And I thought I was unique:

Excerpt from today's reading in my "Artistic Education" class (use Google Translator):

"Las niñas de esta edad con frecuencia centran mucho su interés en los dibujos de caballos."

I think drew more horses as a kid than there are in the entire United States! And it continues:

"Ahora que ha desaparecido el miedo a los animales, las niñas proyectarán sus propios sentimientos en esta forma animal. Para algunas, el caballo se ha convertido en un símbolo veloz y gallardo de la libertad que forma parte de crecer."

This was one of my favorite books when I was at the height of my horse craze (wait...have I outgrown that?). I think mostly because the pictures were colorful and beautiful, but also easy to imitate. I can remember drawing horse after horse from this book: horses running, horses grazing, horses rearing.

But I wasn't alone in my obsession. My best friend at the time, Katy, was right there with me. When we weren't drawing horses, we were playing horses! The game consisted of galloping around on all fours in Katy's basement, grazing, whinnying and trying to escape from her little brothers who usually assumed the role of wolves or bears.

We were quite technical in this game, nothing was left to chance. Both of us had horse encyclopedias that we spent hours pouring over so when it came time to be a horse we were never merely "small brown horses," but chestnut Morgans. We were "buckskin," "bay," "dapple grey," or "palomino;" and depending on our moods we were wild Mustangs, Shetland ponies, or Thoroughbreds.

My favorite horse in the book was the Andalusian. He stood tall and strong. He was powerfully built, yet still elegant and well-balanced; and his mane and tail were amazingly full, long and beautiful--I fell in love. When I wasn't a buckskin Mustang, I was a dapple grey Andalusian. Looking back, my current life is an adult version of the same game: switching between wild American and proud Spaniard.

When I finally got a horse of my own he was about the furthest you could get from a noble Andalusian: a mixed-breed pony named "Snake" (Note: I did not name him! My horse names ran along the lines of "Desert Sunset"). Snake was a Christmas present.

Just like the movies, Emily and I woke up early on Christmas morning, tore through our presents and as the euphoria was wearing off, my dad said causally, "I think Santa left you girls a present outside!" And after scrambling to the window, we looked out to see a 13-hand, brown (excuse me, chestnut) pony tied to a young madrone tree and complete with a big red bow around his neck.

Snake was an ornery little one, but I was too excited about having my "own" horse to worry about much else. When I think about how I rode him I feel a little guilty. Now, after taking several horsemanship classes, reading books and watching movies, I feel bad for man-handling (or girl-handling, as the case may be) that stubborn little gelding. But for the most part we were friends. There's a home video of me jumping Snake at Glenna Atwood's house. She gave me riding lessons and on about a three acre piece of her property she had set up jumps made from logs and oil barrels. In the video I take little Snake through the jumps seamlessly and then try with Glenna's palomino mare, Blondie--no luck. She's a stubborn thing and though I kick and kick and kick, she balks and walks around every jump. Finally I give up and get back on Snakey for one last lap around the jumps. He doesn't flinch.

Snake was a pet and a toy all at once. I would take him out and brush him, trying to give his coat the luster I read about in my horse books. I braided his mane and tail. And many were the times that Emily and I would play Indian princess in the forest behind our home in Somes Bar, leading little Snake along behind us. He, of course, was an integral part of our play, being the trusty Indian pony. Every now and then we would have to hop on bareback and trot through manzanita and poison oak to escape the imaginary cavalry.

After Snake there was Apache the Appaloosa; Straw, my dearest Palomino Overo; Hobo, our wonky little, flee-bit Mustang; and finally Fuego, Straw's colt (now my mom's horse). I love them all. Still, no one taught me patience or perseverance like my first pony. He died when I graduated from the eighth grade; I may never have cried so much over any of my pets.

Here, I haven't got time much less money for horses, but I still love them as I did when I was seven. When I go back to California I get as much saddle time as I can. And during the feria here in Sevilla, I am still gaga for those strong Andalusians who prance through the streets, legs high and necks arched, proudly bearing their polka-dotted riders.