It was Snoopy’s fault, and each time it happens I can’t help but think of him. Because of Snoopy, the nail on one of my big toes only grows to a certain length before chipping, always in the same place. This has been occurring repeatedly since childhood. I noticed it again today and, as usual, his image popped up in my mind.

Snoopy is only one in a long line of Horses I Have Known. He was a stubby-looking pinto, his mane cut short, which caused it to stick straight up in a Mohawk. Not especially attractive, he was a somewhat sluggish school horse – one who didn’t get too excited about much. Good for kids. I was a starry-eyed horsey girl who spent my time at the barns, fields and lean-to shelters of summer camps and local stables, mucking stalls, cleaning tack, grooming horses, riding whenever I could.

It was a summer morning already promising to be sticky and hot, flies buzzing my head and alighting on Snoopy’s flinching withers. We stood beneath the dappled shade of some trees, where I enthusiastically curried his side, hair and dust lifting off his body, floating down and landing on my sockless ankles and dirty white Keds. He was such a zoned out personality that when he moved and put his large foot down on top of my sneakered toes, he might not have even realized it was my foot being crushed beneath his steel-shod hoof. I would like to think he wasn’t just being a brat. He was heavy, very heavy – it felt like all his weight was suddenly being concentrated on one toe as he leaned into me. The seconds seemed to stretch out endlessly – he could not be budged. Eventually I managed to give a shove and pummel him hard enough to move him off my foot. And thus, the ever-breaking toenail for the rest of my life, bringing me back to Snoopy and those days, over and over again.

Thinking about that time opened up a few other horse stalls in my mind, which led down a number of other memory trails. There was George, from the same location and the same time. George was a golden chestnut gelding, a little more spirited than Snoopy. Among the many lessons we learned when taking horses out on a trail ride was that when heading out, if you wanted to open up into a canter or gallop through a field, that was fine. But when heading back in, it was prudent to keep the horses in check, as there was always one who would bolt and tear off galloping at high speed back to the barn, their rider holding on for dear life, while everyone else had to rein their horses in to avoid the same situation.

It was one of those times that someone decided to urge their horse into a run as we were heading back, at which point George saw it as a free for all and took off with me atop his back. We were weaving through a tight trail in the woods when it happened. There was really very little space to maneuver him into a turn in order to slow him down, although I tried. George didn’t appreciate this much, attempting to wipe me off against a tree at high speed in response. My knee grazed a tree trunk and the stirrup was ripped right off the saddle. It’s a miracle this stunt did not break my leg.

At that point George stopped and I slid off him, limping as I lead him back up the trail to look for the missing stirrup, luckily located off to the side in some leaf litter. And then he gave me a hard time while trying to scramble back on. Eventually we made our way back, me needing to restrain him from another bolt the entire time. George.

Part of that same crew was Buttons. He was a sweet buckskin and a nice ride, very much my favorite in both looks and personality. I had wished so much he was mine.

When I think of George and his attitude, it then leads me to thoughts of Mooch. Mooch resided at the local stable where I used to hang out as a kid. He was part draft horse and absolutely huge. His chestnut coat was a fiery dark red, the color of an Irish Setter. He had a strong, arched neck, flaring nostrils, a hard mouth, a bouncing, high canter, and he wasn’t particularly friendly. When I entered his single stall from behind to tend to him, his ears would immediately pin flat back. Seriously moody – you never knew what he was going to do. I was always extra careful around Mooch. Sometimes I would ride him to lead a class around the ring. You either had to urge him on or hold him in – he was never very easy. But the feeling of power while perched on his high, strong back was tremendous.

During the time of Mooch, a beautiful new horse arrived at the barn. He was a gentle black beauty with an easy gait and the most comfortable rocking-chair canter. The groom in charge lived in an apartment above the stables. We all thought he was the coolest person ever, and I think secretly (or not so secretly) all the girls had a crush on him. He was revered because of his great skill handling the horses and his outrageously fun personality. He decided to name the new horse “Soul Brother,” because they were both black. Brother was a dream horse. Once the groom had vetted him, for a very short time we barn rats had the opportunity to ride the new horse, until some wealthy people bought him for their daughter and he became off limits.

I remember her in her jodhpurs and riding boots, her perfect, light blonde hair beneath her riding cap, leading him out of his box stall, tacking him up with her new saddle. Looking from the position of age now, it feels a bit strange to admit this, but way back then I was suddenly very much aware of class, privilege, and feeling an overall tinge of resentment towards this rich blonde girl with that horse. I can’t recall her name now. The people who boarded their own horses there pretty much didn’t hang out with those of us who didn’t, so there was a have and have-not situation going on to begin with. At the time I saw this girl as stuck up, but for all I know she might have been very nice. Truth is, it would have been my dream come true back then had it been me with that horse. Childish jealousy. Funny what you remember……

Throughout the years, many hours were spent in other barns and on the backs of other horses. What I haven’t mentioned here is that in order to spend time in their presence, it necessitated loading up on allergy medications and carrying an inhaler around with me. It meant having to strip down, shower and wash every article of clothing pretty much immediately afterwards. Following a glorious and invigorating bareback ride on a lovely palomino, my jeans coated in horsehair and sweat, the payback meant wheezing with asthma for hours, often into the night. It was a repeatedly no-win scenario, which got so bad that eventually I had to let this passion go.

I just spent the last forty minutes looking for a photo of Snoopy. Once upon a time I had photos of most of the animals that have been a part of my life. All the dogs, many cats, both mine and those of my friends and neighbors throughout the years. Blackie the Squirrel that used to come to the back door and take nuts from your fingers, until he bit my sister and we had to stop feeding him. Snoopy, George, Buttons and Hershey from camp, Mooch, Brother and so many others from the barn, their pictures tucked into envelopes and photo albums. Now I can’t find them.

While cleaning out some of the excesses around this house some time during the past year, at one point I recall thinking, “Why am I keeping all these photos of long ago horses?” I’m pretty sure I tossed them during a purge, and since I can’t locate them, that is probably so. I always do this. It’s almost guaranteed that after I get rid of something, somewhere very soon down the line I am going to want to find it for one reason or another. But I guess it doesn’t matter. You get the idea.

As I look down at my crooked toenail, I can almost smell the dust of that hot morning and just about hear the flies buzzing around us. I can still picture Snoopy standing there with his Mohawk mane, as clear an image as any in my mind, as he steps on my sneaker and I yelp, “Get off my foot!”