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But just then, something unexpected made me lose my train of thought.
A horse walked into the pen where we were sitting.
A horse.
A white and brown horse just walked through the open gate of the pen and strode toward us. Out of nowhere, I swear. A naked horse.
I tensed up, and Jack noticed. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of horses, too.”
“No,” I said, on principle. “Just—what’s it doing here?”
“Doing here? He lives here.”
I watched as it came at us.
More accurately, it came at Jack—parking itself right in front of him and lowering its velvety muzzle right down to him, nose to nose. And let me assure you: What’s true of cows is also true of horses. They look a lot smaller on TV.
This thing’s face was the size of a suitcase.
I’d seen the horses of course—from a distance. In the corral. Looking… less large.
Jack had explained to me the first day how his folks had adopted a half a dozen homeless older horses who needed a pleasant place to live out their lives.
“Kind of a horse retirement home,” he’d explained.
Which was great, in theory.
It’s all fun and games until you have a giant pair of nostrils in your face.
“Hey, friend,” Jack said to the horse, lifting his hands to stroke its nose. “This is Hannah. Don’t bite her.”
Then Jack walked away, and came back with a bag of oats.
He sat back down beside me, reached in, and pulled out a handful.
He flattened his palm, and the horse brought his fuzzy lips right down onto it and hoovered up every last grain.
“Your turn,” Jack said next, offering me the bag.
“No, thank you.”
Jack tilted his head. “You’ve got the scariest job of anybody I know, but you’re afraid of horse lips.”
“It’s not the lips, it’s the teeth.”
Jack started laughing again.
“See?” I said. “You’re laughing again.”
“See?” Jack said, like it was my fault. “You’re hilarious.”
Jack did the next handful himself—but then he bwok-ed like a chicken at me until I finally said, “Fine.”
I reached into the bag, closed my palm around a clump of oats, and held it out toward the horse.
“Keep your hand flat,” Jack said, “so he doesn’t eat your fingers.”
“Not helping,” I said, as the horse whispered his lips over my palm until he’d cleaned his plate.
