The Christmas Runaway

Tosca was rising two years old, awkward and mischievous. He was given to me by a Quarter Horse breeder when he was only six-months old.

A runty, odd-colour horse, he was a mix of brown and grey like a gun dog. His short tail was strangely orange. His hind end was about a hand higher than his withers. He had an intense oral fixation, and bit and nibbled everyone he met, constantly. He was an annoying colt.

We were both ugly ducklings. At thirteen, I was tall and all knees and elbows. I didn’t know how to wear clothes that looked good on me. My hair was always slightly orange tinged from bad home hair-dye jobs. I had zits, and perpetually wore greasy hair in a pony tail.

Tosca and Sparkle lived happily together in the paddock next to our house. We gave them hay in the morning and evening, and some grain midday. That Christmas morning, when we had finished opening presents and were starting to make breakfast, we looked out the kitchen window and were surprised to see Sparkle and Tosca, hightailing it across the lawn - literally, tails high like banners. They merrily galloped down the bank, across the road, and out of view.

“Oh no!” we gasped. “How did they get out?” we wondered, as we flung winter jackets over pajamas and headed out the door, grabbing halters and a bucket of grain.

We found them a few properties away, nibbling grass in a neighbour’s field. Sparkle was easy to catch, but Tosca, the little devil, frisked around some more. Eventually my dad got the halter on him but as we started to lead them away, Tosca reared. I looked back to see Tosca looking as big as a stallion, and my dad looking like the Man from Snowy River, valiantly holding on to the lead rope while Tosca’s hooves pawed the air above his head.

Then Tosca came down, and he was back to his normal self, and we did the shame walk down the neighbour’s driveway, past their house, and up the snowy, winding driveway to our house.

We put them back in their paddock, double-checked the gate was latched, and resumed our Christmas brunch.

Everyone looked at my dad with just a smidgen more respect, that Christmas day.