Fiddlehead and I want a lot of things. We want an indoor toilet. We want those insulated rubber Muck boots. We want the chickens to not wake up so early. We want the grey cat who lives in our barn to let us love her and pet her. We want land we can call our own, with an old farmhouse and a post & beam barn. We want a café to open up on our dirt road and we want the New York Times to be sold at our gas station. But, most of all, we want a horse. I want a horse. I need a horse. Fiddlehead could probably, in actuality care less for having a horse. He doesn't seem to be too thrilled when we make him sit atop Sabia, our landlord's aging buckskin. But I am consumed with the thought. Of riding my horse over the hill to see the neighbors, or corralling the cows with him or packing a picnic in his saddle bags and taking Nick and I to the top of the mountain for lunch. I want to get a small cart to have him pull fencing materials across the farm and feed for the chickens and hay for the cows. Someday I want to get two bigger, draft horses, and name them California and Davy Crockett (long, childhood imaginary friend story) and have them pull a plow and a cultivator and a sleigh in the winter.
Someday soon, when we buy our own land, we will get a horse. Or three. Right now we have a self-imposed moratorium on new animals. Let's wait to see how winter plays out.