Horse Trading Is a Strange Business
Late Fall 2005
Our neighbor recovered from her broken knee, and Charlie went back to being her problem instead of mine. Good for her. Harder for me than I expected.
I'd gotten used to the morning routine. The dogs following me out. The cat wandering over. Even the mockingbird that sat on the fence taking notes. Working Charlie had given me something I didn't know I was looking for—the satisfaction of watching effort turn into understanding, one imperfect session at a time.
When Susan loaded him in her trailer and drove away, the corral felt too quiet again.
Ranae noticed before I said anything. She always did.
"You should get your own horse," she said one evening, the way you might suggest someone try a new restaurant.
I laughed it off. Then spent the next three days thinking about it.
The Obsession Arrives
I didn't decide to buy a horse so much as the idea took up residence in my brain and refused to leave.
Suddenly I was an expert on things I'd never cared about: fence construction, trailer weights, hoof care schedules, the difference between a snaffle bit and a curb. I clipped want ads from the newspaper like I was collecting evidence for a case I hadn't built yet.
Quarter horse. Gelding. Four to seven years old. Under $2,500.
That was the criteria. Simple enough on paper.
In reality, most horses were already sold by the time I called. The ones that weren't usually came with stories that raised more questions than they answered.
"Great trail horse, just needs an experienced rider."
"Perfect for someone who knows what they're doing."
"Selling because we don't have time for him anymore." (Translation: nobody could ride him.)
The corral rebuild started before I'd found a horse to put in it. I tore down the panels I'd welded twenty years earlier for Vandy—rough work held together by optimism and borrowed equipment. We were becoming a two-horse household whether I fully admitted it or not.
My brother-in-law helped me measure and plan. We got estimates from welders. The first quote came back at $4,800, and I nearly choked.
"Christ, welders are expensive."
I found a company online that made bolt-together panels. Weather-resistant. Good-looking. No welding required. The problem was shipping from Phoenix—eight hours away. Might be a road trip. Might be worth it. I made spreadsheets comparing costs like I was planning a military operation instead of buying a corral.
At work, I caught myself doodling horse head shapes on order forms.
Ranae watched all this with quiet amusement.
"You know you're going to do it," she said.
"Do what?"
"Get a horse."
"I'm just looking."
She smiled. We both knew I was lying.
Meeting Tex
The ad ran in the paper for two weeks before I called. By then I'd memorized it:
Quarter horse gelding, 7 years, $2,000. Good size, willing, needs consistent work. Call Mike.
Mike wasn't the owner. He was an agent for a feedlot owner, which already felt complicated. When I asked about the horse's history, the story kept shifting.
"He was on a ranch up north where they were having trouble with cattle rustlers. They brought Tex in to help catch them, but nobody could ride him—not because he's rank, just young—so they left him up there and didn't do anything with him."
I nodded like this made sense, even though it sounded like the setup for a Western that never got filmed.
"Then they brought him out here to the feedlot to see if he could work cattle. I've been riding him about five months now. When I got him, his feet were terrible. Overgrown so bad the hoof had grown over a shoe."
The story felt stitched together from spare parts. But Mike said Tex was rideable and learning to neck rein, and sometimes you just have to go look.
The stables were fifteen minutes from our house, which felt like a sign. When we pulled up that first Saturday, the place was wet from recent rain. Mud everywhere. The horses looked messy in the gray light.
Tex was tied to a rail, and Mike was right about one thing—he did look like Dusty. Same sorrel coat. Same stocky build. One white sock on his right front.
"Let me get him cleaned up," Mike said.
While he worked, I watched Tex's eyes. Alert. Curious. Not mean. Not particularly trusting either. Just waiting to see what came next.
Mike saddled him and had one of his "cowboys" ride him around the yard. The guy had a heavy hand on the reins and wore big-wheel spurs that caught the light every time he kicked. Tex threw his head around, fighting the bit, but he didn't buck or rear. When a basketball came bouncing out of a neighbor's yard and rolled right in front of him, Tex barely flinched.
He's tense because of the hands, I thought. Not because he's crazy.
I wanted to believe that anyway.
"Can I work him in the round pen?" I asked.
Mike shrugged. "Sure."
I took Tex in and started lunging him. He was sensitive—really sensitive—to hand movements. Flinched when I raised the stick. Anticipated pressure before I applied it. But he moved well. Changed directions cleanly. Kept an eye and ear on me the whole time.
Before I got on, I wanted to test his lateral flexion—holding the halter rope and asking him to bring his head around, giving to pressure instead of bracing against it. If a horse can do this well, you've got an emergency brake if things go sideways.
Tex had no idea what I was asking.
He flipped his head. Moved his feet. Tried everything except the one thing I wanted. I held my ground. Fifteen minutes later, he was starting to get it. Soft give on the right side. Almost nothing on the left.
Good enough to try.
The Evaluation Ride
We trailered Dusty out to the stables so Ranae could ride with me. I saddled Tex with my own tack, trying not to read too much into how this already felt like my horse.
Riding out through the alfalfa fields felt different than the round pen. Bigger sky. More space. More things that could go wrong.
Tex's ears stayed busy. He noticed everything but didn't panic at anything. When I asked him to move out, he gave me what I had—nothing pretty, but honest effort.
Ranae pulled up alongside me on Dusty. Two matching sorrels with white socks, moving through green fields on a cool November afternoon.
"Most old people get matching Hawaiian shirts," she said.
"Or Bermuda shorts."
"We got matching horses."
We both laughed, but I felt something settle in my chest. This was right. Maybe not smart, maybe not sensible, but right.
We rode for over an hour. I tried to keep it evaluation, not training. Failed almost immediately. Couldn't help testing how he responded to leg pressure, whether he'd give to the reins, if his gaits were sound.
By the time we got back to the stables, I'd already bought him in my mind.
"What do you think?" Ranae asked.
"I think I need to have a vet look at him."
"But you want him."
"Yeah. I want him."
She knew better than to argue with that tone.
The Vet Check Gauntlet
The pre-purchase exam was scheduled for 2 p.m. on Tuesday. I planned the day down to the quarter hour, working backward from the appointment like I was orchestrating a military operation.
I didn't sleep much the night before.
Everything went according to plan until I got to the loading part.
Tex walked up to the trailer like he was going to step right in. Then, at the last second, he stopped. Backed up. Said wait a minute.
I lunged him in a circle and tried again.
Nope.
More lunging.
Still no.
My heart was beating faster. The clock in my head was ticking. I knew I shouldn't rush this—horses don't like confined spaces, and the more you force them, the worse it gets—but I could feel panic creeping up my spine.
I backed him up to take a breath and reset when I heard a voice behind me.
"Need some help?"
A woman from the neighboring property, standing there with her arms crossed and a slight smile.
"Could you just stand behind him? Not close, just there?"
"Does he kick?"
"Not that I've seen. You shouldn't have to do anything."
She positioned herself about ten feet back.
Tex looked at her, looked at the trailer, and walked straight in.
I checked my watch. Four minutes ahead of schedule.
What was I worrying about?
The vet was thorough and unhurried. She watched Tex move at a walk and trot, checking for asymmetry. She flexed his joints, held them bent, then had him trot off to see if anything was sore. She took this big hoof tester and squeezed, watching his face for signs of pain.
A few minor things. Nothing that stopped the exam.
She explained his conformation—how he stood pretty upright, what complications might come from that body style. She talked about his withers, his rump, the way his shoulder attached. I'd never thought about horses having architecture before, but listening to her was like getting a blueprint.
She checked his teeth and confirmed his age. Seven years old. Maybe eight.
"Do you want X-rays?" she asked.
I hesitated. X-rays cost money I didn't want to spend on problems I didn't want to find.
"No thanks."
"Drug test? In case someone's masking something?"
"No thanks."
She nodded like she'd expected that. "Get the registration papers at sale time, or you'll never see them."
Right. Papers. I called Mike.
"Meet me back at the stables in an hour. I need the papers."
Getting Him Home
Loading Tex at the vet clinic should have been easier the second time.
It wasn't.
He'd just spent ninety minutes being poked, prodded, and squeezed by strangers. He was done. When I asked him to get in the trailer, he planted his feet and said no.
It took ten minutes of patient work to convince him, and by the time we pulled out of the parking lot, I was exhausted.
Driving back with Tex in the trailer felt surreal. I'd done it. Bought a horse. My own horse. Not Ranae's. Not the neighbor's. Mine.
At home, I backed the trailer up to the new corral—the one I'd built before I had a horse to put in it—and opened the door.
Tex stepped out, looked around, walked to the fence line, and checked in with Dusty on the other side.
He didn't pace. Didn't test the panels. Didn't make a fuss.
Just stood there, waiting to see what happened next.
I unhitched the trailer and drove back to work to help Ranae close up. By the time I returned to the stables to exchange the bill of sale for the cash, the sun was setting.
Mike handed me the registration papers.
I looked at the name: Turkey Eight.
Tex settling into the rebuilt corral, steady and patient.
"Turkey Eight?"
Mike shrugged. "Sire was Roan Bar Eight. Dam was Lady Turkey Track."
I stared at the name. My two-thousand-dollar investment was named after a holiday bird.
"His registered name is Turkey Eight," I told Ranae when I got home.
"Well, that's not happening."
"Agreed. Tex is fine."
I walked back out to the corral with a glass of wine and stood at the fence. Tex came over, not in a hurry, just curious. I rubbed his forehead. He leaned into it slightly, then pulled away and went back to eating hay.
We were strangers, and we both knew it.
But we had time to change that.
At least I thought we did.