This was one of those unexpected gifts of the aging process.
My husband was driving as I gazed out the window at the street just off downtown. We were heading to a writer friend’s signing event at our favorite indie bookstore. About three blocks from our destination, we reached a section that is quietly burgeoning with new cafés, galleries, shops, and a sleek coffee house.
As a coffee aficionado, I am always alert to venues that offer a perfectly blended Americano or cappuccino. We were moving slowly enough that I could see the place was quiet at this early afternoon hour. At the sidewalk tables outside, only two people sat, chatting over their carry-out cups.
Well, two people and their two small dogs.
And their horse.
To be clear, it was a miniature horse, so it took me a heartbeat to register that the fuzzy rump and swishing tail did not belong to a Newfoundland.
“That’s a horse,” I announced to my husband. “Park here.”
Before we moved to this city, I spent many years volunteering at a horse rescue, working with castoff race horses or show ponies who’d run out of luck until they found shelter with us. Throughout my life, I’ve ridden all manner of horses from 17-hand warmbloods to compact, fierce Icelandic horses (pro tip: in Iceland, referring to them as ponies is considered an insult).
But I’ve never owned a horse. So my husband knows that within my crone-adjacent frame beats the yearning heart of a ten-year-old girl who never got her own pony.
Not that I want one now. Well, only sort of. The point is, I will never not be excited at the sight of a horse.
Especially one peacefully hanging out in front of an urban coffee shop.
“Are you sure that’s not a dog?” asked my husband, who nevertheless pulled over to the curb and stopped. Just one more reason why marrying him was one of my better decisions.
It is always my policy to approach with respect and a request for permission before greeting other people’s animals. “We’re so delighted to see your mini horse,” I said to the couple. “Would it be all right if we said hi?”
Luckily, the humans attending Oliver — the horse — were friendly, generous, and also pleased that I hadn’t called Oliver a pony (not as serious a faux pas as misidentifying an Icelandic equine, but also not exactly cool). I offered a closed fist for Oliver to sniff, the gesture known as the horseman’s handshake.
Turns out Oliver has a fondness for shiny rings and was eager to try removing mine. His human mama gently corrected him.
Otherwise, Oliver, at only eighteen months old, was just as chill as he could be. Those who’ve spent time around young thoroughbreds or Arabians will appreciate how remarkable that is. He stood perfectly still on his tiny, shiny hooves as my husband patted his neck and ruffled his shaggy mane.
“He’s so calm,” I remarked. “Have you maybe considered using him for —”
“Therapy?” said the young woman, her eyes lighting up. “Yes, he’s gone to care homes, hospitals, and a youth camp. We’re just careful to set him up for success so he doesn’t get overwhelmed, but we’ve been working on that with him — we’ve had him since he was five months old.”
The thought of how adorable Oliver must have been at that age was sweet enough to give me cavities. But I went on to describe the foster youth organization my husband and I volunteer with, and Oliver’s humans were both interested in seeing what we might arrange in the future.
“We’d make sure it would be outside,” I said.
“Oh, he has boots, so he can go indoors,” she assured me, “and he’s potty-trained.”
Indeed, the sidewalk on which we gathered was completely poop-free.
After a few pleasant, horse-happy minutes and an exchange of phone numbers, we said goodbye to Oliver, his people, and his canine buddies (a talkative terrier and a shy Pomeranian puffball), and headed down to the bookstore.
What has any of this got to do with aging, other than the unfair fact that I never did get my own pony (or horse)?
When I was younger, in the throes of midlife adulting, I would have been too busy, too stressed, and too focused on whatever my urgent goal-of-the-moment was to stop and chat with a little horse on the sidewalk, or even notice him.
And when I was younger than that, even if I’d seen him, I would have been too self-conscious to approach his people. Just in case I’d somehow summoned the nerve, I wouldn’t have had the knowledge or experience to do anything other than offer a shy pat or two.
The encounter certainly wouldn’t have produced a possible partnership that could benefit some kids who’ve experienced trauma.
So this isn’t just a story about a horse on the sidewalk. It’s about having the time and space to pay attention, neither of which most of us have in abundance after we’re past the age of seven.
It takes a long time for some of us to recapture it. In my case, over seven decades here in Earth School — which has included some tough and grueling lessons, but I’m grateful for every one of them.
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