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It's Wednesday, 7:30 AM;
horse hair floating around the white-painted interior of the drafty brown barn,
mingled with the strong scent of horses.
A young blond stable hand, Angie, age fourteen, body brush in either hand,
is grooming a paint gelding named Castro,
singing softly as she works,
sweat staining her faded red shirt to the
color of blood.
She switches after awhile to a rubber,
and the paint nuzzles her pockets for a treat.
The girl holds out a ripe yellow apple,
which Castro eagerly lips off her palm.
She goes back to work.
Soon his coat is gleaming, magnificent.
He's ready to ride.
Angie tacks him up,
takes her time,
does it right,
then she walks the black-and-white horse to the entrance,
ready to hand Castro over to young Mr. Howatch,
the stable owner,
who always takes him out one morning a week.
But Phil, the scruffy old trainer, says,
"You want to take him around today, Angie?"
"Do I ever!"
Now exercise riding is routine stuff,
but it's still riding and it feels good,
and Angie does her share,
but she feels a bond with Castro.
He's special.
For the most part today it's a trail ride;
they'll walk, trot, and maybe canter a bit.
She lets him loose to jump a few logs
and a crystal-clear brook that
cattie corners across the path
and follows as far as the old church-yard
where it veers off to the right.
Down the path and beside the stream,
she lets him graze for a little
on the bright green spring grass and clover
before they hit the circular training track
where she really takes him through his paces,
kicking up dust as he goes.
All too soon, it's time for the
cool-down.
She untacks him
and gives him a good hosing off,
dries him good,
and takes him to the paddock
where he can rub elbows, as it were,
with others of his kind.
Sauntering back to the barn,
dust marks in the shape of her hands
on the seat of her jeans,
she catches sight of the old trainer.
"Phil," she says, "Where's Mister Howatch?
Doesn't he usually ride on Wednesday?"
"Didn't you hear, lass?
His wife had them a new baby boy this morning."
"O Wow! I totally forgot she was carrying."
Back in the barn, she notices a beautiful bay head
and neck poking over the stall gate.
It's her own horse,
a gentle mare called Scruffy,
who is anything but.
She was a gift from Mister Howatch himself.
Angie gives her a big hug
and then fishes around for a horse cookie.
Left pocket. Of course!
Fondly letting go of Scruffy,
she heads for the tack room and
treats herself to a Coke from the fridge.
She leans up against the door frame
to sip the soda's bubbly coldness.
Between sips, she smiles.
She rode Castro this morning,
she'll ride Scruffy this afternoon.
Yes, indeed. For a lowly stable hand,
it was being a beautiful day.
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