Thursday, August 25, 2005
Pie—Pie 2
I rub Pie’s nose and give an affectionate tug on his rather unkempt forelock. Just to hear the sound of a voice, I ask him where he got his name, not expecting a response and getting none except for a toss of his head that tells me he’d prefer I continue scratching his nose instead of saddling up. I tell him we’ve got work to do.
Pie is not a pie. He’s a hardscrabble old grey who’s spent too much time around mules. His coat looks unkempt no matter how well you brush him. His mane is uneven. He’s my favorite and I wouldn’t have begun this ride without him.
When I get back to barn I should ask Tubbs about Pie’s name. I suspect it’s a rather feeble joke—there are plenty of those around here. But there may be more to Pie’s story.
I roll my bedroll, cinch it behind the saddle and head east toward the rising sun. My thoughts turn to the unlikely series of events that ripped me out of my prior life and brought me here just a month ago. ...