Yes, I did note that one of the private things in my life is that I am a one-time horse-owner. I do not recommend it, especially if you feel the least bit intimidated by animals that are bigger than you are.

Forgive me, horse lovers. I have surely hit the nerve of some of you out there. I assure you, I voice my caution with utmost respect and admiration for the equine enthusiast. Indeed, I imagine that it is you, oh horsey friend, who truly understand the care and loving that these animals need.

So how did this all begin?

I was pregnant, pre-doctoral-exam and, looking back, half mad. I had gone from my normal coursework, teaching and student life to pre-mom panic near the hub of the universe. We lived in Brookline. We had just moved from Colorado, and I loved the hustle of the city and the feel of being in the East. But, when prompted sufficiently, I did have to agree that it was sort of noisy, and really expensive. So I entertained the notion of at least looking at houses one day while we were on a little getaway in the Northeast Kingdom. There were some nice houses, much cheaper, of course. Some were on beautiful, quaint commons. Some were in the woods. There was one stunning house, on pavement (as opposed to the ubiquitous dirt roads found in those parts), that just went with the image of canning and berry picking, and drinking tea on the back porch after a satisfying day’s work on a novel I had not started, or even considered writing… I would be embarrassed to admit falling for the whole thing, had not so many others been similarly seduced by this image of bucolic utopia. A few months later, we packed up the new baby and headed for the hills. It was March, and they were snowy hills, I might add. There was a LOT of snow, and it did not melt until May. Late May. It was forty degrees below zero the night after we moved in. Nothing melts when it’s that cold.

Although I found many things to love there, I felt a tad isolated—oh, I can tell more stories about that, too—when I lived in Vermont, and the horses were no help. Mostly, they took a lot of time. Now, you all may assume by reading this that I don’t take well to critters. Not true. When I was little, we fed raccoons in our suburban backyard. I was a big birdwatcher. As for bigger farm animals, as a little girl, I rode horses, albeit cautiously, nearly every time my family went to the country to see my aunt and uncle, about once a month. I was never the horsey girl who was in the equestrian troop of the Girl Scouts or wanted riding boots or read Black Beauty over and over at the age of eight, but it was pretty fun seeing my cousins and riding Dixie. (I also shot at cans with a rifle and drove homemade go carts too fast through the hills, but those are yet more stories for another time.). Dixie was gentle, and fun to groom and feed, and I really liked the barn. And then I went home and didn’t think much about horses. That was my experience with them.

So the question is sure to have come up in your mind by now. Why horses?

Well, the answer is simple. They came with the house.

The house we moved into was beautiful. It had two staircases—a dream I had growing up, because of the house where I used to take piano lessons. Add to that the push-button lights, three huge clawfoot bathtubs, pocket doors, leaded glass, a full walk-in pantry. It was elegant, wonderful inside. And outside were seven acres of perennial gardens on a gentle slope. Around the back was the entrance to the updated stables in the lower level of a three-story barn attached to the house. And there, in the stables, were the horses.

The big Morgan mix was twenty-six years old. Her name was Amber, and she was cranky. I couldn’t say I blamed her. The people who owned the house seemed to love her, and she loved them, and now they were going back to merry old England. The younger one—who turned out not to be that much younger—was named Marc Antony, or Tony for short. Tony the pony. Oh yes, he was a pony, and he was hell on wheels.. ahem, hooves. If Amber did not get out, Tony did. And if Amber did, it was usually because she was worried about Tony, who had already loosened the gate and headed down the field, or possibly the street. Have you ever tried to catch a naughty pony? The normal techniques I tried with cats sometimes worked. Tony liked oats, and occasionally came running if I shook the bag. When that trick failed, though, it was not fun, especially because I was not used to hip-deep snow, ice, and otherwise nasty conditions. So that was it for me. The care and maintenance of beasts, as well as starting the fire in the woodstove, were now in the hands of my then-husband. After nights up nursing, I had a good excuse to sleep in until seven a.m., after all.

There were still many coincidental worries around the animals. We were constantly running out of hay and feed, and the bit about shoeing them was more trouble and expense than I ever could have imagined. We had to lock the oats away from Tony, or he would eat too much and somehow develop founder, which is a scary condition I had never encountered. I felt that we were probably not doing everything quite right, and at best, were not giving the horses the opportunities to pull carts and be otherwise useful and productive. I had the idea that Tony’s shenanigans were as much a statement of boredom as a simple part of his personality.

Still, we kept the horses. I would have given up much sooner. Once, I was on my own for a couple of weeks. I was six months pregnant, had another baby in a backpack, and was shoveling manure. It was not a graceful or comfortable thing to do. In context, though, it did not seem like a big deal. What made it somewhat easier was the fact that many of the people I had met up there were dairy farmers. They were in cold barns working from four in the morning, sometimes with a young child or two in tow, sometimes pregnant, usually tired, and taking care not of pets, but of the animals who were their livelihood. I have never seen anyone work harder. They were often out there for hours later than any normal bedtime, repairing machines, tending sick animals, haying in the summer. I saw their raw hands and red faces, day in and day out, and I couldn’t really find it in myself to complain about a couple of cranky, but somehow amusingly mischievous horses.

Still, it was during my then-husband’s first long motorcycle trip that I realized the horses needed to go. By that time, number three child was in the oven, and I realized that my role as a mother was turning into something I had not expected. My second boy’s delays in development across the board were quite evidently not cured by the various therapies I had set up, and a Leo the Late Bloomer scenario was becoming less and less likely. In June, my son was diagnosed with autism.

A neighbor gave me the name of the previous owners of the horses, and I called them. A few days later, they came and took Amber and Tony back to the horse farm where they had lived years before.

Strangely enough, after a couple of years, horses were exactly the thing that gave my son more than any other therapy he has ever had. I have no statistical data to prove this, and it could very well be argued that all the other efforts we had made just came together right then. It did seem like a miracle, though. He learned to walk, then run, after just a few rides on the back of a horse, a very calm horse—well, actually, a pony. I never knew this, but according to the occupational therapist who ran the show, humans ride horses comfortably because our gaits are the same. Horses are therapeutic, she said, because they give the rhythm of walking to those who don’t have it themselves. It seemed to be exactly the case for my son. And the magic continued. He said words he had never said before or since when the rhythm was right on the back of those animals. He smiled when he was riding, and rode on trails for several weeks with his brother one glorious fall.

Now, it takes a special sort of horse to be able to be a therapy horse, and I can tell you right now that Amber and Tony were a little past their prime for that kind of training. One thing was certain, though. I was no longer afraid of big animals. I stayed away from their backsides, more to avoid being kicked or stepped on than anything else, but aside from that, they didn’t scare me anymore. Chasing an ornery pony around the yard in the dead of a cold Vermont winter was a great way to dispel any fear I had.

So, when the time came to put my four-year-old son, who could barely sit up, in the saddle, I handed him over, watched him, and waited. I trusted, watched, waited, much as I do today, and will no doubt continue to do, as his life moves on at a different pace from the lives all around him.