Hightailin’

Hightailin’

The first time I rode you, I knew we were a match
stepping up in the saddle no help from the night latch.

I’m not so big but neither were you.
Just had to lengthen my stirrups an inch or two.

A sorrel tobiano paint, both eyes brown.
You sure caught the eye of everyone around.

The old quarter horse lines ran through
A well muscled chest and gaskin, too.

My friends, the Hayes’s, thought we might win
when we walked to the herd in the cutting pen.

Your turns were tight and your stops were hard.
If I could keep up, we’d have our reward.

Some judges didn’t like your colorful coat,
But never mind them you had my vote.

Remember once we were riding and checking the herd
When some rowdy yearlings snuck up behind us not rousting a bird.

You spooked and you jumped,
but your back wasn’t humped.

I said it’s just cattle,
Annastasia said, “Did you hear that rattle?”

She pointed down to
A snake curled on the ground.

Next thing I knew you had learned to fly.
I watched the trees go whizzing by.

Laughing so hard I nearly fell off,
Kind of dicey there at the edge of the bluff.

Maybe you weren’t my go-to ranch horse,
But in the cutting pen you stayed the course.

A suspensory injury slowed you down,
Then after some rest you came around.

So we tried the ranch horse shows
Where an older cutting horse goes

Once he’s done with the NCHA
But needs to help pay for his hay.

A few blue ribbons later
Your patterns were smoother, your runs were straighter.

After one win, an offer was made
Though I couldn’t sell my old friend no matter how much to be paid.

On a frosty fall morning I found you
Laid out in your pen

As if placed there. One vet said foul play.
One changed her tune singing no way.

I don’t know, I can’t say.
Only you went away.

Our last ride is gone.
Some say I should move on.

If I’m not mistaken
Your life was taken.

Now you’re hightailin’ it in heaven
Where the grass is ever green and so are you, my friend.

–Holly Harris

Some of you may know that I lost both my horses within six months of each other. Chico, my paint horse in the poem, died under mysterious circumstances last October. An investigation is ongoing. Hot Rod, my 28-year-old go-to ranch horse and another ex-cutting horse, succumbed to colic last February during an arctic cold spell. He was laid to rest next to his long-time girlfriend, Miss Sally, who passed the week before him. I miss them both terribly and I am grateful for my time with them. I am working on a tribute poem to Hot Rod, he really was my go-to ranch horse and could out-trot even the colts. I will be sharing the poem in a future post, so stay tuned.

My horses grounded me, and my life has changed. At first, I protested saying I did not want this change. I’m still grieving, but I’m now accepting a new path and direction for my life. I bought an Airstream travel trailer, a 23-foot Flying Cloud, from a friend. My dog, Wyatt, and I have been touring around and camping in it for about a month and plan to continue doing so. Please check back for posts about our life and travels.

As always, thanks for reading!

Checking the herd with Hot Rod, May 2020

Chico in the cutting pen, 2017