Saturday, April 21, 2012
My human asked been asking me to tell the story of my conversion to Christianity, and she is so annoying about it, I have finally relented. But first, let me tell you a little bit about me.
My name is Diva Louisa, and I am an American National Show Horse. For you slow not-in-the-know people, that means I am a half-Arabian, half-Saddlebred. If you think that makes me a half breed, think again, you idgits, because I was specially bred to combine my unique ability to be….well, me. I am a beautiful combination of athletic stamina, grace, and a smooth ride, plus I am just gorgeous to look at if I do say so myself.
I am the color of a burnished, newly minted copper penny. I’ve heard tell of people that comment that I’m the same color as Blitz and they can’t tell us apart. As if. First of all, he is a dull golden shade – not coppery at all. Bleh. Second of all, he has a boring white blaze. I, on the other hand, have a unique star, then a delicate stripe that daintily chases its way down my graceful Arabian face, then a snip on my petal-shaped mouth. A blaze indeed. And third, while we’re on the subject, how could I be considered, by even the stupidest of the two-leggers, to look like that simple Blitz? He’s short, skinny, and –hello! – a boy. Now then, enough about him. Icky. Let’s talk about me again. I like talking about me. It’s my favorite subject.
Mama says I have legs to my neck. She doesn’t say it like it’s a compliment, but it should be. I do have legs, and I know how to use them (I kick – more about that later). The other day, the short human asked Mama if she wanted to go riding. Mama said, “No, I don’t guess so. I’d don’t want to have to get on Diva. It’s like trying to scale the Empire State Building.” She said that like it was a bad thing. I’m fifteen hands, three inches, which is tall, but I do think the Empire State Building might be taller. It probably doesn’t take off bucking when you’re trying to get on it, though. Food for thought.
I think I’ve described myself pretty accurately to this point. Do you have in your head a picture of a beautiful red head with long legs? That’s me! Now I’ll tell you a little bit about my past.
I was born to a hussy that never even met my father before the night of my conception. I’m so ashamed. And he wasn’t even the same breed. I’m bi-bred. When I was little, all the other colts in the pasture wouldn’t play with me because I wasn’t Arabian and I wasn’t Saddlebred. I didn’t belong anywhere. My mother was no help; she was already bred back. No shame, that one. I’ll be thirteen come June – in the prime of my life.
When Mama found me, I must admit, I wasn’t looking up to par. I’d been sent out to pasture by a dumb human that obviously didn’t understand perfection when he saw it. There were a whole herd of us out there and the human didn’t even bother feeding us. We had to get what grass we could scavange. One day he just up and decided he didn’t want horses anymore (I think animal control had something to do with it) and he rounded us all up and took us to the sale barn. That’s where I met Mama. To hear her tell it, she was bored that day, and thought buying a new horse would make her feel better. She left there with me. You and I both know it’s because she took one look at me and knew I was something special, but she says she’s always had a thing for the underdog. She was afraid I’d go to slaughter because I looked so terrible. Granted, you could see every bone in my body and maybe I wasn’t feeling so hot, but please girlfriend, I have never looked terrible a day in my life.
So five years ago, on a hot August day, I found myself at my new home with my new family. I’d like to say it was an easy transition, but it hasn’t always been smooth. First, Mama had all these rules. Stupid rules, like “Don’t bite Scotlyn’s finger off.” Pssh. I didn’t bite it off. It was still hanging. She shouldn’t have tried to pet me when I didn’t want to be pet. And don’t stomp on the dogs just for the fun of it. That took away my favorite pastime. @#$#%
Oh, yeah, that’s another thing – no cussing. What the - ?!
I did not like my new home, except for the food. At least there was that. And there weren’t twenty other horses invading my personal space. Worse - there was Blitz. He made it very clear that he wanted no other red horses in his pasture. Mama calls him her sweet boy, but she has no idea what he’s like when she’s not around. He chases me off and says mean things to hurt my feelings. He called me ….this is so embarrassing. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, okay? Flamingo legs. Can you believe that? I bet if Mama knew that she wouldn’t think he was the sweetest horse she ever did see, would she? I don’t think so either.
Well, back to my conversion. I didn’t want no part of a God that would let me grow up the way I had, being picked on all the time and all. I figured, if there was a God, and he was good, why would he let me be a half-breed, right? And why would he let Blitz exist? That is not my idea of a good god, no sir. But after I’d lived with my two-leggers for a while, I started noticing things. Mama – who I didn’t call Mama back then, you know – was mostly pretty nice to me, ‘cept the day I bit Scotlyn’s finger and things like that. And when she fed me, she usually called me names, but most of the time they were good names. Sometimes, I laid my ears back and bit at her and she called me Alpo, but I think she was teasing then.
I started to like it when she came out to the pasture, usually at dusk, and came up to each one of us and pet us and gave us a treat. She’d rub my star and call me Pretty Girl or say, “How’s my gorgeous lady today?” I really liked that someone finally had enough sense to recognize my worth. And every time I’d lay my ears back like I was going to bite her, she’d smack my neck and tell me to act like a lady.
One day, Blitz, who she always gave extra attention to, told me she wanted me to stop biting and kicking because God doesn’t like it when horses bite and kick. I didn’t know who God was, and he said God was the big guy behind the clouds that created horses. I said if God didn’t want us to kick he wouldn’t have given me the perfect size hoof to fit on someone’s buttocks. Blitz just shook his head at me, all sad and pitying like. I remember thinking my hooves would fit nicely on his face.
The next day when Mama tried to pet me, I turned my butt to her and acted like I was going to kick her. She sighed and asked why couldn’t I act nice. I tried to tell her that it was boring, but she doesn’t listen to horse. I didn’t get a treat that day, which I thought was rude.
Not long after that, she was trying to catch me to ride me – and without even asking permission – and she had me in the corner of the pasture. I turned my hind in on her and she must have thought I was seriously going to kick her that time because she got mad, boy howdy, did she ever. She shoved my butt around and grabbed my halter, pulled me nose to nose with her and told me I’d better get right with God or she was selling me to the glue factory.
Just like that I beheld the power of the Lord. That woman had a crazy mean look in her eyes and I didn’t want to go to know glue factory. It didn’t sound like my kind of field trip.
And that is the story of how I became the first known born-again American National Show Horse. Sure, it’s boring sometimes, but it beats being some preschooler’s art project.