Wedgfire’s Song

Krissi Miller

Description

Wedgfire's Song is a rare and intimate look into the hearts of two soul mates. Written in a unique style to include the perspectives of both a horse and its human, it offers readers an opportunity to accompany Fire and Krissi as they review the highpoints and low points of two lives entwined. Even though each one sees the same events from different perspectives (one horse, one human), they always seem to grow more and more together, in both love and commitment, from each shared encounter. This book will resonate with readers who have loved a pet so well they could hardly tell where they ended and the beloved pet began. The resounding truth of Wedgfires Song is "There is no beginning and no end."

Sujets

• horses
• Pets

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 28 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798369404089
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

WEDGFIRE’S SONG
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Krissi Miller
 
Copyright © 2023 by Krissi Miller.
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2023914136
ISBN:
Hardcover
979-8-3694-0410-2
 
Softcover
979-8-3694-0409-6
 
eBook
979-8-3694-0408-9
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
Back Cover photo is of author Krissi Miller and Rashad El Desperado.
front and back cover art/artist:
“Into the Light” and “Fire Against the Setting Sun” original art by Judith Rice of Wyndswept Farm. Art inspired by Wedgfire himself and lovingly rendered in pastels by one who also loved him.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 07/28/2023
 
 
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
853296
CONTENTS
Chapter 1     Fire Power
Chapter 2     Wedgfire Farm
Chapter 3     It’s Not Love
Chapter 4     Lessons in Leading
Chapter 5     Comings and Goings
Chapter 6     Snowy Night Magic
Chapter 7     The Truth about Soul Mates
Chapter 8     Both Sides Now
Chapter 9     One Stormy Day
Chapter 10     A Humbling Experience
Chapter 11     Biting It Off and Chewing It
Chapter 12     Fire on Parade
Chapter 13     The War Horse Within
Chapter 14     Killer Ducks and Other Assorted Challenges
Chapter 15     Kids and Common Sense
Chapter 16     Accomplishment
Chapter 17     Monster Trees and Homing Pigeons
Chapter 18     The Force of Fire
Chapter 19     Young Again
Chapter 20     Memory Lane
Chapter 21     Wedgfire Farm Magic
Chapter 22     Young Friends and Fence Lines
Chapter 23     The Music
Chapter 24     Embracing Forever

CHAPTER 1
Fire Power
Wedgfire’s V oice
I watched her drive away down the long gravel drive from my favorite place at the top of the pasture hill. As she was nearing the end of the drive, she stopped her car, rolled down the window, and looked back. We watched each other watching each other. Time stood still. There was something like electricity in the air during that brief moment of watc hing.
Afterward, she would say it was at that exact moment that she fell in love with me. She would describe me standing coal black against a pink and blue setting-sun sky, head high and proud, neck stretched, nostrils flaring, with the look of the eagle in my st ance.
“You’re going to be mine, one day!” she promised us both as she slowly rolled the window back up and continued down the drive. Her car got smaller and smaller until it was completely out of sight, but still I stood silhouetted against the su nset.
Something about her touched me that first day. It was like a tiny electric spark that tingled down my spine, a frisson of something new and slightly disturbing but not actually unpleasant. It was an awareness of something, but I didn’t know what. Perhaps, it was simply an interest. She had interested me. That wa s it.
At that time, I was a nine-year-old Arabian gelding with a very checkered past. I had been bred to be The Black Stallion back in the day when Walter Farley’s book had been made into a movie, then a sequel, then another, then a TV series. I was a coveted item in those days. And just like The Black of book and movie fame, I had had a series of misadventures that had left me with the reputation of having a bit of an attitude . The kindest thing I had been called was “unwilling”. Another label applied to me had been “Rogue”. I didn’t like learning new th ings.
I didn’t trust people to know what was “best for me”. I did not accept any counsel but my own. At age four, I had gotten my front hoof caught up in barbed wire and had received a serious injury bringing my days as a potential black stallion show horse crashing to an end. I was sold off to begin training as a trail horse. My fear of new things and my basic distrust of people didn’t bode well for that horse occupation, but my new owner persevered in good faith and with an honest desire to see me achieve. After three years of trying really hard to put up with my general lack of cooperation, she decided to sell me in order to begin work with a new, more cooperative and willing horse. I certainly couldn’t blame her.
That brings us to the black-silhouette-sunset-day visit from the one who called herself Krissi, the one who had “interested” me. She had come into our barn and petted the other horses, but when she came to me, she just stopped and stared. She reached out a tentative hand, and when she laid it on my neck it was almost trembling with awe.
“You are sooooo beautiful … ” she breathed out.
I accepted her praise in my usual haughty way, and then turned and walked away. She stood watching me with that same wonder-and-awe way that she had touched my neck. I continued walking, swaggering almost, to make sure she continued to watch me. After a moment, she turned away to talk to my owner who was her friend. That’s when I decided to let her know the rea l me.
I turned and quietly returned to the stall, reached over the partition, and grabbed the collar of her shirt, pulling hard. I wanted her to know just who she was dealing with. She gasped. I pulled harder. She pulled back, finally able to extricate herself from my grip. I yanked my head back quickly, knowing I deserved a scream and a darn good whack for that piece of naughtiness, and shriek she did! But wait, it was like no shriek I had ever heard. Then I realized she was shrieking with laughter. She walked right up to me and patted me firmly on the neck all the while telling me what a “funny guy” I was. I was dumbfounded. Up to that point, in the last nine years, not a single human had appreciated my sense of h umor.
As it turned out, that was the first of many, many practical jokes that I played on my Krissi. I had been born at a local Arabian horse farm and had lived there until I was three years old. The older gentleman who was my breeder knew a lot about horses and even more about Arabian horses, in particular. He had a firm, but fair, hand, and he had absolutely no fear of young high-strung Arabs. He must have recognized my natural arrogance and my delight in teasing others because it was my job to get the mares ready for his stud. I suppose that may have been the beginning of my overall outlook on life. I expected my people to be in charge. I expected to be treated fairly. I expected to be able to have a little fun. Then I was sold. I went to a new home where all those rules seemed to ch ange.
Suddenly, the hand was demanding, often seeming less than fair to me. I was viewed more as a possession that carried a certain status. I was The Black Stallion . When I didn’t seem to be as cooperative with these new owners as I had been with my older gentleman, I was sent to training . There’s a word! Training! This training was the Soviet-Gulag-style kind. Needless to say, it didn’t impress me much. However, it did leave an impression. After the severe lessons of those few months, I had learned one thing loud and clear: Learning is NOT fun. Upon returning home to the demanding-handed people, I was extremely high-strung and fearful of making any mistake. I would simply either evade or shut down. If that didn’t work, I would quite simply explode. It was one such incident as this that got my front foot caught in metal fencing wire. The injury was catastrophic, almost severing the hoof. My demanding people were just that when it came to medical care for me, though. My injury received excellent veterinary and follow-up care, and my hoof healed. There was significant scar tissue, and it was unsightly, but I was not permanently lame. I was, however, blemished, and so, I was sold off for a much lower price than my original purchase p rice.
My next owner was a kind and considerate long-time Arabian horse owner. She was the kind of owner who would take on a lost cause like me and do her very best to offer training, compassion, and hope to that struggling horse. And she did just that for me. Her endless kindnesses and attention helped my mind to heal and to begin to trust people again. This trust, however, was a much wiser trust. I now knew that trust needs to be earned. I had learned that not every horse owner or horse trainer is in it for the horse. I considered myself to be one lucky horse to have landed at Wyndswept Farm and in the heart and hands of a wise and compassionate horse woman. Eventually, when it became apparent to both of us that I was not a good match for Wyndswept, this wise and wonderful woman found me my Krissi. She had an amazing ability to match up a horse to its best owner. She did that for Krissi and me. We have both remained in her debt knowing that nothing we have to give and no words we could ever say could convey to her our gratitude for putting us toge ther.
So it was that two months after our first meeting, and after several more visits to Wyndswept, Krissi made good on her silhouette-sunset-night promise. She signed the contract that said we now belonged to each other. Her friend, and my previous owner, did have some misgivings about whether or not my Krissi could “handle me”, and rightly so. I was an experienced reprobate of a horse and she was a pie-in-the-sky, oh-isn’t-he-so-beautiful newbie. I was going