We all like to read stories about people who rescue horses, and who demonstrate their love for their equine partners in ways both silly and profound.

Only rarely, however, do we hear about the random acts of kindness horses bestow on the people who ride them.

One such demonstration happened last summer at a rodeo in Pritchard in front of a crowd of hard-core, well-lubricated barrel racing fanatics. A couple well-known on the rodeo circuit sent their four-year-old son into the arena on top of a big white horse who, just minutes before, had run the same pattern at top speed with the little boy’s father in the saddle.

We weren’t the only ones watching who were wondering about the safety of the child, whose tiny legs did not even reach the lower edge of the saddle.

A silence fell over the crowd as the rodeo star walked quietly around the barrels with his head down, careful not to jolt his precious cargo. Finally, as he headed to the finish line, a few people dared to clap and cheer. The horse’s ears swiveled and his body tensed, but he fought his instinct to go hell for leather, as he usually did, and slowly plodded towards the boy’s mother, who was waiting by the gate. The junior rider, to the huge amusement of the crowd, tried to kick the horse forward, as he saw his father do, but the fluttering of his legs was completely ignored by his equine babysitter.

“Now that’s one special horse,” said the rancher sitting next to me.

Our very own Mr. Bill, whose life began 12 years ago in misery at a PMU farm in Alberta, may very well be another special horse.

His kind streak, however, is not always apparent. Our Appy/Clyde cross is famous for his quirky personality and for his complete unwillingness to set foot in an arena or to trot on cue.

Although he is the most sure-footed, sensible trail mount on the planet, he is not the kind of horse who takes kindly to being ordered around. If you ask Bill to do something, he will eventually do it — if you ask nicely. Start barking orders, however, and his big, feathered feet become Krazy glued to the ground. Bill has never lost an argument.

Traumatized by a bad fall a couple of years ago, I had eased back into riding in a ring just a few months before. One day, though, when I felt ready to graduate from ring work on my pony to road riding on our quiet street, I decided to turn to Bill for help.

I was probably not ready to resume riding the local trails, which I used to love to do. Everyone knows you shouldn’t ride when you’re nervous. Everyone knows a spooky rider spooks the horse.

Bill was strangely polite as I heaved the heavy western saddle onto his back and led him to our sky-high mounting block. He didn’t move a muscle as I slowly swung a leg over the saddle, where I sat, taking deep breaths. Finally, I gave him a little squeeze with my legs and he gradually moved forward towards the road.

I realized suddenly I had his poor nose in a vice as I gripped the reins of the bosal. For once, he didn’t criticize, by snorting or tail swishing, my technique in the saddle.

Instead, he kept his ears pointed backwards to better hear me. Bill is a verbal kind of guy — by mutual consent we had switched to voice aids from leg cues long ago.

He abandoned his usual long, loose, animated walk in favor of tiny, mincing steps that made him look a little constipated. The thought made me laugh. Then I had to relax to laugh some more. The tail swished. I quit laughing.

When we were a good, long block from home, I started to lose my nerve.

“Let’s go home, Bill,” I whispered. The big ship carefully turned around.

Back on the front lawn, I slipped with a thump from the saddle, weak in the knees.

Bill, a master opportunist, immediately started snatching mouthfuls of rich, green grass.

Eventually I tugged him towards the barn. He Krazy glued his feet to the spot. An argument ensued.

I lost, as usual.

Anne Patterson is a Langley writer and horse owner.

accidentalrider@yahoo.com