On a bright blue day toward the end of Northern California's green season I tried to let Charmer drive home.

We were already walking along the tree-lined racetrack that encircles all the riding rings, moseying really, pointed in the direction of the barns. Charmer was a little sweatier than I was. Besides the fact that he generally does most of the heavy lifting in our relationship he also had not yet shed out his winter coat. He is, generally speaking, on the hairy side.

I just let my legs go limp. I dropped the reins on his neck, holding on to the buckle with one finger just in case he decided to make a break for it. I sat very still and I waited. In the back of my mind I guess I expected he would just continue to head homeward. After all, he had a nice king-sized stall with a big pile of hay waiting for him.

It only took a few steps for him to realize I wasn't riding anymore. He tentatively veered a little to the right, testing the waters. When this initiative went unchallenged he walked purposely to the edge of the track and bit a large hunk of green leaves off of the first tree he saw.

I was shocked. In all the times we'd ridden along that track I had never considered that to my companion that wall of green leaves simply represented good eating. It struck me that perhaps he had always wanted to munch the leaves, and had only lacked the liberty to do so.

I deprived him of that liberty again. The people who run the property are not appreciative of horses dining on the landscaping. I reassumed control, and Charmer instantly submitted. He obediently walked home, slowly chewing through the spray of leaves that hung from his mouth.