Three Apples

To cheer ourselves up this afternoon—what ghastly Arizona news—we visited our dear horse,Wolfie, at the retirement ranch in Woodside, California. As we came over the hilltop above the pastures, we spotted him folding himself up to lie down in the mud in the pasture below. The sun had just broken through a very chilly grey sky.

Mellow Wolfie is thirty this year and as always he likes to rest his bones. I called lovingly from high above in the distant car and again as we rolled in to the yard but he ignored me. It's been extremely gratifying that he has always recognized the old car--after all, we go back twenty-five years. Of course he's glad for the treats, not us. Well, maybe it is us.

No nicker? Wolfie didn’t get up or even turn his head. Of course he was covered in mud. Maybe his ears were plugged. All white horses roll in mud and dust, wanting to be chestnuts or bays. You need a putty knife to groom Wolfie's until it rains but of course, feeling wet makes him roll even more.

“What’s that brown.. thing under his tail?” Jim asked with restrained horror.

“Just his tail,” I replied. “Clogged with mud.” This is a horse living the wallowing life of a hippo. Underneath the filth he wears a thick, insulating polar bear coat and just the right amount of fat and flesh on his bones. Perfect condition.

“Are you going to take him his apples?” Jim asked, looking down at my sneakers, then over the near pasture knee-deep in mud from all the rains.

“No way.” I said. “Heave ‘em.”

Jim wound up and pitched the first apple thirty feet too short. With a resounding thud it lay there among blackened weed stalks. Wolfie did not bat an eye. The second shot bounced twice and struck his tucked front hoof, then rolled under his chin. He blinked his eyes open, nosed around for it, then, eyes closed again, chewed it with evident pleasure.

“Wow,” I cried, gazing up at my husband. The first throw of the first year of his retirement. “What an arm!”