Once upon a time her name was Sheba. That was back when her muscles were atrophied, and when her coat was full of black grime, and when she lived at a long dark barn in Connecticut. I don't think she was acquainted with very much love in those days.
It has been nearly ten years now since that afternoon when we first went to see her. I remember having a sore throat throughout our four hour journey, and vaguely remember thinking it nifty that she was six months younger than I was. I was too scared to ride her, but my siblings did.
Several days before we brought her home, my sister had the bed-time epiphany that Sheba's new name would be Oh-Be-Joyful, and so she arrived at her friendly new homestead already bearing a new name--a call to joyfulness which she has never turned down since.
I had not seen her for almost two years when I went to visit her this last week, and during this time, she too, like her buddy Grayson, has gone to live with a new family. I will not deny that her coat was not as shiny as it was when we used to brush her every morning, neither was her tail as beautiful, since she has scrubbed much of the top hair off, and there were burrs in it as well as in her mane and forelock. But she still has her new name--she is still Joyful-- and that at least is not something that burrs, nor dirt, nor years can take away from her.
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