Rosie

       I wanted a horse for as long as I could remember. I dreamt of having a stunning freisian or a prancing arabian, or something along that line. Finally on Friday, April 16, 2009, after nearly 14 years of constant asking, begging and waiting, my mom and I went to the Idaho Horse Expo to look for MY horse. Inside, I felt anxious, excited and uncontrollably happy. I remember stepping into the sale barn, people were roaming looking for prospects, horses were neighing nervously and some were being "test-driven" in the many round corrals. I scanned the sale program, looking at the multitudes of horses for sale, I chose one that sounded like a possibility and off we went to find his stall. The horse was a HUGE cremello paint. His black mane and tail had been primly shortened to the preferred show length and his goregous fur had been shaved for the summer. His magnificent head watched as I talked to the rugged cowboy selling him. When I finally did mount him in a round corral, I realized how ridiculous I looked in blue riding breeches, brown leather chaps and an McU T-shirt on this, without a doubt, western horse. Nonetheless, I rode him both directions, in all three gaits, and instantly knew he wasn't the one. I politely thanked the weatherbeaten cowboy and continued on. For three or four more hours, I conversed with nearly every owner and rode nearly every horse there. None "clicked" and I became more and more disapointed and worried that I would come home that evening back at Square numero uno. It was 5 o' clock in the evening, horses were being fed and blanketed for the night. As I sat at a table over looking the now empty round pens, feeling quite upset, a cute little brown and white paint horse was led in front of me. I watched her and then turned to my mom and asked, "Did I ride that one?" Mom said, "nope." I quickly got to my feet in a renewed hope that came with finding one more horse. Mom followed behind letting out a barely audible *sigh* no doubt thinking, "Great. Just as I thought we were leaving." I approached the owner and again began the routine of friendly hello's followed by an informative succesion of questions and answers about the horse. After some gentle persuading I was allowed to ride the little paint. Holding the lead rope to her halter, I threw on my old english saddle and mounted up in the deserted round corral. The sun radiated light on the plumes of dust billowing out behind us as we circled in the arena. The wind gently blew through the open-ended tent filled with the sounds of muffled chomping and contented and tired sighs of the stabled horses. I brought the little paint back to a walk and then stopped and just sat for a moment. Her ears shot foward and she let out a neigh to the silent world around us. It felt right. As the sun set and I leaned foward to wrap my arms around the little mare's neck. I quietly turned to the owner and said, "She's the one."
            It was a fairy tale ending to the day. Im not one to believe in decided fate but that one moment, I do believe was fate. I just happened to be sitting at that one table at the right time. She isn't a purebred friesian, or a stunning arabian with a gleaming coat. She is a stocky, brown and white paint with a little bit of black in her mane and tail and a cute brown spot right in the middle of her white back. Her gentle eyes clearly enjoy the rubs behind her ears and underneath her forelock. She is absolutely perfect.

        On Saturday she was checked by a vet and cleared with flying colors. Then on Sunday, I rode her once again but this time, she was MY little paint mare. Outside the round corral, mom signed the bill of sale, paid the $1300 for her and she officially became mine. My Desert Rose. My Rosie. My dream horse.