He was a good rider once, good with us; I can see it in the way he moves.  He smells like fear and anger and I try to stand still like I am supposed to as he puts the saddle on my back.  You forgot to brush me, I think and turn my ears.  I touch my nose to his arm to try and ask why, but he pushes me away. 

            He’s too quick, jerking on the girth and it hurts.  But I’m supposed to stand still, so I don’t kick at him—I could hit him, I look and my foot lifts but I don’t.  He forgot to pick my feet, too. The stall is good sod and straw and does not have stones, so he’s lucky.

            I’m a good horse, I think, as he mutters to himself, tying something to the saddle.  His voice is tense, dark and my instincts make me twitchy.  He raises the bit to my teeth, bumping them and that hurts too.  I open my mouth, pinning my ears to tell him to be careful, but he’s rough as he pulls it over my head and buckles it.  I want to move, want to pull away but I’m not supposed to. Stand still for man, I remind myself.  Stand still, they are your friends, they are good—not predators to hurt and bite.  Maybe this man has carrot or apple for me in his pocket.  

            He’s pulling hard on the reins, hand under my chin.  I follow as closely as possible and accidentally step on his heel.  Sorry, sorry!  He twists the reins and it hurts my mouth. I was following like you said! Don’t hurt me!  He curses and I flinch.  Hard words mean a hard hand.

            I don’t want to go with this man. We’re outside and the sun shines, the wind blows and the earth feels good beneath my feet.  He’s stepping into the saddle and I stand still, afraid he might jerk on the reins again.  He’s clumsy, it takes him a while to get settled and I could take the bit in my teeth now, could run off, and could probably buck him off easily.  It’s been a long time since he last rode, his legs are weak and his balance is bad. 

            I’m a good horse.  I will bear this man, though he is thoughtless.  I will carry him because men are my friends—I give them my strength, my speed because they give me hay in winter and scratch where it itches and soothe where it hurts.  He kicks my sides and I run.  He sways and I slow to steady him, keeping my strides smooth.  Do you not pat me? I wonder in bewilderment.  I help you to stay on.  I help you to go where you need to go.

            He only kicks me again.