A Horse Named Flora: A Short Story

 Have you ever had someone - a person, an animal - that came into your life for a short amount of time, but had such a lasting impact on you? One of those in my life was a horse: a tiny, little Paso Fino mare to be exact. I met her when I was seventeen. She was a beauty: deep, bay brown, with a black, silken mane and tail and four black stockings. She had flashy movements and big eyes that gave away everything she was thinking. I only knew this mare for a few months. I never owned her, never trained her, never rode her, never even interacted with her outside her stall. But she taught me things I’ll never forget.

Her name was Flora. I can’t even say her name without accidentally lapsing into the musical Spanish accent of her owner: a kind, outgoing man we knew as Omar. We met him not long after bringing our horses, Dolly and Cutter (see their stories here https://theamazinggracesta.wixsite.com/letsride/post/my-teacher-my-friend-dolly-s-story and here https://theamazinggracesta.wixsite.com/letsride/post/tears-and-triumphs-cutter-s-story) to a small boarding barn just outside Springfield, Missouri.

The first time I saw Flora, she stood in the last stall on the right-hand side of the barn. I caught a glimpse of her while I was going to get the halters from the tack room.

“There’s a new horse here,” I told my brother.

“Yeah, there's another one out there, too.” He pointed to the separate runs outside. “They must’ve gotten here last night right after we left.”

I nodded as curiosity drew me to her stall door. Her coat was so silky that the light shimmered on her back.

“Hi there, aren’t you beautiful,” I said softly, holding out my hand to her. “Come say hello?”

She stood with her back to me and didn’t even turn her head towards me. But her ears flickered toward the sound of my voice.

“A shy one, are you?” I took a step back. “That’s okay. See you later.”

I went to saddle up our horses. My brother and I enjoyed grooming and riding Dolly and Cutter for the next couple of hours. When we left the barn, I found myself looking back towards the little, bay mare. She felt my eyes on her and cast one wary glance in my direction. I smiled at her. She looked away. 

When we pulled into the boarding barn the next day, I found myself walking over to her stall again. Only she wasn’t in the stall, she was out in her adjoining run, ignoring my calls to her. Sighing, I joined my brother in grooming our horses. Not long afterward, we saw a navy blue jeep pull up to the boarding barn. A man in his mid-forties stepped out. He reached into the passenger seat and pulled out a pair of crutches. Coming into the barn, he introduced himself as Omar, owner of the two new horses there. He explained that he had fallen from a two-story house helping a friend put on a new metal roof.

“Shattered my hip.” He said in a tone much more cheerful than I’d expect from someone who’d had such a serious injury. “But it’s healing. My wife worries for me to come here, but I have to see my horses.” 

He moved slowly to the outdoor pen where the black horse met him at the gate.

“This one here, he is very friendly,” Omar said as he rubbed the three-year-old stallion’s face. It nuzzled his shoulder. “That one,” He pointed toward the bay mare in the barn. “Is not so friendly. Very skiddish.”

“She’s a beautiful horse,” I said, looking toward her. “What’s her name?”

“Flora,” Omar answered quickly. “She’s five; she was just saddle trained. She came straight here from the trainer;” He frowned. “Not very happy with how she seems now.”

My mind began putting the few pieces I had of her story together. I didn’t like the picture it was painting. Harsh horse trainers are plentiful and often their techniques aren’t evident at first. I felt sorry for both Omar and Flora. 

The next day I brought her some apple slices. When I held my hand out to her she trotted away from me, out into her pen. So I opened the stall door and set them by her water bucket. As I left the barn a little while later, I saw her slowly creep back into her stall; heard her chewing when she found the apples. I smiled.

Each day that I came, I went to see her. Sometimes I brought her treats. Sometimes I’d just stand and talk to her. Over time, Flora began staying in the stall when I came. And, Oh, the thrilling feeling of when she actually came into the stall when she heard me talking to her! Standing outside the stall, I reached out to see if she’d take a treat from my hand. Instead, she bit out, narrowly missing my hand. I jerked back; the treat fell to the ground. But looking into her eyes, I saw no malice, no anger, no violence: the only thing I saw was fear. And it broke my heart.

“I won’t hurt you, Flora. No one’s going to hurt you.”

The next day I decided to try something. I wanted her to see that I wasn't a threat. I slowly opened her stall door. She was standing in the middle of her stall and she immediately shrunk back. 

“Easy now, girl. It’s okay. See?” I whispered to her. “I don’t have a whip. I won’t hit you.”

She didn’t run. She stayed facing me. But I could see her nearly tremble. I made no effort to get closer. I just talked to her for a few minutes before I eased the door back closed.

Over the next few weeks, I became almost obsessed with Flora. But every time I felt I was making progress, something would send it backward. Like when I tried to reach out my hand to her while standing in the stall door, and she ran out into her pen bucking, leaving her hooves flying and my heart pounding. It took a few days before she’d come into the stall with me there after that. 

Move slowly - in action and in intent. 

Over time, I was able to regain what little trust she had in me. She took an apple piece from my hand before quickly retreating one day - I floated for the next week. I didn’t really know what I was doing - I’d never trained a horse, much less worked with a traumatized one. But every time I looked into her fear-filled eyes, I knew that I couldn’t leave her that way. 

One foggy, misty day, while my brothers and sister were with Dolly and Cutter, I went over to Flora’s stall for my usual visit. The day before had gone really well, so I was hopeful.

“Hey, little one, how are you today huh? Feel like talking some?”

Flora pinned her ears and backed away from me, her eyes wide, her feet poised to run. My spirit dropped. For five weeks I’d been seeing her practically every day, but she still feared me. I didn’t want to admit defeat. I just couldn’t. I was nearly desperate. Maybe that’s why I chose to take such a big risk with her.

“Okay, Flora,” I whispered as I unlocked the stall door, moving in slow motion. “I’m asking you to take a chance on me, so it only seems fair if I have to take a chance with you.”

I inched the door open and slowly lowered myself to sit on the stall’s eight-inch threshold. I could feel the alarm flow through Flora. In an instant she spun, shifting her weight to her front hooves, backing towards me, threatening to kick. I swallowed to put my heart back down in my chest where it belonged.

“I don’t think you’ll do it, Flora.” I confided in her. I wanted to be brave, but I was only three-fourths confident it was true. “You’ve had chances to bite me, even kick me before and I believe you’ve always missed on purpose. I think you’re bluffing. And I think if you’d let me show you that all people aren’t bad, you’d be so much happier.”

I’m not sure how long I sat there silently waiting. I could hear Flora’s heavy breathing. I could hear the wind humming in the old wood rafters with each gust. I could hear the branches of the big elm tree scrape against the side of the barn. I could hear the distant voices of my family outside the barn. And then, suddenly, I heard slow, hesitant hooves moving. I didn’t look up, I didn’t speak. But when I felt Flora near enough to me that I could feel her breath on my arm, I almost cried.

Horses feel what you feel. They want to be trusted as much as we want them to trust.

As unconventional as it was, sitting in Flora’s stall door became our new daily interaction. She came to expect it; maybe, dared I hope, look forward to it. And on the day that she let me stroke her face as I sat there strummed every string of my heart. We both knew how huge this was and treasured it as such. Greeting her with a touch on her muzzle became the new normal that I never took for granted. 

Victories with horses must be a victory for both you and the horses.

The day that Omar told us he was moving both Flora and his stallion to a different barn was a very sad day for me. But I prayed it would be an even better place where she could have a bigger pen and continue to learn to be loved. Had I been older at the time, I probably would’ve asked if I could’ve actually worked with her - put a halter on her, maybe even ride her. But the stall door sessions are still memories I hold dear.

Going to the barn was just never the same, and I’d often still go over to her now empty stall and picture her there and what I might have done next with her. Looking back I realize that those moments with her inspired me to train horses, and even taught me how it should be done. How strange and wonderful that in trying to be the teacher, I became the student.

That tiny little Paso Fino mare named Flora - and the lessons she taught me - are moments I will never forget.