A cold stiff wind swept down from Alaska. Trees bent over, wires swayed, barn roofs groaned, moaned and made scary noises. The wind was blowing hard enough to roll the gravel down the driveway. I had to lean into it to walk.
Every horse I saw was higher than a kite. Nostrils were flaring, with heads tossing all over the place.
Better turn the boys out before I ride.
I have to halter each of them before I can get their sheets off: I can’t trust them to stand still. That’s insane with these two: they stand still.
But this is Black Stallion level wind. The kind of wind that makes every horse believe he is The Black, and must RUN, run NOW, wild and FREE.
I wonder if I should lead one at a time to the turnout. Usually I have one in each hand. Problem. Whoever is left will likely have a complete meltdown: I’ll have my hands twice as full bringing out Left Behind Horse. So I take a deep breath, and lead them both.
Correction: they lead me. Jigging. Tossing manes. Rolling eyes. Heads high in the stratosphere. Luckily, it’s only about 50 feet from paddock gate to arena gate.
I get them in, figure out the logistics of how I’m going to turn them loose without getting run over or accidentally kicked, and unbuckle halters, one at a time. I’m expecting immediate, crazy-assed running.
They drop like stones the second the halters are off. Their knees are buckling before I can get the buckle unhooked. Got to ROLL.
Dinero heaves himself up, shakes off in a cloud of dust, and takes off bucking, squealing like a stallion, and galloping.
Hudson heaves himself up, shakes off, puts his head into the wind, and trots clumsily toward the rail.
Huh?! Where’s the fireworks?
Dinero is exploding around him like a crazed bottle rocket: crow hopping, kicking out, rolling back, twisting, charging around, including racing up to Hudson to incite his wild side.
This is Hudson, running like the wind:
(It was so windy, the trees are blurry.)