Dear Stitches,
You were what they call an accident. Unplanned, and unknown.
A horse born far too “late”. “He’ll get behind, he’ll take too much time, he’ll just never be great.”

I caught the same as you my friend, too small, too young, too green. Little did the world know we would make a perfect team.

Through nervous hands and troubled thoughts you showed your talent still. You gave me every ounce you had and wow, it was a thrill.

To ride an athlete, go with the feel, I’d never felt before. In the arena and in life, you made me hope for more.

Limits dissolved and visions appeared each time you swooped across a steer. If if we can do this, we can do anything, it was absolutely clear.

The world was our oyster, there for the taking, and I was counting the ways. Until the summer morning when you stumbled on three legs.
The answer came like concrete being poured around my dreams. “No cure, we can try, we don’t have a good prediction.”

“One thing is for sure - I’m sorry ma’am, he’ll never sell in this condition.”

Amidst the disappointment, I couldn’t help but chuckle.
Sell? The horse that gave me everything, hopes, and dreams, and buckles?

Now Stitches, you’ve got shoes that put New York elite to shame, and all the fancy vets in town will never forget your name.

Out the porch window I can see your antics on the daily, sound and happy finding new ways to entertain me.

I’ll cherish every ride and we’ll get back in the show pen, maybe.
But if that never happens we won’t be worse for the wear, I’m happy on the daily just to simply sit and stare.

You taught me what it means to never give up. Believe in what you want, and knock, if a door is shut.

Greet me in the morning with a hillbilly smile and a big neck hug, for better or for worse, you’ve earned this life, my bud.

- Love, Marisa