To every horse I meet there are twenty girls who ride. And only one a guy. Or only half a guy. Or even a guy you thought liked horses but was only feeding his wife's because she's away at a conference. Or something. But he doesn't like horses. Hates them. They steal his money and his wife. But why do we like them? They sleep, they eat, they poop, they take our money and take our time. What is it with chicks and horses?

It's early mornings.

It's the competitions. Putting on a shiny black saddle, riding in front of the judge.

It's the hair. Long thick manes, wispy tails, short pricking hairs along the neck.

It's food. It's running your fingers through fresh cut chaff and and sharing his carrots, bite by bite.

It's that perfect step. That moment when finally he asks you, that questioning underneath you, that moment you finally connect.

It's horse shit.

It's standing in a shop breathing in the saddles and boots and rugs.

It's rain. It's the fog curling around their legs. It's mud puddles and hoof marks and dirt.

It's steam on cold winter nights, mixing in the air with sweat and dust and mist.

It's raw power. It's muscles bunching and reaching and pulling under you.

It's standing in the cold hosing down a lame leg.

It's summer, dashing over sand through wet sea spray.

It's the highest jump you've ever seen, and knowing he'll go over it for you.

It's a nicker for you when you come. It's a canter across a paddock just to see you at the gate.

It's worry. It's hate. It's friendship. It's love.

We have no idea what it is. But it's girls. And it's horses.

Somehow, we connect.