Wedgfire’s Song

By Krissi Miller

Wedgfire's Song is a rare and intimate look into the hearts of two soul mates. Written in a unique style to include the perspectives of both a horse and its human, it offers readers an opportunity to accompany Fire and Krissi as they review the highpoints and low points of two lives entwined. Even though each one sees the same events from different perspectives (one horse, one human), they always seem to grow more and more together, in both love and commitment, from each shared encounter. This book will resonate with readers who have loved a pet so well they could hardly tell where they ended and the beloved pet began. The resounding truth of Wedgfires Song is "There is no beginning and no end."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369404089

Krissi Miller

Krissi lives with one husband, several dogs which are affectionately referred to as “The Littles” and “The Bigs”, and the beloved occupants of her “Horse Hotel”. Wedgfire Farm is the name of this wonderful Kingdom of Love and horse happiness, and it a legacy of that truly immortal horse himself, the great Wedgfire. Krissi is often known to say that the “other man” in her life has always been a sassy coal black beauty with a heart of “Fire” and a soul as rare and radiant as the star from which he fell and to which he returned after he crossed the Rainbow Bridge. That Wedgfire Star is located at coordinates 1h 40m 15.3s, -24 degrees 50” 46.1” Krissi asks you to be sure to take a moment to say “Hello” to him the next time you find yourself admiring a beautiful starry night. He’s up there looking down and blessing the hearts of all who have ever loved a horse or helped one to find a happy life.

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by Krissi Miller.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Back Cover photo is of author Krissi Miller and Rashad El Desperado.

front and back cover art/artist:

Into the Light and Fire Against the Setting Sun original art by Judith Rice of Wyndswept Farm. Art inspired by Wedgfire himself and lovingly rendered in pastels by one who also loved him.

Rev. date: 07/28/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

853296

CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Fire Power

Chapter 2   Wedgfire Farm

Chapter 3   It’s Not Love

Chapter 4   Lessons in Leading

Chapter 5   Comings and Goings

Chapter 6   Snowy Night Magic

Chapter 7   The Truth about Soul Mates

Chapter 8   Both Sides Now

Chapter 9   One Stormy Day

Chapter 10   A Humbling Experience

Chapter 11   Biting It Off and Chewing It

Chapter 12   Fire on Parade

Chapter 13   The War Horse Within

Chapter 14   Killer Ducks and Other Assorted Challenges

Chapter 15   Kids and Common Sense

Chapter 16   Accomplishment

Chapter 17   Monster Trees and Homing Pigeons

Chapter 18   The Force of Fire

Chapter 19   Young Again

Chapter 20   Memory Lane

Chapter 21   Wedgfire Farm Magic

Chapter 22   Young Friends and Fence Lines

Chapter 23   The Music

Chapter 24   Embracing Forever

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CHAPTER 1

Fire Power

Wedgfire’s Voice

I watched her drive away down the long gravel drive from my favorite place at the top of the pasture hill. As she was nearing the end of the drive, she stopped her car, rolled down the window, and looked back. We watched each other watching each other. Time stood still. There was something like electricity in the air during that brief moment of watching.

Afterward, she would say it was at that exact moment that she fell in love with me. She would describe me standing coal black against a pink and blue setting-sun sky, head high and proud, neck stretched, nostrils flaring, with the look of the eagle in my stance.

You’re going to be mine, one day! she promised us both as she slowly rolled the window back up and continued down the drive. Her car got smaller and smaller until it was completely out of sight, but still I stood silhouetted against the sunset.

Something about her touched me that first day. It was like a tiny electric spark that tingled down my spine, a frisson of something new and slightly disturbing but not actually unpleasant. It was an awareness of something, but I didn’t know what. Perhaps, it was simply an interest. She had interested me. That was it.

At that time, I was a nine-year-old Arabian gelding with a very checkered past. I had been bred to be The Black Stallion back in the day when Walter Farley’s book had been made into a movie, then a sequel, then another, then a TV series. I was a coveted item in those days. And just like The Black of book and movie fame, I had had a series of misadventures that had left me with the reputation of having a bit of an attitude. The kindest thing I had been called was unwilling. Another label applied to me had been Rogue. I didn’t like learning new things.

I didn’t trust people to know what was best for me. I did not accept any counsel but my own. At age four, I had gotten my front hoof caught up in barbed wire and had received a serious injury bringing my days as a potential black stallion show horse crashing to an end. I was sold off to begin training as a trail horse. My fear of new things and my basic distrust of people didn’t bode well for that horse occupation, but my new owner persevered in good faith and with an honest desire to see me achieve. After three years of trying really hard to put up with my general lack of cooperation, she decided to sell me in order to begin work with a new, more cooperative and willing horse. I certainly couldn’t blame her.

That brings us to the black-silhouette-sunset-day visit from the one who called herself Krissi, the one who had interested me. She had come into our barn and petted the other horses, but when she came to me, she just stopped and stared. She reached out a tentative hand, and when she laid it on my neck it was almost trembling with awe.

You are sooooo beautiful … she breathed out.

I accepted her praise in my usual haughty way, and then turned and walked away. She stood watching me with that same wonder-and-awe way that she had touched my neck. I continued walking, swaggering almost, to make sure she continued to watch me. After a moment, she turned away to talk to my owner who was her friend. That’s when I decided to let her know the real me.

I turned and quietly returned to the stall, reached over the partition, and grabbed the collar of her shirt, pulling hard. I wanted her to know just who she was dealing with. She gasped. I pulled harder. She pulled back, finally able to extricate herself from my grip. I yanked my head back quickly, knowing I deserved a scream and a darn good whack for that piece of naughtiness, and shriek she did! But wait, it was like no shriek I had ever heard. Then I realized she was shrieking with laughter. She walked right up to me and patted me firmly on the neck all the while telling me what a funny guy I was. I was dumbfounded. Up to that point, in the last nine years, not a single human had appreciated my sense of humor.

As it turned out, that was the first of many, many practical jokes that I played on my Krissi. I had been born at a local Arabian horse farm and had lived there until I was three years old. The older gentleman who was my breeder knew a lot about horses and even more about Arabian horses, in particular. He had a firm, but fair, hand, and he had absolutely no fear of young high-strung Arabs. He must have recognized my natural arrogance and my delight in teasing others because it was my job to get the mares ready for his stud. I suppose that may have been the beginning of my overall outlook on life. I expected my people to be in charge. I expected to be treated fairly. I expected to be able to have a little fun. Then I was sold. I went to a new home where all those rules seemed to change.

Suddenly, the hand was demanding, often seeming less than fair to me. I was viewed more as a possession that carried a certain status. I was The Black Stallion. When I didn’t seem to be as cooperative with these new owners as I had been with my older gentleman, I was sent to training. There’s a word! Training! This training was the Soviet-Gulag-style kind. Needless to say, it didn’t impress me much. However, it did leave an impression. After the severe lessons of those few months, I had learned one thing loud and clear: Learning is NOT fun. Upon returning home to the demanding-handed people, I was extremely high-strung and fearful of making any mistake. I would simply either evade or shut down. If that didn’t work, I would quite simply explode. It was one such incident as this that got my front foot caught in metal fencing wire. The injury was catastrophic, almost severing the hoof. My demanding people were just that when it came to medical care for me, though. My injury received excellent veterinary and follow-up care, and my hoof healed. There was significant scar tissue, and it was unsightly, but I was not permanently lame. I was, however, blemished, and so, I was sold off for a much lower price than my original purchase price.

My next owner was a kind and considerate long-time Arabian horse owner. She was the kind of owner who would take on a lost cause like me and do her very best to offer training, compassion, and hope to that struggling horse. And she did just that for me. Her endless kindnesses and attention helped my mind to heal and to begin to trust people again. This trust, however, was a much wiser trust. I now knew that trust needs to be earned. I had learned that not every horse owner or horse trainer is in it for the horse. I considered myself to be one lucky horse to have landed at Wyndswept Farm and in the heart and hands of a wise and compassionate horse woman. Eventually, when it became apparent to both of us that I was not a good match for Wyndswept, this wise and wonderful woman found me my Krissi. She had an amazing ability to match up a horse to its best owner. She did that for Krissi and me. We have both remained in her debt knowing that nothing we have to give and no words we could ever say could convey to her our gratitude for putting us together.

So it was that two months after our first meeting, and after several more visits to Wyndswept, Krissi made good on her silhouette-sunset-night promise. She signed the contract that said we now belonged to each other. Her friend, and my previous owner, did have some misgivings about whether or not my Krissi could handle me, and rightly so. I was an experienced reprobate of a horse and she was a pie-in-the-sky, oh-isn’t-he-so-beautiful newbie. I was going to eat her alive, and I was looking forward to every tender, tasty bite. But my Wyndswept owner knew Krissi. She also knew that look that a human gets when it falls in love with everything about a horse. She was counting on Krissi breaking through the wise-guy humor, the walls of evasion, and the arrogance that were my ways of dealing with the world back then. However, I didn’t know all that. I just knew how much I was looking forward to devouring this overly optimistic and smiling new owner.

One memorable sortie into the gourmet delicacy that I, at that time, perceived my new owner to be, occurred one day when she came to clean my stall. I waited until she had the wheelbarrow full to the top of dirty, smelly stall litter. Then I dumped it. I waited expectantly for her response. How I loved Fire-works in those days. I watched her as she walked over to inspect the damage I had done. I was head up, eyes wide, poised-for-flight ready. But all she did was close the door to the stall, leaving me outside while she cleaned up the mess I had made. She was making those ridiculous giggling sounds that she always made when I was trying to impress her with my mischief. I could clearly see that I was going to have to step up my game.

A few days later, she decided to saddle me up and go for a ride. Go for a ride, I thought to myself. "Just the thing." I decided I would take this young lady for a ride she wouldn’t soon forget. So, when she got on and said GO, I went. Sideways. I went sideways all the way into the side of the barn. She sat there quietly while I was doing my best to scare the dickens out of her with my delightfully evasive maneuver.

Once I had the two of us right up against the barn with nowhere else to go, she continued to sit there, just sit there. I listened for that stupid chuckle of hers but didn’t hear a thing. No chuckle, just sitting.

Hmmm, where to from here? I wondered.

Just then she bumped me in the side. What the heck? I thought. She was supposed to be peeing her pants in fear, and there she was bumping me in the side. I decided retreat was my best tactical option for the moment. I walked away from the wall, and after giving me a few more bumps and prods to go here or there, she dismounted and told me what a good boy I had been.

Now I was the one to chuckle. Oh, honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I decided to stand down for the moment. Lulling her into a false sense of security, after all, was going to do me more good in the long run. I immediately set about planning my next salvo.

extraordinary day came a few weeks later when she decided that I was being such a good boy that it was time for cantering. I told you the whole lulling thing would work. (Chuckle Chuckle) So, she saddled me up and took me over to the riding ring. She mounted and set us off at a nice little walk. I behaved perfectly (evil chuckle, here). We walked, and then we trotted. I made sure my trot was as disgustingly bouncy as I could possibly make it. She bounced along happily, all the while telling me what a good fellow I was. Geesh, what was wrong with her?

Finally, the moment I was waiting for came. She asked me for a canter, and canter I did. Right on cue. Perfectly, too, because, as she said, I was being such a good boy. Not! After four or five lovely strides I twitched my rear end to the side ever so slightly but just at the right moment. Off she went to the side, through the air, and into the dirt. I stopped politely and looked back careful to keep the glee out of my eye.

Darn! she said. How did you do that, you little stinker?

Little did I know that it was not a rhetorical question. Apparently, she was honestly trying to figure out how I sent her flying with such a small movement of my back. In all honesty, how was I supposed to know that people with physical education degrees are always trying to figure out that kind of stuff? Anyhow, I figured it didn’t really matter because I was sure we’d be done for the day after her ignominious defeat in the dirt. But