In the second week of puppies, my friend KB rode her new horse to our door after supper. Before KB bought him, Scotty had acted in the movie Tombstone, leaping through and shattering a saloon window.
“You look crazed,” she said. “You need a break. Take Scotty for a ride.”
I nearly hurled myself onto his wide black back, leaving KB with the puppies and the Esbilac bottles. In bedroom slippers, I rode him down the driveway, through Rancho Linda Vista, to the gate into Bachman Wash–a dry riverbed that led all the way to Biopshere 2, the two year living experiment that made Oracle famous. The moon glinted off its dome. I heard owls, coyotes, Scotty’s hooves on the packed dirt road.
All through my childhood and early teens I rode, quit when I started to work. I rode sporadically after that. When I couldn’t, I missed it. I always, always missed horses.
“I want a horse,” I told KB when I handed Scotty’s reins to her. “Where can I get one?”