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Black Beauty: Halley Berry, Vanessa Williams, or maybe even that “unstoppably” handsome, Denzel. Agreed, they are black beauties, but the black beauty I’m talking about is Corey Romano. Who the heck is Corey Romano, you ask? Corey was muscled up like an ultimate fighter and his long, thick black hair flowed like Polamalu on the fly. Oh, oh, I know … that new rookie linebacker for the Steelers. Wrong! My black beauty was a miniature horse.
My favorite movie as a kid was Black Beauty. I had the book, saw the movie over and over, and dreamed the dream many times. At five years old, dad bought me my first black beauty. Problem was that he bought him in the dead of night in the pouring rain. When daylight came, we realized that this poor pony was an old mine pony with no eyes, hooves curled like a Genie’s slippers, and a swayback so deep that his belly nearly dragged on the ground. I guarantee you that the following year some second grader used that poor pony to paste her crafts together.
Finally, when I was nine, I got Sugarfoot, a real black beauty. Thought I was going to be a trick rider and fell of that pony so many times that dad finally sold her. Who bought her? Walzie’s dad. Now my black beauty belonged to those stupid Walls boys. Back then, I didn’t like Walzie very much because in my mind, he stole my pony.
When I finally grew up (somewhat), I met a mature (somewhat) Walzie and guess what? He was still a horse lover, like me; a match made in cowboy heaven. So throughout our nearly forty year marriage, we’ve had horses. We’ve loved painted ones, black, bay, white, palomino, appaloosa; tall horses, middle sized horses, and ponies of all sizes. But our favorite was the mini.
We called our friends Deb and Mal Romano and they had the cutest mini for sale. Corey looked exactly like the black stallion, except shrunk down. He pranced and arched his neck like the king of the herd. It was love at first sight. Without dickering about the money, we happily dished it out, and Corey came home with us.
Corey was still a stallion, which means that all his man parts were intact; that makes for a very cocky, proud, thinks-he’s-bigger-than-he-is, little snot. And so, one day as Walzie was leading him into the barn, Corey nipped Walzie’s kiester. Without thinking, Walzie backhanded the little snot right in the nose. That horse flopped on his side, shook as if having a seizure, and blacked out. He lay perfectly still. Walzie panicked. He leaped on him and began CPR. (Believe me; he’s not trained in CPR.) Seeing from the window, I ran outside screaming.
“What did you do to my horse? Help him! Do mouth to mouth!”
“I’m not kissing any horse. You do it.”
I dropped to my knees, but thank goodness, suddenly, Corey leaped to his feet, shook himself, and trotted into the barn as if nothing had happened. Walzie vowed that he would never smack a horse in the nose again.
Corey behaved himself for about two weeks. Evidently, Walzie’s behind was too tempting and Corey bit him again. Without thinking, Walzie’s hand struck out, but he caught himself just as his fingertips brushed the horse’s nose. Corey stumbled and backed up, but didn’t fall this time. Whew! We decided that it was time to call the vet and get Corey neutered. That should fix his nasty biting habit.
The vet came, gave the mini a shot, proclaimed him a really big little fellow, snip-snip, and it was over. Corey changed from a rooster to a hen in fifteen minutes. Contentment and passivity filled the pasture, at least for the next few weeks.
The night before we got the call, Walzie and I sat in our spa and talked to the little horse. No, he wasn’t in the spa, the pasture is about twenty feet away from the deck and Corey always came over to the fence and we’d talk to him. But early that next morning, the phone rang.
“You’d better come over here and get your little horse. He’s in my yard,” said our neighbor.
We slipped our sneakers on and marched across the yard, figuring that the little stinker had gotten out during the night and naturally the grass was greener over there. But as we neared him, we knew that our Corey was gone. The neighbor told us that he was awakened about two in the morning by the screech of brakes, a loud thud, and then someone shouting, “Stupid deer!” (Yeah, a little black mini horse looks just like a deer! Right.)
So every time we see a miniature horse, we sigh and think about our little black beauty. Would we ever get another? I say, sure, if it can travel with us in that retirement RV I’ve been fussing about. But knowing Walzie, who hates to travel, I’ll just get the horse.
My favorite movie as a kid was Black Beauty. I had the book, saw the movie over and over, and dreamed the dream many times. At five years old, dad bought me my first black beauty. Problem was that he bought him in the dead of night in the pouring rain. When daylight came, we realized that this poor pony was an old mine pony with no eyes, hooves curled like a Genie’s slippers, and a swayback so deep that his belly nearly dragged on the ground. I guarantee you that the following year some second grader used that poor pony to paste her crafts together.
Finally, when I was nine, I got Sugarfoot, a real black beauty. Thought I was going to be a trick rider and fell of that pony so many times that dad finally sold her. Who bought her? Walzie’s dad. Now my black beauty belonged to those stupid Walls boys. Back then, I didn’t like Walzie very much because in my mind, he stole my pony.
When I finally grew up (somewhat), I met a mature (somewhat) Walzie and guess what? He was still a horse lover, like me; a match made in cowboy heaven. So throughout our nearly forty year marriage, we’ve had horses. We’ve loved painted ones, black, bay, white, palomino, appaloosa; tall horses, middle sized horses, and ponies of all sizes. But our favorite was the mini.
We called our friends Deb and Mal Romano and they had the cutest mini for sale. Corey looked exactly like the black stallion, except shrunk down. He pranced and arched his neck like the king of the herd. It was love at first sight. Without dickering about the money, we happily dished it out, and Corey came home with us.
Corey was still a stallion, which means that all his man parts were intact; that makes for a very cocky, proud, thinks-he’s-bigger-than-he-is, little snot. And so, one day as Walzie was leading him into the barn, Corey nipped Walzie’s kiester. Without thinking, Walzie backhanded the little snot right in the nose. That horse flopped on his side, shook as if having a seizure, and blacked out. He lay perfectly still. Walzie panicked. He leaped on him and began CPR. (Believe me; he’s not trained in CPR.) Seeing from the window, I ran outside screaming.
“What did you do to my horse? Help him! Do mouth to mouth!”
“I’m not kissing any horse. You do it.”
I dropped to my knees, but thank goodness, suddenly, Corey leaped to his feet, shook himself, and trotted into the barn as if nothing had happened. Walzie vowed that he would never smack a horse in the nose again.
Corey behaved himself for about two weeks. Evidently, Walzie’s behind was too tempting and Corey bit him again. Without thinking, Walzie’s hand struck out, but he caught himself just as his fingertips brushed the horse’s nose. Corey stumbled and backed up, but didn’t fall this time. Whew! We decided that it was time to call the vet and get Corey neutered. That should fix his nasty biting habit.
The vet came, gave the mini a shot, proclaimed him a really big little fellow, snip-snip, and it was over. Corey changed from a rooster to a hen in fifteen minutes. Contentment and passivity filled the pasture, at least for the next few weeks.
The night before we got the call, Walzie and I sat in our spa and talked to the little horse. No, he wasn’t in the spa, the pasture is about twenty feet away from the deck and Corey always came over to the fence and we’d talk to him. But early that next morning, the phone rang.
“You’d better come over here and get your little horse. He’s in my yard,” said our neighbor.
We slipped our sneakers on and marched across the yard, figuring that the little stinker had gotten out during the night and naturally the grass was greener over there. But as we neared him, we knew that our Corey was gone. The neighbor told us that he was awakened about two in the morning by the screech of brakes, a loud thud, and then someone shouting, “Stupid deer!” (Yeah, a little black mini horse looks just like a deer! Right.)
So every time we see a miniature horse, we sigh and think about our little black beauty. Would we ever get another? I say, sure, if it can travel with us in that retirement RV I’ve been fussing about. But knowing Walzie, who hates to travel, I’ll just get the horse.
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