The young can help an old 'Princess'

My wife and I drive 1,000 miles from our temporary California home to her Montana birth-land. As we round the dirt road onto the Flagot ranch I ask, "What's up with that old horse?"

My wife says, "That's Princess, she's a plodder. She's the first horse I learned to ride and she is amazing."

"She doesn't look that amazing now," I add, and my wife almost instantaneously punches my arm, and replies: "She's a great horse. She's just old," She scolds and I accept the point.

Princess is an old horse. A very old horse. I first met Princess at the Flagots' 100-acre cattle ranch in Frenchtown, Mont., in 1984. Henri and John Flagot are the unofficial parents of my wife and caretakers of Princess on this Western ranch, nurturing cattle, chicken, dogs and children.

Henri is the most loving and beautifully kind woman I have ever met and "Big John" is as quiet, sturdy and confident as snow falling softly on this western Rocky Mountain range.

Big John shares stories of World War II, battles in North Africa and how he became a successful cattle rancher. Henri cooks fried eggs in bacon grease, chain-smokes Marlboros and loves her children, including my wife, unconditionally. I am immediately welcomed into this family and embrace a kind, rugged, loving freedom I've not felt previously.

My first morning on the ranch I wake early, dress in blue-jeans, see no need for a shirt and head outside in the uninterrupted quiet. Roosters begin a soft, distant crow, cows bellow in the field and Princess neighs, whinnys and nickers. I gather a handful of chokecherries from a tree close to the fence-line and call, "Princess!"

The 42-year-old, deeply swaybacked quarterhorse slowly rises from her bed, shakes the dust from her body and heads to my sweet hand of delicious berries. Other horses follow.

Princess does not rise on her own. Her 42-year-old body is too tired to rise simply because a stranger is calling her name, expressing the thought of sweet berries.

The younger horses in Princess' stable nudge, prod, nuzzle and convince the old bay to rise. After adequate prompting, and the rise of Princess, her stable-mates ensure she makes it to her destination, following not in search of food but in insurance their stable-mate is adequately nourished. The younger horses complete their task - ensuring Princess rises for another day, and head back to the field.

This devotion of young horses for an ailing old mare stays with me for years. I am haunted by thoughts of old people laying down, too weak to move, never motivated to rise for the sweet fruit of life. I wonder: what might life look like if young children, 30-somethings and millennials mingle with mature folks living in Ivy Court, Peaceful Village, Flower Cove or Mature Manner and share their joy of life?

What if young horses helped older ponies with a nudge or prod to become more active, to smile, laugh, celebrate life or simply get out of bed? Why do we hide our old ponies in homes with other old ponies rather than celebrate their lives with younger horses and allow the old ponies to experience all life has to offer?

As I age, I hope an excited young horse offers me chokecherries from a nearby tree and I pray a young horse motivates me to accept the gift.

Send comments or other suggestions to William Rutherford at bprutherford@hotmail.com or visit pensiveparenting.com.