The Special Ones

There are horses you own.

And then there are horses that mark you.

Gibbs was one of those.

We brought him home in August of 2018.

Out of Iowa. Off Facebook.

Got out of the truck. Looked him over. Loaded him up. No test ride. Just took him home.

Freezing cold. Tornado warnings. The kind of trip that makes no sense but you do it anyway.

Not the greatest idea. But I had a feelin about him. I didn't question it.

By October, I found out I was pregnant with the twins.

Life shifted fast.

I rode him until about seven months pregnant. After that, he sat. Not because he deserved it. Because life got loud. Toddlers. Babies. COVID. Survival mode.

Time passed.

And when I finally swung a leg back over him…

He didn’t hold it against me.

No resistance. No attitude. No reminder of the time lost.

Just soft.

Head down.

Supple.

Like I had never left.

That’s who he was.

When I opened the lesson program, he stepped into a role I didn’t even know I needed.

He taught kids how to feel a horse instead of fight one.

He carried beginners through their first real sense of control.

He gave nervous riders something steady to trust.

He built confidence quietly.

And he did it over and over again.

Now… he wasn’t perfect.

He had the personality of Scooby Doo. Smart, but not always convincing about it.

I called him my “Drunk Cadillac” because the man could not walk a straight line to save his life.

Until it mattered.

Put a kid on his back, and suddenly he figured it out.

That’s what made him different.

He didn’t just exist.

He adjusted.

He showed up for the moment in front of him.

He jumped in the river the second he saw his friends. No hesitation. No thinking twice. Just all in.

And he didn’t step over poles.

He jumped them.

Like every pass mattered.

He carried little girls’ dreams like they weighed nothing.

He held space for me on days I didn’t have much left.

He gave more than he ever took.

And last night, I let him go.

That’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

Loving them well sometimes means letting them be someone else’s priority.

Because I saw it.

That look.

“Is it my turn?”

Standing at the gate while another horse got pulled out for lessons.

And he deserves more than waiting his turn.

Now he won’t have to.

He’ll be ridden.

Used.

Shown.

Loved.

Spoiled.

He’ll be chosen.

Every day.

And that’s what makes this okay.

The special ones don’t leave you empty.

They leave you better.

Better hands.

Better patience.

Better understanding of what a good horse really is.

Gibbs was never just a lesson horse.

He was a standard.

And if you’ve been lucky enough to have one like him, you know…

You don’t forget them.