I am not one to exaggerate, but when my friend invited me to go horseback riding with her, I nearly died.

I’m not generally a fan of farm animals unless they’re on a plate and accompanied by potatoes.

The thought of trusting my safety to a thousand-pound herbivore didn’t strike me as particularly fetching.

I read about horses when I was a little girl dreaming of being a Disney princess and when I was a bitter, cynical teenager. I read more when I became a reasonably optimistic adult who only got bitter and cynical around tax season.

I wanted to meet a horse like Black Beauty, Flicka, or Misty of Chincoteague.

So I agreed to ride, partly for that reason, and partly because I knew Eileen would never forgive me nor my descendants for the next six generations if I didn’t.

A book wouldn’t help me get onto a horse, unless the book was thick and I could use it for a boost. But practical experience was not long in coming.

Eileen fitted me out in a pair of her old riding boots. I had brought along my old Disney princess bicycle helmet, though this made it harder to keep up the Clint Eastwood impression.

While I stood by the paddock, trying to decide if it was high noon, Eileen went to the stable and brought out Annie, who was a big white horse with a pink nose and a mustache.

Annie seemed amused by the way I looked. I told her she wasn’t hot stuff either, but I guess when you’re a horse you don’t care much for other people’s standards.

Eileen helped me up and showed me how to hold the reins. The ground seemed very far away.

“Sit nicely and don’t yank her and you’ll be good. How you doing up there?” she asked.

“Nuh,” I said.

“Annie’s a really gentle horse.”

“Eeh,” I said.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Nyuh-huh.”

“Great!” said Eileen, and slapped the horse’s rump.

Annie broke into a trot, which is somewhere between the level of a walk and a gallop, though not as fast as a canter.

Whatever other terms for gaits there might be, they’re all slower than “speeding ambulance,” and that’s how fast I thought Annie was going.

All I could hear was the wind rushing and Annie’s hooves going ka-dunk-ka-dunk-ka-dunk-ka-dunk as we went in a circle around the enclosure.

“You’re doing great!” said Eileen.

“I reckon so!” I crowed, and leaned into another loop. Then we heard ka-dunk-ka-dunk-ka-dunk-ka-dunk-ka-THUD.

When I sat up, I noticed that Annie was on the other side of the paddock. She looked at me over her mustache with an expression that said “Huh?”

Eileen seized me under the arms and planted me on my feet. “Don’t do that again,” she said.

I thought she’d ask me if I was hurt, but I guess when you’re someone like Eileen, you don’t care much for other people’s standards.

So I didn’t ride Annie again that day, but I did feed her a banana. Her mustache was starting to grow on me. I don’t mean literally.

It wasn’t her fault that I ended up with a bruised hip. I should’ve been more careful, and worn a proper helmet, too. But that’s how it goes when you’re learning.

That’s the only time I looked like I was in a Western. It may have been for only fifteen seconds, but I don’t think Clint Eastwood could have matched my style that day.

He definitely couldn’t have rocked my helmet.

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Copyright 2024 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Alexandra Paskhaver is a software engineer and writer. Both jobs require knowing where to stick semicolons, but she’s never quite; figured; it; out. For more information, check out her website at https://apaskhaver.github.io.