Nicole Cliffe does a great job of explaining the human-equine relationship and why it has certain fundamental and basic problems.

If you haven’t spent a lot of time around horses, you may have the idea that they are like dogs and cats (really big, dangerous dogs and cats). This is untrue. YOU are like dogs and cats, in that you are a predator. Let’s not get sucked into the canines/intestines/primates-eating-fruit aspect of our disputed status as omnivores. The fact is, if someone says to you “hey, let’s try this new brunch place that has amazing cocktails,” there’s a decent chance you’ll say “great, meet you there.” Your dog feels similarly. New things are fun! That is because you are a predator.

Prey animals do not think new things are fun. New things, if you are a prey animal, usually mean a swift death. Horses are like deer. They see something unexpected, they freeze for a second, and then they book it on out of there. They don’t like to leave the herd. They have no interest in breakfast cocktails. If you try to take your horse to a new brunch place, you need to convince them that a) you’ve been there before, b) there are no cave trolls at the brunch place, c) there will be other horses at the brunch place, and d) you will be a royal pain in their ass until they quit dicking around and agree to go to the brunch place. …

Horses are sublime. They’re gorgeous mythical beasts that emerge from antiquity to destroy your bank account and break your collarbone. They’re fragile. They’re dangerous. They need new shoes every six to eight weeks. They eat your heart. They fall in love with your vet, and deliberately colic themselves in order to spend more time with him.

You are not vitally important to your horse, not really, not like you are to your dog, ever. They never figure out who you are, and why you do the silly things you do. You have to forge a relationship with your horse while knowing that, given the chance, they’d probably rather hang out with their buddies than spend time with you. But then, one day you pull up to the barn, and you realize that your horse has memorized the sound of your car, as opposed to other people’s cars, and has wandered over to the gate to greet you.

It makes you feel lucky. Not just “oh, God, I can afford to do this idiotic sport” lucky, which you should feel every day, but some kind of stupid semi-spiritual lucky, because you’ve managed to connect with an animal ten times your size, and convinced them to ignore every instinct they possess in order to let you clamber onto their back and stick a metal bar in their mouth. It’s crazy. It doesn’t make any sense.

You’re a horse-person now. Maybe it’ll pay off when the zombies come, and the gas pumps stop working.

Hat tip to Karen L. Myers.