After a hard career of chasing cows on the Colville Indian Reservation in Eastern Washington, Mocco came home. Not to my home at first, but to one of my grandsons—a grandson who, unlike his mom and dad, just wasn’t into horses.
And I had a need. A very special need. You see, my other grandkids wanted a chance to ride, and neither of my horses was kid friendly.
Our child-caring mare had passed away a few years earlier, and the pony I’d bought was too much for my little cowpokes to handle. After selling the pony, I prayed for direction. Get another horse or not? Does someone have one we can borrow?
Then it dawned on me that our ranching son had horses standing around in the pasture. Eating. Sleeping. Doing . . . well, not much of anything except keeping the cows company.
I loved earthy-scented horses, and I wanted to pass on my adoration to my grandkids. To share the human-horse bond with the next generation—a legacy of sorts. Surely, one of our son’s horses held the answer to my prayers. Right?
The next spring, I figured the time was ripe. Said grandson now preferred to ride in the side-by-side with Grandpa, which made a pretty strong case for his horse, Mocco, to come to my little ranch for a summer.
Feeling giddy, I swooped in and made my case. “I’ll provide feed and shoeing and pay any vet bills that might occur while Mocco stays at my place.”
When my son pinned a “you’re outta your mind” look at me, my heart dipped. Then it climbed back into my chest and purred when my grandson piped up, a wide grin on his face, “Grandma, you can borrow Mocco anytime.”
Yeehaw! I had the boy on my side. All I needed was for his dad to agree. So I pressed on until he reluctantly agreed to let the aged horse come to my place for a spell after I assured him that I only wanted to borrow the horse, not keep him.
Once he moved onto our 140-acre horse ranch, the leggy bay began to settle in next to my two geldings. The next day, I tried to catch him. Then tried again. And again. I knew Mocco had been a loner in his previous herd (yes, you read that correctly) and hated to be caught. Probably hated the grueling hours and rugged terrain he used to have to cover while on a working cow ranch in Eastern Washington and Canada with his previous owner. Though he’d been retired for a few years, he still ran when he caught sight of a halter.
So I put him in my small arena and went to work. Forty-five minutes later, I caught him. Thanks to a technique I’d learned from renowned horse trainer Julie Goodnight, the cat-and-mouse chase ended. Mocco, the tall bay quarter horse, could now be caught. Whew.
Eventually, I grew a deep bond with him through feeding, grooming, and loving on him. Some days I’d simply wrap my arms around his soft neck and inhale. If only I could bottle that scent. It didn’t take long for what the two of us shared to transfer to four of my younger grandkids as they, too, fed, groomed, and loved on old Mocco.
And when it became time to ride, Mocco walked around the arena, maneuvering around and over obstacles, taking extreme care with the little ones. He taught my young grandkids how to ride. Taught them about teamwork and horsemanship as we worked with poles, cones, barrels, and horse-sized teeter-totters and bridges.
More than once, tears of joy leaked from this granny’s eyes as I witnessed low self-esteem bloom into confidence from riding. Nervous eyes turned bright, and chins raised up. And big smiles made the extra time and effort in my already busy schedule worth it. Well worth it.
When each of those four children proved they could control and stop old Mocco, we hit the trail. Again, hot and happy tears slid from my eyes a time or two because one of my dreams had come true—trail-riding with my grands.
My heart swelled as one of my granddaughters trotted him around pine and fir trees, talking the entire time because she, too, was in heaven. When my eight-year-old grandson proved he could handle Mocco, we rode around our property. The smile on his face thrummed my heartstrings. As did his professing, “I did it, Nahnah!” (short for Kocknah, a Salish word for paternal grandmother).
Yes, he did. And this grandson is now encouraging his cousin to ride by herself so she too can hit the trail along with the rest of us.
Who would have thought one old horse would take care of so many kids? He now lets them catch and groom him. The girls love playing with his coarse mane and tail. I still have to put the saddle on his back, but they do the rest.
At twenty-seven, Mocco lives here and will remain here until he passes on. He has the run of the ranch. Old and thin, he gets as much hay as he wants with Haystack added to his grain twice a day and a warm blanket during the icy winter months. He’s not much of a loner anymore either as he and my old paint gelding have formed a bond.
I’m not sure Mocco realizes how much he’s done for my family. Or perhaps he does. Either way, this year, it’s my granddaughters’ summer to shine. Thanks to the old bay’s caretaking, they have gained enough confidence to move on to my tall half quarter horse, half Morgan gelding. At ten, he’s faster and harder to handle than Mocco. But they’ve proved they can take the reins and lead with assurance.
I don’t know how much more time we’ll have with Mocco. But while he’s here and able, we’ll continue to make lasting memories. I’m thankful for the time we’ve had with him and have to agree with Winston Churchill: “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.”
Or in this case, a woman and her grandchildren.