R.I.P. Sunday

There’s no such thing as a perfect horse, but if you’re lucky, you’ll find a horse that’s perfect for you and if you do, it’s a gift.  In my case, it was literally a gift, as my dad bought not only Sunday, but all the other horses we have or have had in Wyoming.  Although Sunday wasn’t, strictly speaking, my horse only, she was, for all intents and purposes, mine.

Still beautiful at 25 or so (Sunday, not me.)

Sunday was a beautiful Missouri Fox Trotter.

The Missouri Fox Trotter is a horse breed from the state of Missouri in the United States. It was developed in the Ozark Mountains by settlers in the early 19th century, and quickly developed into a gaited breed appreciated for its stock horse abilities, stamina and smooth gaits. It performs an ambling gait known as the “fox trot”, a four-beat broken diagonal gait in which the front foot of the diagonal pair lands before the hind, eliminating the moment of suspension and increasing smoothness.  (Wikipedia)

I’m someone who walks quickly and I’ve done a bit of sprinting in my day as well, so I appreciate a horse that moves.  When you’re riding mostly on mountain trails, a horse that walks without urging is wonderful.  Sunday not only never needed to be urged in any way, she walked with alacrity and, until she got old, walked away from every other horse.  Our group rides consisted of the two of us doing intervals of walking and waiting.  When the second horse in line got to a certain point, Sunday wanted to start again.  She could also outrun the other horses and because she was a Fox Trotter, she had a smooth gait between a walk and a canter that ate up the distance without bouncing a rider all over.  We always said that when Sunday died, it would probably be going as fast as she could.

She didn’t want to stop for long, especially on the way back to the corral!

One story that’s gone into the family history covers a ride that Bill and I did on Lad and Sunday.  Lad was also a Fox Trotter, but he was heavier and slower.  He was willing, though.  We were coming up a very long, rough, four-wheel road and Bill decided to get Lad into a gallop and outrun us.  Didn’t happen.  Sunday stayed just in front of Lad until Lad was huffing and puffing so hard he could have given the Big Bad Wolf a lesson or two.  We were laughing so hard we almost fell off.

Every horse has something it doesn’t like and for Sunday, it was squirrels.  As we went along the trail, she would sometimes shy a bit or at least give a suspicious glance to the little squirrels that popped up on trees, dead wood, or scurrying across the trail.  I’m not sure what she thought they might do, but she was keeping an eye on them.

Although we saw lots of wildlife as we rode, we’d also, too often for me, come across cattle.  The government leases out land to ranchers and if it’s a dry year, cattle will be brought up the mountain and allowed to roam and eat.  Where there are cattle, there are cattle who will break down a barbed wire fence.  A cow will just lean into the fence and then, once it’s down, all the cattle will make their way across because, as we all know, the grass is greener on the other side.  When you try to move cattle along a trail or road, their favorite thing to do is to get mothers and calves on opposite sides, running along, bawling, dropping cow pies, then scattering in all directions.  But they don’t usually go very fast and that’s what drove Sunday crazy.  She would have been perfectly happy to follow them at a good pace, but instead, she danced and danced in frustration as they plodded along.

About three or four years ago, Sunday was in her late twenties, relatively old for a horse.  She couldn’t survive the winter running out on someone’s ranch, the way all the horses spend their winters.  My dad paid to have her stay on a ranch and then a few year ago, we gave her to the people who’d been keeping her.  They spoiled her and she was like a grandma to their younger horses.  But this winter, at about 30 years old, she had to be put down.  Even though I knew it was coming and knew it was time, it’s still sad.

Sunday and I went everywhere and went everywhere quickly.  We covered many miles and spent enjoyable hours both going along trails and off trails.  We saw and did a lot of things and enjoyed every minute of it.  Sunday was, for me, the perfect horse, and I’ll miss her greatly.  R.I.P., Sunday, and thanks for the memories!