by Janet Cipolli

Created on: November 26, 2010

It's always a good idea to have a place to put a horse before you buy one. Of course, my Dad wasn't concerned with what he called "minor details." He wanted to buy my younger sister and I a horse and it didn't matter that we lived on a tiny quarter-acre of property with a 3-bedroom ranch, two-car garage and no stable. In fact, we didn't have a chicken coop either but that didn't stop him from bringing home twenty chickens and a rooster. He got the idea he wanted fresh eggs for breakfast so now we have chickens. My baby sister wanted a horse so he bought us a horse.

My father was born on a different planet—far, far away on the other end of the galaxy. There, folks don't get bogged down with common sense-they just go after what they want and worry about everything the rest of us might consider "important" when they cross that particular bridge. I’ve never met his people. Nor do I have immediate plans.

The horse was a beauty-a palomino. Not a pony either but a full-grown horsey. He didn't come with a saddle but he had a harness and bit with rope attached for reins.

"Oh Daddy! I love him!" exclaimed my clueless sister. "What's his name?"

"I didn't ask," said our Dad while tying the newest member of our family to a small Maple tree in the backyard. "Guess we can call him whatever we want." But of course Dad, I thought to myself. It's a good thing you remember our names.

I was obviously the only one who thought it weird that we now had a horse tied to a tree in our backyard. That was until the very next morning when the neighbors two streets over got to meet him. At first, my sister and I thought the horse had gotten loose, after all my Dad had only flung a rope around the tree a few times and not very diligently. When the first call came in we ran outside and sure enough the horse was gone.

"Daddy!" my sister yelled. We could hear his voice behind us. "Where are you?" we called out.

"I'm feeding the chickens." He was behind the garage in a fenced off area that was a makeshift home for the hens.

"Marshmallow is gone!" cried my sister. Oh yeah, she named it Marshmallow which I thought was so dumb. I had suggested the name Pally, short for Palomino but my sister had pooh-poohed it saying, "I'll bet every Palomino is called Pally." Uh, right-that's because it's a good name dufus.”

My Dad looked completely indifferent to the fact that people were calling our house to tell us they just saw our horse galloping past their window. "He's okay,”

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