Horses and cars
I still miss my horse. We had adventures together. Out on the prairie,
when the other kids staked or hobbled their horses so they couldn't
wander off, I let Pinto range free, knowing he wouldn't go far and
would come when I whistled. He did. He even lay on the ground by the
fire and put his head on the blanket beside me when we slept. One of
those kids told me at our fifty year high school reunion that he had
always thought I was weird.
My car is a good one but is incapable of returning my affection the
way Pinto did.
I think so ... but saying that, reminds me of the time my Volvo
started rod-knocking and I pulled over, opened the hood and explained
to the engine that I really couldn't afford to get him repaired right
now, but if he would get me out of the desert and into Los Angeles, I
promised to get him a complete overhaul at 100,000 miles. I wondered
if I had imagined the acknowledgement he gave me, but took it anyway.
100,000 passed, so I had another talk with him. Then again at 150,000,
and once more at 200,000. At 232,000 I sold that Volvo to a friend
who wanted to rebuild and restore it, as it was kind of a classic by
then, but a week later the engine completely quit and the mechanic who
took it apart told him that the engine was so worn out that he didn't
see how it had been able to run.
I think I know: it wasn't an automobile, it was a horse in modern
clothing.
I think ... I think I'll go outside and talk to my Van for awhile.
Lynne already knows I'm weird.