But it wasn’t always this way. After struggling to share my beloved lesson horses with dozens of other students during my teenage years, I developed a certain objectivity when it came to working with horses on the job. This distance was how I processed the fact that unsuitable horses were sold, old horses put down, and lesson horses abused by beginners. Though I cared for them and about them, they were ultimately tools in ministry, and had a job to do.
Now I’m unlearning this emotional detachment. Ransom doesn’t earn his keep, in the sense that most other horses I’ve worked with do. Like any other, he’s a money-sucking machine. No, Ransom earns his worth, not his keep. When he nickers at the gate as he sees me walking up the road toward his pasture, I don’t think about the boarding cost. When he tolerantly accepts the kisses planted on his nose, I forget how expensive hay is. When we spend quality time on the trail together, the farrier’s bill seems insignificant.
Now I’m unlearning this emotional detachment. Ransom doesn’t earn his keep, in the sense that most other horses I’ve worked with do. Like any other, he’s a money-sucking machine. No, Ransom earns his worth, not his keep. When he nickers at the gate as he sees me walking up the road toward his pasture, I don’t think about the boarding cost. When he tolerantly accepts the kisses planted on his nose, I forget how expensive hay is. When we spend quality time on the trail together, the farrier’s bill seems insignificant.
It’s finally safe to get emotionally attached. And he’s a keeper.
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