Narrative: a Memorable Event. Essay

So, I got lost in the middle of Silverwood in Idaho with my little cousin…

I couldn’t wait to show Prince (my steer) his nickname is “Boom Cow” because he’s awesome. We were fitting him and I was in charge of the clippers, this is going to be a disaster when I picked up the buzzing, shaky clippers. I was starting to get rushed and people were surrounding me everywhere. It was so crowded it was like Black Friday in November. I finally finished and it wasn’t so bad. We put on the slick, fancy, shiny black show halter. I could hear the announcer “final call for class 2 of CrossBred steers.” I have to admit I was getting pretty nervous because there was really good quality steers in my class. I lined up stroking Prince with my show stick very gently because if you scratch him to hard he gets CRANKY. Then finally it's time to go into the

My horse woke up and drank out of the cesspool diligently. He turned to get out while and was suddenly swamped when his stump of a leg couldn’t support his weight. His master, who was called the Ringer looped his rope over the Hame of the saddle, much to the attraction of the excited horse. Relieved that the horse was fine, he walked him towards level ground to feed him wisps of alfalfa while comforting him for his brave actions in the moments before. He seemed to identify the taste of the food with an imaginary periscope, to relish it, that is the elaborate taste of the treat that was presented to the horse

Often times we find ourselves thinking about the past only to try to force the memories away and return to our current delusion. We can never erase the past, but if the past is who we are, then should we just welcome pain back into our lives? Embarrassment, guilt, and pride betray us as we choose to bury our darkest memories in our head and look to a positive future without ever having to readdress them and acknowledge that they had ever happened in the first place. Thinking back now my weakest moment caught me by complete surprise.

I approached the spirited horse with confidence because I was experienced with these types of shows in which all the riders are assigned a random horse to ride. I could sense his tension as soon as I was in the saddle. He furiously pawed the ground and shifted his weight around. Before I knew it, we entered the arena. Almost immediately he began prancing like a deer around the ring, my fear growing with every misstep he took. I desperately looked to my coach for advice, but there was nothing she could do. It was between him and me and he knew he was in control. The spectators lining the outside of the arena fell into an eerie silence each time we passed by. I was masquerading, pretending I had him under control while the situation continued to worsen. In my mind years passed before the judge finally called for all of the riders to line up in the middle of the arena. As we turned to line up, he stopped. I convinced him to take one reluctant step forward before he reared up onto his hind legs. He rose up higher and higher, turning into a skyscraper towering over all others in the arena. Then, everything went quiet. I frantically grabbed for his white mane, trying to maintain my balance, but to no avail. We both fell backwards, all two thousand pounds of his body crushing

Every day I would lug myself out of my bed while my alarm clock flashed 5:30 AM in bright red. I would forage though my dresser for a pair of worn out Wranglers, which I would match with an old button down shirt. I would slink down the stairs and out into the garage where I kept my aged boots and hat. I would restlessly pull the black square-toed boots over my tried feet and position the old dusty brown cowgirl hat on my head before I made my way to the barn. When I got to the barn I would gather up the eight main horses and lead them into the barn three at a time, and into their stalls. While the horses were preoccupied with their morning grain and hay, I would try to groom the young, untamed horses without getting my face kicked in. Once, they finished their meal I would lead them out to the pulling fence that was made out of large log telephone poles. The pulling fence was the site where these young horses would learn some hard life lessons. When I had fed all the older horses I would move on to the north pasture and gather up the colts and yearlings. I would repeat the same feeding and grooming regimen with them. All in all before I had my own breakfast, I would have seventeen horses curried, fed and tethered to the fence of the

On observation, Chloe presented with limited knowledge and insight relating to equine and horsemanship skills. For example, she asked for a halter to assist with connecting to the horse and when provided with one, she was unable to independently place the halter on the horse’s head. She asked if the horses were wearing shoes, rather than investigating herself. On

Tanka was a stubborn and sassy sorrel mare. I really didn’t ride her on my own because she probably would’ve taken advantage of me being a beginner. Since I couldn’t ride her on my own my sister Lisa usually rode along on Tanka while I sat behind the saddle, holding on to the edge of it for dear life. One cloudy mid September day my mom decided we should go on a trail ride. Since we didn’t have enough horses for everyone who wanted to come on the ride, my mom came up with a plan.

I have been tossing up two ideas for my main focus. They are, teaching the readers about horses and showing the bond my sister has created with her horse. I am leaning more towards showing the bond, because it is a beautiful thing. I hope to provide readers with a first person look into this experience. I will provide this with dialogue between my sister and I, and through my own interactions with the horses.

While running across the fields, I could see their powerful muscles moving just under their skin. The first horse to reach the gate is the spotted brown and white horse. He reaches his short neck over the fence and nuzzles my hand, begging me to pet him. Reaching up I ruffle his short black forelock and scratch his favorite spot behind his perky ears. Once the other two horses reach their gate, I walk up to them and love on them as well. The lighter red colored one immediately snuffles around my hand with his whiskery, yet velvety, nose, hoping for an apple flavored treat. The darker liver colored horse turns his fuzzy ears back and moves the more submissive horse away. I give them each a kiss on their heads in between their gentle brown eyes, and breathe in their comforting horsey

My heart was beating a hundred miles a minute. I was excited to ride the horse, but also nervous. I had never been around a horse before so I didn’t really know what to do. I knew horses kick or buck when frightened and I kept having to reassure myself that I was going to be okay. As we were walking up to the horse barn I shook those thoughts from my head. I could already hear the horses breathing and the smell of the fresh hay was oozing out of the building. My Uncle opened the barn door and my Aunt walked out with Striker, their oldest and nicest horse. Striker was very tall for a horse and all black, except for his nose, which had white

Marcel was on his way to the banquet when he saw something that caught his eye. He was trained to look for these things, and as he walked over he saw it was a horse. The horse was brown, shaggy, and peculiarly small. It looked like it she hadn’t eaten for days..

"I guess she just never came up and I didn't know when I would see her again so I didn't think of mentioning her," Merlin says sheepishly. The conversation might have continued but a loud horse's neigh rang through the air. I could tell it was a cry of distress and pain so my feet start moving toward the noise instinctively. When I reach the stables the a horse is kicking its front legs up in

Let me introduce him. His name is King Sized, or for short Hershey. He is a 11- year old horse who has the same personality as I do; he tries as hard as I do and can throw a lot of attitude in a long the way. I go to him

My First Memory- Personal Narrative I’ve had many memories during my lifetime, many good, and some bad. My