Most horse owners aren’t lucky enough to know much about their horse’s history. They have to research breed registration records or hire animal communicators to learn about a horse’s past. I’m fortunate in that my main man, Milagro, came from a breeder who is a friend of a friend, and only lives 25 miles from me.
I’ve wanted to meet his dam, a glorious Spanish Mustang mare named Quinna, since the day I got Milagro, six years ago. I’d seen photos of her, and she looked incredible. Along with an unusual grulla color with a black stripe down her back, she had a thick, black mane that hung close to the ground.
I knew a man named Cash, Milagro’s breeder, still had her, and that she was in her 20s. However, coordinating a visit wasn’t easy. I tried for years, with my friend Kelly as the mediator, but finally gave up.
Then, two weeks ago, Kelly texted me and asked if I wanted to go meet Quinna. Kelly would be trimming her feet, and I could tag along. Of course, I jumped at the chance to finally lay eyes on the horse that had given birth to my special guy.
So, this morning, I met Quinna. She was standing in her paddock, and right away I could feel a similar energy to Milagro. I could see that she was very intelligent, and sized me up right away. But unlike Milagro, she was reserved. She didn’t rush me for the horse cookie I offered her, but politely nibbled it from my hand.
Kelly encouraged me to go in the paddock with her, so I stepped inside Quinna’s space, approaching her quietly. I could tell she wasn’t the type of horse you just walked up to and started petting. I let her sniff the back of my hand while I spoke softly to her and tried to telepathically communicate with her: “I have your son.”
I’m not sure if it was the way I handled her, the telepathic message or the cookie, but she took to me pretty quickly. She stood close to me, with her head resting against my shoulder. As I chatted with Cash, I absentmindedly reached under her head and began stroking her face.
“She really likes you,” Kelly said. “She doesn’t let me do that.”
I was surprised to hear this. Being Milagro’s close relative, I figured Quinna would be pretty friendly once she figured out that a person wouldn’t hurt her. But I guess like many horses with mustang blood, she chooses her people carefully.
Although age has taken a toll on Quinna, and her once magnificent mane is not as long as it used to be, she has a quality about her that speaks of her heritage-rich bloodlines. Only four generations from the feral horses that were the foundation of the Spanish Mustang breed, she is a living relic of the Old West. And on top of that, she’s my boy’s momma. It’s a combination that can’t be beat.