Sentiment.

I don't cry often.

When I do, tears usually spring from sources of internal unrest rather than from tangibles like spilt milk. Yesterday, though, while holding this coarse, wiry hair, my throat tightened, and, today, a faithful friend of our family for over twenty years leaves his pasture for the last time.

All seven Johnson kids have fond memories of Apache. He taught each of us to ride, from Andy down to Debbie, occasionally bucking us earthward to prove his spirit, humble our pride, and then once again for good measure. When barrel-racing, he'd curl so close and low to the rusty barrels that they'd scrape skin off my legs, and I'll never forget the sound of Mopsy's distant voice yelling, "Home, boy, home!" as we turned the last bend to race toward the gate.

He was half-Paint, half-Appaloosa, a Mutt for all seasons. My family isn't high bred, so we had no care that he wasn't, either, and enjoyed his good company for what it was-- good company. He was the leader of our horses; when buds formed above and the ground softened beneath, spring fever overcame him, and he'd prance about challenging any young bucks to prove their mettle. They tried, but with little success, as he'd nip them into submission every spring.

We were country kids without neighbors and without television, and he was a ticket to adventure. His tender mouth meant that we could ride him bridle-less, using only a halter with a leadrope wound around to direct his steps, but his fierce stubbornness usually made it more trouble than it was worth. More often than not, I rode him bareback, rarely using a saddle in summer, not wanting to waste time with the bothers of cinch and stirrup to jump on for wild gallops through hayfields or measured paces under hushed, wooded canopies. His gait was smoother than that of any horse I've ever ridden. When he galloped, we were an arrow just released.

In summertime, we rode around the block, a roundtrip of several hours given the fact that our "block" was comprised of connected roads that eventually led homeward. In the glory years, when Apache was "my" horse (as he was each of ours at one point or another), Becky and I would ride him and Beau on lengthy trail rides. When we took Cherry Valley Hill Road past the graveyard, the entire time I looked forward to the return. As one horse and one rider on either side of the road, we'd make them slow at the bottom of a huge hill, barely holding their excitement in check. As soon as we released the reins, they'd bolt for home, necks outstretched, pounding thuds on soft dirt, the wind of their speed stinging my eyes, my mouth unwilling and unable to restrain laughter from pealing soundlessly in the rushing wind.

Apache is 30 years old, but he's in his nineties when measured by equine years; a swayed back, grey muzzle, and deep-hollowed eyes proclaim his age. The last two years ground him down in body and spirit; during the harsh months, especially, his skin seemed to just barely hold in the bones, no matter how much extra grain he ate.

Goodbye, old friend. If all that's good and golden about earth is purified in Heaven, then I'll meet you by the crick, and, with a knowing spark in your eyes, you'll paw the grass and whicker.