He might allow You. He might allow the halter. He may allow saddle, cinch and bridle. Somewhere along the line—no matter what—he fought.
That ole’ horse was the worst—he was smart. He eventually allowed you to ride. Given a tough situation he’d bog his head and dump you in the brush to sheepishly walk back to the crew. Impossible for even the best bronc rider to stay mounted when he’s standing the stirrups, stretched-out, swinging a loop on a yearlin’ and Ole’ horse pulls the plug.
The ultimate in irony. After being shown a better life, Ole’ horse remained a horse. Cold wind in your mane is preferred to a straw-filled shed. Wild oats overpower the lure of grain in a bucket. You accept rolling on grass easier than a human hand on your back. Your herd is safer than a corral. There is no reason to conform when the offered reward doesn’t exceed the risks.
We aspire to a stud’s powerful neck or muscles rippling through a mare’s shoulder but only if they assuage our own passions.
When Ole horse didn’t submit to our designs, we abused him. We canned him. We fed him to our dog. He was never turned-out to live.
We never addressed the “problem” of a horse being a horse. We merely twisted freedom into our being free of him.
What more could he want?
