Golden Girl

I had the crazy idea when I was still a teenager. It was the era of the Black Stallion books, and like so many young girls, I despertly wanted a black horse. My dad couldn't understand it. I lived on a ranch where we had dozens of horses, why a black horse? I wanted a black because they were rare; never mind I was the owner of a palomino, another very rare color.

When my neighbor bought a retired racehorse, a black stallion, I jumped at the chance to breed my mare, Dewdrop, to him. Dewdrop was my beloved palomino, and a registered Quarter Horse. She was definitely a one-person horse, and skillfully dumped all but me on the ground; I was the only one she tolerated on her back. Like me, she had a restless, spirited look in her eyes, and we understood each other. As we raced across the prairie land of my dad's ranch, we ran as one. She was more then a horse, she was my friend.

When the time came, I rode Dewdrop to my neighbor's house. He assured me that the stallion produced only black foals. At last I'll have my black foal, I thought. I left my saddle there, and walked home. I hated to leave Dewdrop, but the images of black horses dancing in my head eased the pain and made the time pass faster.

In a few weeks, I picked up my mare and led her home. Dewdrop was stabled in the barn, given the choicest flakes of hay, and an iron-rich sweet feed. I watched anxiously as her sides swelled with the passing of months. Soon it got to the point where I was searching for a small wet foal every morning. Dewdrop's belly drooped until it looked like it would touch the ground; but still she held out on me.

Then, on one stormy afternoon, I arrived home from school and saw lights on in the barn. Oh my gosh . . . Dewdrop! My legs trembling, I raced across the frozen yard to the barn. The welcome smell of hay, leather, and horses reached my nostrils as I opened the barn door and raced in. Mama met me near the entrance. "Close the door. Where were you born . . . oh, never mind. Dewdrop has a surprise for you."

A surprise? Then . . . she's had it! I bit my lip to keep from screaming in delight. I had to walk to keep from spooking the few other horses in the barn, but my joy knew no bounds. At the sound of my foosteps, Dewdrop stuck her head over the stall door and nickered a greeting. She shoved her head into my chest as I entered the stall, begging to be scratched. "Not now, girl. Let's have a look at your baby. I took her by the halter and moved her away. There, in the stall bedding, lay a small quivering foal. But it's a palomino! I wanted a black!
I was sorely disappointed, and fought back the tears as I gazed at the baby. With a small nicker, the foal tried to stand, but fell in a heap. Dewdrop pushed past me and rumbled encouraging nickers to her baby as she nuzzled and cleaned it. I was disappointed, but I was already in love with the foal.

A few months later, when registering the foal, --I named her Golden Girl--I was in for a very pleasant surprise. I looked at her sire's pedigree, and saw that he was a great- great grandson of the legendary War Admiral . What luck! Sure a filly with this pedigree will leave everyone in the dust! I had visions of a Quarter Horse racing champion as I watched the tiny filly race circles around her dam. It was never to be.

As a yearling, Golden Girl jumped a fence a badly damaged her right foreleg; she would never be ridden, much less raced. The vet saved the leg, and she spent her life as a broodmare. She produced many quality foals. I had a cowboy tell me once that one of her sons was the fastest horse he had ever been on.

Her eyes burned with spirit, like her dam's, but to a lesser degree. Her mother was the "alpha mare," and even though Golden Girl was fully grown and had foals of her own, her mother allowed no other horses to bully her filly. Sadly, a few years ago, my beloved Dewdrop broke her leg and had to be destroyed. Without her mother, Golden Girl was lost. She allowed the other horses to bully her into submission; she was nothing like her mother, but I still adored her.

This weekend I visited my childhood home. As always, the horses greeted my at the fence, all except Golden Girl. When I asked Mom, she tearfully told me that Golden Girl had died several weeks ago. Needless to say, I was crushed. There was no time to say goodbye, only an empty stall that once housed the aging mare. I walked into the stall; everything had been cleaned out. There was no evidence that a horse had once lived there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something fluttering in the breeze from an open window. Walking closer, I saw that there was several blonde tail hairs caught in the wall slats below the window. It was the only remaining evidence of Golden Girl. I smiled, wrapped the hairs into a neat bundle, and put them in my pocket.

I walked out of the barn and stared at the horses in the pasture. Three young palomino fillies chased each other merrily, while their older brother, a four year-old palomino stallion watched them from his own pasture.

Tears formed in my eyes as I watched the horses twirl about in the pasture with the grace of ballerinas.
Golden Girl may be gone, but she lives on in her foals and in the hearts of those who loved her.