Burgers and Bridles

I feel sorry for this trail horse. The bridle is rusty. That can’t taste good. The leathers are worn and cracked. I’m afraid I’ll tear them if I pull too hard. The saddle blanket has zig-zag Navajo patterns on it. It must have been colorful when it was new — turquoise and gold and brown — but the weave is thin now, and the colors faded. My saddle creaks as I sway side to side. There are uneven dips in the leather where the frame has broken.

All this probably bothers me more than the horse, but it’s all evidence of neglect and overuse, too few tourist dollars to properly care for animals and tack. You can see it in the way the horse hangs his head and trudges along behind the horse in front of it. It’s the job — same trail, same distance, same pace, day in and day out for years, never any deviations or variety other than the riders on its back. I’m not even sure why they bother with reins; the horse can’t go any faster than the ones in front of it, and the ones behind it keep it from slowing down. A sad life for such a proud animal, far cry from the life of a farm horse, even farther from the life of a race horse. Its eyes tell you it’s accepted its fate.

Our tour ends, and I run my hands along the taut muscles of its long neck, projecting all my appreciation and pity through my fingers. We say thanks and goodbye to the animals and the tour guides.

I think about that horse again at the end of another work week, where I drive along the same roads, going to the same places, cruising at the same speeds, the same traffic in front of me and behind, day in and day out for years. There’s a burger in my mouth instead of a bridle, but I imagine that horse and I have the same bad taste in our mouths.