Once, I saw a doe.
She was grazing in a distant field, some ways from my perch in a grove of dark, spiky pine trees; I had earlier climbed to the highest branch of the largest tree, and settled down in the deep fork between two sturdy branches. When I saw the doe approach, hesitant as their kind always are, from a trickling stream, I waited for her fawn to appear. Ere none came, and I knew she was alone.
She picked her way silently through the wildflowers, thistles, and tangled burrs of the overgrown grass field. She pushed her delicate, shaped muzzle down into the weeds, and dug ardently for the tastiest roots, and my presence was unobserved.
Unwilling to disturb her by climbing down from my roost, I watched her lazily as the sun reached its prime in the pale autumn sky. It had been an uneventful day, and I was in no hurry. As I watched the doe I admired her sleek coat; with smooth grace, it glistened under the sun's rays, flexing lean muscle and clean auburn fur with sensitive movement. Her long legs seemed sculpted of gold, and her eyes were of the purest, darkest liquid. Her white tail flagged once and a while as she dispelled flies from her unmarred hide, and sometimes she canted her ears back and forth to detect some faraway sound that I couldn't hear.
The peace was tranquil and it felt as if it could go on forever, but suddenly it was disturbed as a stray songbird erupted from the pasture with an urgent cry of alarm that ripped through the clear air in a piercing warble. The doe started (I'll be honest, it surprised me too), and fled back to the small brook, her diminutive hooves kicking up scraps of sod as she ran, lithe and beautiful even in her instinctive terror.
She ran for a good ways, then calmed and slowed to graze again. But I thought about how smooth, perfected, and nimble her gait had been. How fleet, how springy, how balletic, even. A natural racer. I admired her for that, as I have admired all her kind. I wondered about how nearly perfect they are, but cannot be in our eyes because their sensitivity, and wariness of humans keep them away. Perhaps rightly so.
I'm not sure what had startled the bird, but it was a tiny thing, with dark wings and a red breast. A blackbird. It landed among some nearby rushes before taking flight again, spiraling deep into the sky with the ease of one born from the air. It seemed unable to fight the wind, but instead tamed it, letting the thermos under its wings to bring it higher, or lower, at one simple tilt of its feathers. I liked these birds, too, and thought: what must it be like to fly? To be so free, so high, so exhilarated? I rather thought I'd like to know one day.
On my way home, I was joined by my dog. They are loyal companions, and I love mine. No other creature can be like them; they are compadres of the keenest sense. They are followers, and adherent friends to mankind. Dogs are wonderful animals of great intelligence and personality. A four-legged persona of yourself. They do say, after all, that many people look like their dogs.
By that evening, I was feeling much like a sapient as I turned over the comparisons I'd made while observing the doe, the bird, and my dog. They are so different, but all so special. One is wild, and agile, but fearful and distant. One is winged, free, and independent. Then there is the dog, who is a grand companion and loyal friend. I began to ponder this. What would be like, to have a friend that is all of these things? Wild, but intelligent and capable of being your closest companion? A free creature of adroitness and beauty, that is winged as an angel, and graceful as a fiery spirit? And it occurred to me, in a moment of quiet, that this must be why we have the horse.
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