“Pretty Thing” portrait by Gay Council Moring

This lovely horse arrived at the Council Farm when she was two years old.

She came from a farmer who lived nearby. My brother, Max, bought her to use as a cattle horse, to drive the milk cows from the pasture each morning and to use anytime cattle needed to be moved from pasture to pasture.

The filly was only two years old and but was well trained. Her name was Princess. I was in college and only home on weekends and holidays, but I fell in love with her. She was a chestnut with a blaze running down her nose and three white stockings. I thought she was the most beautiful horse I had ever seen. I found myself calling her Pretty Thing instead of Princess.

“Come here, you pretty thing,” I’d say.

Although she didn’t officially belong to me, I became possessive of her. My father and older brother would not buy me a horse although I had always wanted my own. A horse was as expensive to keep and feed as a cow and not productive, they decided. 

I borrowed horses to ride as a kid, and once we kept a very nice horse on the farm a couple of years. It broke my heart when the owner took her away. I had named her Dawn. She was gentle but not hard to push into a gallop. My friends had fine horses to ride and did not care nearly as much about them as I would have mine.

The summer after I graduated from college, my brother, Max, told me Pretty Thing was mine. He bought another horse for the farm. I was on cloud nine. 
I spent all that summer riding and training her to shake hands, to count and do other tricks. She was extremely smart. I am convinced she thought out what she wanted and learned to demand it. I had to be careful that she did not outsmart me which she often tried to do.

When I married the following summer, she came to live with me. I could see her every day and feed her, brush her and kiss her nose. I adored my horse. Before long, my husband had bought his first horse, so Pretty Thing had a friend in the pasture. There was no doubt that she was the alpha horse. The big black and white gelding gave way when she wanted attention.

We spent many happy hours on horseback, riding a twenty mile day trip, trekking through the woods where we watched the wild life in the trees and on the ground. The small creatures were not afraid of the horses and Barry and I were quiet. A huge gray fox squirrel sat on the pond’s edge drinking, his full bushy tail, like a woman’s stole.  A barred owl perched in a tree near the stable at dusk as we headed back to the house.

I have many stories about Pretty Thing. She was cursed by a farrier putting on her horse shoes because she turned and bit him on the backside while he held her front foot between his legs. "I hate these backyard pets," he growled.

At times I drove my little white convertible into the pasture just to visit with her and take her some treats. For no reason I could fathom, she bit a hole in the top of my car. And, another day, my poodle, Brandy, who was jealous of Pretty Thing, jumped up and bit the horse on the nose.

She had some funny habits. If she walked into a stream, she buried her whole head in the water and wagged it back and forth, spraying water all over me, the rider. She did the same thing at her water trough. I think she just liked to wash her face when she got the chance.

She would come to me when I called her, but if I walked up to her in the pasture with a bridle in my hand, she would not cooperate unless I had a good treat in my hand.

Pretty Thing was an excellent cow pony. She knew how to herd cattle and one day when the bovines were not moving fast enough for her, she reached out and nipped one on the flank. She and I had a couple of spills. Once she slipped on wet leaves when making a sharp turn and fell flat on her side. My foot was caught under her and I hobbled on crutches for a couple of months. Another time, the saddle was not tight enough when she made a quick turn while driving cattle. The saddle rolled under and I with it. Afraid to turn loose and be trampled by her flying hooves, I held on too long. When I had to let go, her hind foot flew right over my head. I think she made sure she didn't hit me with her hoof. She continued after the cattle while I sprawled in the grass. I was not hurt. Well, only my pride. 

My lovely steed grew old and eventually just lazed in the pasture most of the time. At the age of thirty-two, she had lost so much weight she looked like a foal. My vet said he couldn’t do more for her and suggested I put her down. The day I saw her eat her feed, then regurgitate, I knew it was time.

We buried her in the pasture where I had watched her graze so many years. I could not do it. I had to call others to take her to the grave that had been prepared. She was given a shot that buckled her knees and when she had drawn her last breath, she was buried. I watched from my window, tears streaming down my face. I still cry as I write about that day.

My sister Gay and her husband Stu

My sister, Gay, an artist, did the portrait of Pretty Thing, in pencil. It hangs in my house at the end of the hall where I see it all the time. My pretty mare looks so real I can almost hear her snuffle a greeting when I walk by. I admit, I sometimes talk to her.