Tag

Tag was my horse.
Well, he wasn't really mine. But I rode him all the time. I brushed out his sweaty fur after our rides, got him settled back in his stall, and talked to him. He was all brown, with black mane and tail. He was old, 23. Every time I ran the brush over him, it coasted over his bones, riding ridges all the way. His clavicle, criss-crossed with muscle, took my breath away. His dark brown eyes, always looking, always knowing, searched my soul and healed my heart.
The last time I rode him was a Friday. I took him out into the arena to start trotting. I picked up a barnyard kitten and put the little guy on Tag's back. He was so gentle. I straddled the saddle, clicked my tongue, and squeezed my feet around his barrel chest. He started to walk. I clicked again, and it turned into a steady trot, me bouncing up and down on his bony ribs, my hair coming out of the messy pony tail I'd quickly thrown it in.
It was cold. I could see his breath and mine. My gloves were coated in horse dirt, the smell of him. I still have them, in an air-tight back between my mattress and my bed frame. We trotted for at least an hour, him cutting off my orders with sharp turns and head thrusts, nearly yanking me over his neck and onto the ground. This horse was my dream. In his eyes was my trust and my love and all of my ambition. There was something about him, about this particular horse, that calmed me down to where I was completely myself.
When we finished, after he'd gotten some good exercise and my legs were very stiff, I took off his saddle and rug and began to brush him. Over his collarbone, down his neck. He kept moving closer to me, and every time I took a step back he'd move forward. Soon, his head was over my shoulder, like a horse-hug.
And then I left.
On Sunday, Tag died unexpectedly. He was old, yes. But he was healthy. They still don't know the cause of it. The next four days of my life were constant tears. Tag was pretty much all I had to look forward to. I missed him like crazy. That horse changed my life.