The white stallion trotting back and forth just outside the barbed-wired fence line, suddenly reared, his front hooves flailing the air, ready to attack me as I hurled a stone at him. I had disturbed his amorous advances to my mare, Muñeca. She nickered softly, her tail raised high, safe inside her field. I quickly ducked under the fence, the stallion but a few meters behind me.
Frantic whinnying in the middle of the still night had warned me that something was going on. I slipped into a robe and went out to the corral thinking I could handle whatever situation with a rock. Most animals, with a simple throwing gesture, will simply turn and go away but this animal was adamant.
The stallion, named Palomo, lives across the highway. His owner, Manuel, tethers him out at night to graze. This is not the first time he has broken the frayed rope to pursue his adventures. There's been many a foal born around this village with Palomo's ungainly build and albino features, pink eyes and mouth.
I widely skirted the raging creature, crossed the highway, and rapped on a house door, calling, "Manuel, Palomo's loose again. Come quickly." "Alli voy!" "I'm coming," he answered. Bleary eyed, in pajamas, with a rope slung over his shoulder, we crossed the highway together. He approached his horse cautiously, threw a loop over his head, observed his bleeding hooves, and led him home.
More than once I found myself wishing that Muñeca would be more selective in sashaying that perfect rump of hers. Once when I was riding up the mountain above Jocotepec, we passed a grazing burro who saluted Muñeca with a breath-taking, exhaustive hee-haw. His head went up, his lips curled back. Unknown to me, she had given him the "come along" with her raised tail and "come along" he did at a vigorous trot. But the creature wasn't very bright and mounted Muñeca from the side, his small hooves around me. A good sock in the nose, and he was down, reconsidering it. Thereafter, whenever I rode up that particular mountain, I always carried stones in my saddlebag, just in case.
Silencio
He never, ever uttered a sound, although Muñeca, the silent one, had a charm that only Muñeca could see. She would go into spontaneous heat whenever she saw him. Everyone in the village must have owned him at some time or other. He could plough and plod, always did his job. With gray smattering throughout his sorrel coat, he sported a heavy black forelock which was cut straight, just above his eyes.
Another encounter involved only sisterly love when the most woebegone mare strayed up the hill, liked the grazing in the vacant lot next to our fenced field and decided to stay. She was a picture of the roughest toughest life, every bone jutting, and her backbone raw. Nickering together at the fence line, she and Muñeca became fast friends. Local inquiry produced no information of her brand. She did belong to someone, but who?
After a few days of not wanting her hanging around, I slipped a loop over her head. She ponied well. My intent was to let her loose near the next village. Rather than muddy Muñeca's legs in a trail-wide knee-deep slough, I dismounted and tied her. We were close enough to San Cristobal. I slipped the line off our unwanted neighbor, gave her a slap on the rump, and she trotted off slopping through the mud. Muñeca became wild, thrusting and pulling on her tie line, whinnying and snorting. Her friend was running off! I talked Muñeca into calm and untied her but before I could get my foot in the stirrup she lunged, pulling me into the mud, at which point I just let go and she went running off to join her friend.
I was a muddy mess. I was just sitting there thinking about what to do when a young cowboy from the village rode up. A little mud never gets in the way of their work, so off he rode to find and bring me Muñeca. She was grazing in the soccer field next to her friend.
That evening, after a good clean-up, my husband and I were on the deck talking about my adventure when Muñeca's whinnying caught our attention. Guess who was back? Our neighbor horse had returned.
With vet attention, good feed and good company, Amiga became a decent looking horse. If an owner ever wants to claim her, there she is.
Meanwhile, Muñeca is content, pays less attention to the guys and only flirts occasionally when Amiga isn't around.
whinnied up a storm, arching her tail in a provocative way. The locals said that he had been a real roué in his day. Perhaps a seductive whiff still lingered, as in a dream, and only Muñeca could sense it.
