As the morning sun began to paint the eastern sky with the first red orange brush strokes of the new day and I went about my routine of opening the shades that protected us in the house from the unseen things of the night, sadness descended on me darkening the brightness and hope of the new day as I looked out onto the front acres and saw emptiness. I fear I have made a dreadful mistake.

For the past eight months each morning has greeted me with the sight of our paint horses, Bobbi and Kaya grazing peacefully, or lying contentedly about the yard, or meandering about. Today, they are not there, and I miss them to the point of tears. Today in the first light of day, all the reasons we saw fit to find another home for them seem weak and selfish.

What is the magic of horses that they can work their way into your soul and become an actual part of you? How is it they can cause so much work and worry, tear up so much through their nature, yet when they are justifiably gone, instead of joy and relief, I feel profound loneliness and grief? How is it possible for an animal to work into your heart in such a brief time?

I am not an animal person; I’m too selfish. I want my freedom and not to be tied to barnyards and animals. I hate the expense. Feed is expensive, and they leave it on the ground in piles that have to be cleaned up. I hate cleaning up, and with two horses on five acres, you have to clean up every day. Each morning, there is a full wheelbarrow of processed hay scattered and hidden, as if left by a demented Easter bunny, among leaves, pine needles and grasses to be discovered and shoveled. Then there is what to do with these leavings, which requires more expense and work. I mention in passing the eating of the azaleas, the jasmine, blueberry bushes, the stripping of the grass and every other green thing, the cost of additional fencing for the garden and the list goes on.

I hate worrying about them when the weather is bad. When we were planning on getting them over a year ago, we built a stable, fenced in a corral and made conditions as good for them as possible. We provided much better than the free range situation they had before. But did they take advantage of the shelter offered by the stable and corral? No, they stood under the trees in driving rain, hung their heads and pulled at my heart strings. Did they take advantage of the hay and feed I put into the dry stable? No, they would rather graze wet hay or do without.

With all this and the impending choral tours, book-related events that will require long absences, which alone justify our finding a home for them, I miss them terribly. They are gone to a wonderful home, but I wonder: How can their absence be so profound? How can the gap and emptiness be so vast? How could I be so wrong? I guess it’s called love.

David Wilson Atwood is a local freelance writer whose human interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted at: david@starchasers.us.