of her youth and my fear (resulting from a recent horse-related injury), we both went into training with a sagacious old horse trainer named Vic Adams. He was patience personified and let me work for him during the summer to pay for training and lessons. He danced a little jig the first time I soloed, and after that he told me she would be my best teacher now that I had learned to trust her and she me. After that, we moved back to the mountains and became intrepid explorers. Aquaarius taught me not just to ride, but to be a better person. She taught me to respect her opinion and her rights as an individual. I seldom told her where to go on our many trail rides; we collaborated. Disputes were often settled in her favor as she was the better decision maker based on her uncanny sense of direction and ability to determine the safest route. There were so many adventures where she literally saved my life. On one trip to Canyonlands in Southern Utah, I struck out ahead of the group and became hopelessly lost. As it started to get dark and I felt the first bit of fear at realizing I didn’t know where camp was, I dropped the reins over the saddle horn and told Aquaarius, “Well I have gotten us lost, girl. Take us back to camp.” She turned at an angle to our current route, and 20 minutes later took me directly back to where we had parked the trailers even though by then it was completely dark. If I thought it was just a coincidence, she put that thought to rest the next time she had to drag me out of the desert because I had lost my sense of home. She never did and seemed to know that the trailer was the place we had to go in order to get home. She would never let me cross an unsafe bridge or an unstable talus slope. She always took care of me. Together Aquaarius and I worked a riding academy, learned dressage to 3rd level, competed in trail classes, showed in open Western pleasure classes, and spent thousands of hours together in mountains and desert. Twice we made the arduous trek up the Lone Peak wilderness trail. She taught me to not mount too quickly or she might not be there when I came down; she taught me about horse-eating bushes and invisible predators because she could spin fast enough to leave me in the mid air. Those times when I found myself sitting in the ground (through not fault of hers), she would stand quietly, looking slightly embarrassed for her rider, and wait for me to get back in the saddle (from any angle - left, right, back, or even over her neck). On especially steep trails, she would let me follow behind and hang onto her tail while she pulled us both up the hill. She knew the boundaries of the yard and would come get me if someone left the gate open and the other horses ran away, which she would never do. Later, when I could no longer ride because of serious back injuries, Aquaarius remained my companion and confidant. I would talk to her when I felt bad and she would listen and be there and put things back into perspective. Aquaarius gave direction to my dreams and was there for me when my husband died. For nearly 30 years, we have been together. But the hardest part of loving is letting go. After all the years, arthritis has finally taken control. Medicine can no longer control her pain and watching her pain get worse daily, has finally given me the strength to help her one last time . . . by letting go. I will never forget you
Aquaarius. I will always be grateful for all you have given me and
I will always love you for it. Graze
in greener pastures and in perfect summer days forever. AQUAARIUS (Black Boots x Taco) January 1970 – December 14, 2000
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