It was a hot summer that stretched out indefinitely. I was working at the
barn of a good friend, paying for lessons with good old fashioned stable
mucking. My favorite horse was a gorgeous chestnut named Boomer. A foolish
character, but sweet as an ice cream cone to the people he loved.

I came to be one of those people, an exciting venture for someone never lucky enough to own her own horse. Every day I would eat my lunch by his run, and the sillygelding would stay near by, listening to my babble.

One day I had set my root beer up on his fence to search for his customary carrots in my sack, sure that the beverage would be safe. A moment later I looked back up to see my good ol’ Boomer flare back his lips and take my can in his teeth, politely as any
debonair gentleman. He then tossed back his head, downed a quarter can of root beer, and returned the can to me. Simply slipped his head over the fence and laid it right in my hand, sweet as can be. He’d even left some behind, though by fluke or design I couldn’t be sure. Still, it was kind in a horse-y sort of way.

After that, there was rarely a lunch that I didn’t save him the end of my root beer, though I found he preferred Pepsi. Though we’ve taken separate paths over the years, I’ll always remember that summer and my pop sharing pal.