I was one of those kids who were absolutely crazy about horses. I had posters of stallions and I read and watched Black Beauty avidly. I read Marguerite *smile* Henry and collected books from this series called The Saddle Club. I never asked for a pony, but I do want (present tense) a miniature horse. When I was about 8 years old, my grandfather bought a mare for his farm in the mountains. My sister and I thought of names to suggest - cute ones, all beginning with the letter H. I was really partial to Hershey, but whatever; my grandfather decided to name her Hilda for reasons unknown. At least, the name still began with the letter H. It could have been worse, I guess. Not that Hilda isn’t a good name, but the Hilda I knew back then was a nun in my school. I didn’t think the name suited a horse. Anyway, the love for horses followed me into adulthood. I’m not really a rider, but I do love watching the sport. The summer I was in Santander, I spent many afternoons watching the Concurso Hípico Santander. My friends didn’t get the fascination, especially since I didn’t bet. I suppose it takes another horse lover to understand. I remember juvenile jokes about somebody being such a horse lover that she’ll grow up to marry a horse, but for the really passionate, that’s rather close to the truth. Not that they’d actually marry a horse (although wasn’t there something similar in the news a couple of years back, some woman married a horse?), but they have to find somebody who shares the passion, do stuff like check out equestrian dating service to find their match. In my case, my husband isn’t really into horses, but agrees that it would be a good idea to let Marguerite have riding lessons later.