I haven’t mentioned Uisce, have I.
Fiona was walking a horse into the barn, oh, weeks ago. I had thought she’d sold the horse she was bringing on, a chestnut mare, 14hh.
She had. This was a different creature altogether. Another horse she was working, another horse that was for sale.
Her name is Uisce, Irish for Whiskey-with-an-E [helpful mnemonic: Ireland has an ‘e’ as does its ‘whiskey’; Scotland has neither. I made that up meself, so I did.] She stands about 15.3hh, 16, maybe? White blaze down her nose.
I commented that she looked a good size for me. Fiona got a look in her eye. Back away from the horse, I thought to myself. I pretended to change the subject. We chatted about, who knows, maybe something about Rebel, who was standing in his stable, behind me, occasionally trying to chew on my hat.
‘How old is she?’ I looked in her lambent eye- Uisce’s, not Fiona’s.
She’s eight. Oh! Eight! Perfect! I thought.
‘Good age…”‘ I said.
She’s a bit green apparently, for an eight-year-old, bit wacky at the fences, or something. She nosed around the ground, looking for stray hay.
I backed away from the horse. Fiona led her around the corner to a stable in the rear of the barn.
I stood looking at Rebel for a few minutes.
I wandered around the corner.
‘How much is she, do you think?’
No idea. I stood a little while longer, watching Uisce get untacked, looking into her deep, melancholy eye.
I backed away from the horse.
I’m still thinking about her, though…