If you're a horse owner, you watch the Superbowl. Not for the football - for the latest Budweiser commercial featuring the Clydesdales. I admit, last year's entry, telling of the end of Prohibition, left me a little cold, except for when they got those two lead horses to rear. Rearing Clydesdales are always impressive.
This year's entry still makes me weepy, and I've seen it several times. It's not like I don't know how it ends.
I don't know how any horse owner (by owner here, I do mean those of us who own them because we love them, not because they are our beasts of burden or other means to an end) can watch the commercial and remain dry-eyed.
When I walk into the barn aisle, I hear two greetings. First there is a whinny from my big, black, goofy gelding. Usually, he is in the back of his stall, but at the sound of my voice, he sticks his head over his gate and calls to me.
As I walk to him, I hear a soft nicker to my left. It's my girl, my little wild red mare, saying, "Don't forget about me."
I stop to give her a kiss on the nose before continuing on, to pat Snoopy's neck. If I try to kiss him, I risk losing my lips.
Why wouldn't I cry over a horse who is separated from the man who raised him, then recognizes him years later, even if it is just a stupid commercial?