A Horse Named Star

In April 1995, I found myself in Oklahoma, reporting journalistically on the aftermath of the Murrah Federal Building bombing, and not knowing what tomorrow would bring. 

I certainly did not expect it to bring a very different kind of relationship into my life, but it did.

Looking for distractions from the pain we all felt – and the

personal pain I felt from losing my wife, I decided to drive south from Norman to Ardmore, about an hour’s drive, on a sunny Saturday morning in early April and check out a horse breeders auction.

Even though I grew up in horse country, in a town where the Shetland Pony became a familiar sight because of a popular pony farm there, I had never attended a horse breeders auction. I was certainly not thinking of buying a horse, but I thought it would be enjoyable to see some of the finest horses in Oklahoma and Texas strut their stuff in the arena as buyers bid for the steeds.

Had I just gone into the arena, taken a seat, and enjoyed the sale for a couple hours, it would have been a pleasant-enough day. Just not the great one it turned out to be. 

Arriving before the auction began, I veered off into the barn where the neatly bathed and groomed horses awaited their moment in the sale ring. As I walked the sawdust aisle past the stalls, I realized I'd never seen so many beautiful animals in one place before.

The horses all began to blend into one continual blur, like a LeRoy Neiman painting,

until I came to the last stall on the left and a two-year-old Quarter Horse mare bearing the hip number of 153. Her name was Star, and I was struck instantly. Her sorrel coat was so fine and smooth, three of her legs bore gleaming white socks, her ears stood at attention, and it was all topped off by a white lopsided blaze smack in the middle of her face, and just between two of the softest brown eyes that seemed to peer right into my soul. In the vernacular of equine enthusiasts, Star sported a lot of chrome.

“How would you like to come with me, big girl?” I found myself asking her.

She didn’t say no. To me, the deal was sealed at that point.

To the uninitiated, a Quarter Horse is a well-built animal bred for speed, and reputed to be the fastest horse over a quarter-mile. She certainly sent my heart racing on this April day.

It was love at first sight and, I knew she was exactly what I wanted. She could make the pain go away, in time. Would she be expensive? Yes. Did I care? At that point, no. I reasoned, if you can call it that, I had just lost a beautiful woman, so why pass up this opportunity to share my life with a beautiful equine? Expense is one thing, but the value that a purchase like Star could add to my life could be, well, invaluable.

It would be several hours before we could ride off to the sunset, though, because she wasn't scheduled to show until late afternoon. And, of course, I had no idea how much I'd have to pay to make this new dream a reality. Nor, for that matter, did I have a trailer to get her back to Norman. Nor did I have a place to put her back in Norman. And, oh right: I had no real cash on me. But I did have a brand new Master Card with a $6,000 balance.

I would need all of it.

I went back into the sale arena and sat on my hands while horse after horse went up for auction, afraid I might get impulsive and be tempted to bid on a lesser candidate before Star.

As I sat through this parade, I realized this wasn't the first time I had lost a woman and opted to go forward in life with a horse instead. It had been my senior year at the University of Oklahoma: 1968. I had been dating Susan for some time, and was so sure we would be married, that I cobbled together enough cash to surprise her with an engagement ring.

I took her to dinner for the formal proposal and was so sure she would spill her soup in her rush to spit out "YES!", that I didn't even notice when she said “No”.

After a few seconds of a reality check, my words came: "Not sure I heard that right, Sue. Once more, please?" After all, since "no" can sound so much like "yes," I thought I'd better check, and this time I heard the subtle distinction. For a couple reasons, the kind that don't make much sense to anyone beyond 21, she had -- in fact -- said no.

Although I've been eternally grateful since then that she did so, it took a while for my sanity to set in and displace my shock and awe that night. But we made it through the dessert, and I took her home. Then I went home, talked it out with my big sister, went to bed and had a good night's sleep.

When dawn broke, I decided to push forward. Zale's would not take the ring back, so I decided to trade it for something that caught my eye earlier in the week: a horse named Shorty. Surely this kind of relationship would be easier to handle, and everyone knows how loyal your horse can be.

Everything was going okay until the next evening when Susan called to tell me she maaay have been a bit too hasty with the "no." Looked like she may want me and the ring, after all. I was about to ask if she would settle for a horse instead because that's what the ring had morphed into, but I took the high road and said, "Let's think about that, Sue. This day has been rainy, and maybe you're just overly depressed right now."

The subject was never revisited.

As I've taught Interpersonal Communication in college over the years, I have sometimes suggested that students use a line like that when they want their "no" to glide down easily. It certainly worked well for Susan and me and allowed us to have much better lives than a hasty "yes" would have handed us.

Back to Star, waiting eagerly in the barn to start a new life with me. It was approaching 5 p.m., and she was one of the last horses to enter the sale ring that Saturday afternoon. Watching her go through her paces, I resolved that no one was going to separate me from this magnificent animal.

The bidding began, and it was lively. A half-dozen of us were battling at the start but, after a series of $100 and $200 bumps, I leap-frogged a thousand over the last bid, and there were only two of us left. Another thousand later, and there was just one.

Star and I were now a twosome, my Master Card was on fire and melted out of shape, and I figured out the rest of the logistics before nightfall.

From that point on, this horse and rider spent several years happily exploring the hills and trails of Oklahoma and, later, Tennessee and -- then again -- back to Oklahoma for a year. She seemed to make it her mission to get me over the hurdles I faced. I like to think I did the same for her.

More immediately, in these few short months spent in reunion with Oklahoma that spring and summer, I stabled Star a couple miles south of Norman and I would see and ride her daily after driving back from the bomb site. She was a lifesaver on many of those days, lifting my spirits and reminding me that life is not all tragic and that even a horse named Star can bring a shot of sunlight back to my days.

I would move on to a new teaching assignment at the University of Memphis that summer, but I took Star with me, and we remained a team for years to come.