The Horse Who Waited

Year of the Fire Horse begins with Fuego

There is a horse here who was adopted because he is stunning to look at.

And rejected because he was seen as irreparably flawed.

Two and a half years ago, we drove to the BLM facility in Ewing to pick up Bodhi and Boone. I had won them in the online auction and was being very disciplined about looking only at the two horses I was there for.

Marissa came along to see how the pickup process worked.

I was focused.

She was wandering.

And then she stopped.

There was a buckskin standing there — tall, refined, luminous. Flighty. The kind of horse that makes your chest tighten just looking at him.

She started asking questions.

He had been won in the previous auction, they told us. But when the adopters came to pick him up, they noticed a small poochy wound right in the saddle area. It would likely keep him from ever being comfortable under saddle.

So they passed.

If he wasn’t chosen, he would eventually be shipped back and live his life out in holding.

“How much is his adoption fee?” Marissa asked.

“Because he’s over ten… $25.”

She laughed. “Oh, I have that much in my pocket. And I never have cash.”

I, meanwhile, was sweating bullets. A ten-year-old former wild stallion is not exactly a casual addition to a program.

The man added helpfully, “He hasn’t rammed any fences.”

Well. That’s something.

Put him on the trailer.

He was from South Steens HMA in Oregon. Ten years a wild stallion in the mountains.

In less than six months, he went from that life to standing in Illinois — gathered by helicopter, castrated, hauled 2,000 miles across the country, confined, processed, handled by strangers.

I think it was just too much.

He didn’t arrive like a herd leader. He hid behind the two- and three-year-olds we brought him home with. He was terrified.

And then began two very long years of him wanting absolutely nothing to do with us.

Here’s what never happened.

No one asked him for touch. No one cornered him. No one made a plan to “work through” his resistance.

No one needed him to be anything.

He was given his time. His dignity. His space.

We never expected to be close.

It didn’t matter.

He was always magic.

Everyone here knew it. Everyone who visited was captivated by him. Some tried to talk to him. He would turn his back in quiet offense and saunter away.

On his terms.

It would always be on his terms.

And then, slowly, something shifted.

He began to look through his own eyes.

Not absent. Not somewhere else.

Present.

Watching the others participate in positive reinforcement training. Observing. Considering.

And one day, instead of stepping into the side area when it wasn’t his turn, he let the others go in and took his place in the training space.

No drama. No announcement.

Just a clear message:

I want that too.

He still does not invite touch.

But he invites connection.

And that is enough.

As we step into the Year of the Fire Horse, I find myself thinking about him.

Because maybe fire isn’t what we think it is.

Maybe it isn’t wild destruction or flashy intensity.

Maybe it is banked heat.

Sacred timing.

The courage to step forward only when you are ready.

Adopted because he is stunning to look at. Rejected because he was seen as irreparably flawed. Loved here because he never had to perform.

And one more thing.

His name is Fuego.

Fire.

Marissa named him that.

Not for a theme. Not for a future campaign. She named him that two and a half years ago, standing in a dusty Illinois holding pen, long before anyone was talking about a Year of the Fire Horse.

He has carried that name quietly ever since.

And now — of all years — as we enter the Year of the Fire Horse, he is the one who steps forward.

You can call it coincidence.

I don’t.

🔥