Fashion, my very first and only horse, is a gift horse. She was given to me by a Native American friend. In native tradition, the gift horse is not to be taken lightly. It is a gift of great power, great honor. And so, I was in no position to refuse this gift, although it came in a package I would have never, never have chosen for my self.

You see, my fantasy horse is small, tough, and willing-a mustang maybe, or a hardy mountain paint. The dark bay thoroughbred mare who stepped uncertainly from the rear of the trailer and into my life was not small, tough, or hardy. She was the tallest horse I'd ever seen. Her mane and tail were a dusty mass of tangles, and her coat was dirt-caked and dull. She was skinny. One front knee was thick with knarled bone and arthritis-the result of a fracture that had taken her off the racetrack and put her into early retirement more than 14 years before. She had spent the last eight hours stuffed in a too-small horse trailer, and I was not surprised to find that she was sore on her feet, but I was surprised at the condition of those feet. Her hooves were inches too long, and cracked. Nervous diarrhea splattered her legs. Corralled for two years at the home of a man too frequently out of town, she was a walking picture of neglect-not abuse, mind you, just neglect. On an eighteen-year-old horse, neglect settles down in a particularly harsh way.

I stepped up toward her and offered her my hand. "Hello Fashion," I whispered.. "Welcome home." She turned her face away, and thrust her high head even higher into the air. Her breath came in impatient snorts, and she fussed on the end of her lead rope. I could have been a fly on her face, for all her awareness of me. "Here, take the lead. She's yours," my friend said, handing over 16.2 hands of old, bony mare who had once stood covered with flowers in countless winner's circles. He looked at me and smiled broadly, nodding his head at the two of us, as though he knew something I didn't. With mixed emotions of gratitude and dread, I walked my gift horse up to the barn.

That night in bed, unable to sleep, I asked myself why this mare had come to me. What an utterly unlikely pair we were-me, a complete "greenhorn," and she, a hot-blooded track horse with a bad knee and a distant attitude. What had my friend been thinking to give this horse to me? She'd kill me, I thought. If I didn't expire falling off her back, which was as high as a house, the vet bills to get her back on her feet would preclude me ever buying groceries again, and I'd starve to death. By morning, after a long night of fitful dreaming, the only thing I knew for certain was that I could not give her back. She was my gift horse, and that was that. There was nothing to be done but to care for her, and to see where time would take us.

Fashion became my project. For the remainder of the fading summer, naturopathic vets, equine chiropractors and dentists, farriers, and horse-savvy neighbors trooped in and out of the barn. Slowly, their good work began to take effect. Fashion began gaining weight. She limped less. I spent hours brushing her and singing to her, and her coat began to take on a shine. Someone loaned me a very old saddle and a hackamore, and-overcome by a total lack of good sense, I began taking Fashion out for short rides alone in the foothills beyond our house. She never tried to dump me, which she could have easily done in an instant, and she also never gave me any indication that she enjoyed my company. Every time she would see me coming her way with a halter, she'd snort and dash away, letting me know exactly how she felt about spending any unnecessary time in my presence.

Still, I began to see why my friend felt that Fashion and I would be good for each other. There is a quality in old horses that is hard to put a name to, a certain sense of composure and acceptance that serves true greenhorns well. And time in Fashion's company was most assuredly serving me well. Like a no-nonsense family matriarch, Fashion taught me how to spend time in the company of horses, and how mind my manners. She taught me to watch her feet, because when I didn't she would step on me. She showed me how easy it is to get your head bonked squeezing under a horse's chin to grab a manure rake. She showed me how quick you can get squished up against the side of stall when you are not watching what you are doing. And she taught me that all hell can break loose around a horse when you least expect it. All these lessons she brought home to me without hurting me. I think she must have been born composed and self-assured. So strong was her sense of self, that my constant fumbling and lack of horse skill had no effect upon her whatsoever. Fashion trusted herself in a way that was refreshing and thought-provoking for me. I began to think about what it must be like to live so comfortably in one's own skin.

Fashion taught me from the ground up about class and self-esteem. I had never been around a living being more confident in herself. Age and injury had no impact on her faith of her place in the world. From what I could see, Fashion had been born regal, and would be so forever, no matter what the years took from her. As I approach my own elder years, I do so with the hope that I can achieve some measure of my horse's simple pride in living.

In caring for Fashion, I reconnected to the joy of giving simply for its own sake. There are animals you can care for who clearly appreciate what you do for them. You can feel gratitude exuding from them like water from a fountain. This was not the case with Fashion. I was-and remain-her staff. In her eyes, people are put on earth to care for horses, and horses are here to enable them to do that.

On a late fall day when the mountain breezes were crisp and the sun was as yellow as crystallized honey, my gift horse graced me with a special gift of her own. She showed me what it means to be accepted by a horse-not adored or even appreciated, but simply, beautifully accepted. I was walking our pastures when I spotted Fashion laying in a heap in the west corner. It is her favorite spot for sunning. Halter in hand, I was heading her way in hopes of an early ride. Usually, she is on her feet the moment she senses me coming, but this day, she remained down, fairly groaning with the joy of the sun on her side and face. I moved quietly to her head and knelt down beside her. "Want to go for a ride, pretty one?" She opened one liquid-brown eye and gazed into my face. Then her sleepy eye spotted the blue halter. With a heavy sigh, she nosed the halter aside, and placed her enormous jug of a head on my lap. The eye closed, her rubbery lips twitched, and a soft snore rumbled from her chest. I stroked her peach-soft cheeks and rubbed her ears between my fingers. Her head relaxed deep against my legs and stomach. I could feel the warmth of her face, the hardness of her jaw. She twitched her ear at the buzz of a fly, and her snoring deepened. Time was suspended. We rested together in a place that would be forever fall, and forever perfect.

When we at last rose to our feet-stiffly, as neither of us are young anymore-we had changed. In those sweet moments had become the companions my smiling friend must have been seeing in his mind's eye that day he placed the lead rope of a wonderful gift horse into my uncertain and unknowing hands. I know the old saying begins, "Never look a gift horse..." But it should be "Never doubt a gift horse." and the saying should end right there.