Hank, and the History Of Horses, Part 3

As I re-read yesterday's post, I realized that I'm leaving big holes in the History Of Horses. There were many memorable moments from the time Sara started the jumping lessons til we sold the Thoroughbred.

One of the most memorable things during that time was a horse named Mo. Mo was special in so many ways that you couldn't begin to put a finger on his one sole source of charm. Mo was a horse that the stable owner didn't have enough time for, so Sara was asked if she could put some time on him as he wasn't doing any good standing in the pasture drawing flies. Before I go gushing about all of his big loveable wonderfulness, let me paint you a picture of this guy:
Mo's nickname was Curly. He was, in fact, an American Bashkir Curly horse. Well, at least part of him was. Other parts were Percheron, Thoroughbred, and maybe some Morgan, Quarter Horse and Belgian. We were neve quite sure. And by the way he held his ears, I'd say he was part Mule. Mo was huge. I'm guessing close to 17 hands, but I never measured him. But he was a big beautiful bay with big floppy ears and big soft eyes and a wavy coat and a curly mane and tail. He knew he was different, but it didnt' matter to him. Nothing mattered to him except attention. He loved people as much as they loved him, and he knew how to play the part of a ham. Sara rode him from time to time, and I don't recall any problems. She did some jumping with him, but I don't think that was his thing. He just liked to be doing something. He really helped me solidify a growing interest in horses, and he helped me realize that bigger didn't mean badder. I rode him a few times, and my only clear memory of those times was realizing that he was huge. But he was gentle and I was depending on him to stay that way. And he did.

I'm reminded of a time we went to the stables with some apples for the horses. Curly (Mo) was pastured with about seven other monster-sized geldings. I wanted to give him an apple, but he was peacefully munching on hay far from the gate. Sara was in a neighboring pasture feeding the mini his apple, and she called over, "It's ok, go on in." Well, it wasn't ok. Those seven other geldings had bionic noses, and were on me before I got twenty steps into the pasture. I was being mobbed by these huge things all wanting to know what was in the bag in my hand, and I'll I could do was look at Sara and holler "HELP!" I was genuinely scared, and all she did was laugh. "Drop the apples," she yelled. I did and made a bee line for the gate. I may have yelped or screeched.

Curly never stopped munching on the hay, and he never got an apple that day.

Curly was a prospect when we were looking to purchase a horse, but his price was out of range of our budget. It was probably for the best. I hear he lives near to us now, and I should make a point to see him this year.