My son has been bugging me about getting a horse since I started taking him to rodeo at the age of three. He's nearly seven now, which means I've been putting up with his ranting, begging, pleading and winery for far longer than those parents for whom success is measured by the number of days they might delay another video game purchase. It pleased me then and still does that he'd drive me nuts over such a thing as building a model plane, going fishing, or getting a horse. Most times, I'm merely feining annoyance to keep the playing field level between father and son. It's what we do.

     I had considered getting Dylan a yearling and floated the idea with a wrangler/rodeo friend of mine at the BLM pens at Palomino. A neighbor friend, Gail Bailey, put me on to Dawn Lappin. That was it. I had always thought that getting something younger than a yearling would be better for Dylan. I wanted them to grow up and get big together, rather than one or the other, or one before the other.

     I started pestering Dawn in late June of this year. I had Dylan's corral built not long after. He and Miss Carla (his mom and my wife) were back East visiting relatives. Neither knew what I was up to. By early July, both were home and wondering what would populate the new corral. Dylan was moved beyond words, Miss Carla had words and movements. She's a sucker for animals, though, which, as it turns out, I was pretty much counting on.

     It took about three minutes for Dylan to name his home for an unsuspecting new arrival. We're redneck sailors, and I've called him "Sweet Pea" since he was old enough to crawl. "Sweet Pea Ranch" it was, so I made a sign and hung it on the bow gate.

     On August 20th, a Friday, I got a call at work from Dawn. She had a filly who'd lost her mom in the fire up near Winnemucca. It happened that Dylan and I were headed to Redding that Saturday morning so he could stay a spell with my mom and dad. He calls them "Mom-mom and Dooie." We live in the way-back of the VC Highlands, so Dawn's place is on the way to anywhere we want to go, as long as it's not Carson or Dayton. I took Dylan by Dawn and Bert's place. No one was there, but I figured we could take a look at the new arrival anyway. She was depressed, cut up a bit here and there from her recent experiences, but a diamond in the rough as far as I could tell. I asked Dylan if he liked her, and he said yes. I asked him if he would like to take her home…he said "Today?"

     "Well, no, Sweat Pea, we can't take her today, but, what I'm asking is, would you like her for your own?" He answered in certain terms, and so I told him, "They have to inspect your place first, but, if you want her, I think she's yours. Let's head on to Mom-mom and Dooie's."

     I must have heard as many horse questions between Reno and Redding as my parents heard "Can I have a drink of water?" or, "I have to go potty!" on the way from Maryland to California when my sister and I were babies and the family was moving west. I didn't tell him, but I was pretty dang excited, too. His biggest concern was "When?"

     I didn't grow up with any large animals. Not that I didn't ride when I could, with a girlfriend who had one, but it just wasn't terribly convenient in the manicured, carpeted suburban Southern California where I was raised. I came to this obsession late in life, following my first rodeo in 1996. I was most impressed by the manners at the rodeo: I was brought up to say please, thank you, yes sir, no ma'am; I didn't hear much of that at Disneyland or the grocery store. At rodeo, on the other hand, I discovered folks who not only did that but knew when it was proper to stand, be quiet, and take off a hat.

     On the way home from Redding, I stopped by Dawn's to see the filly. This became a regular habit; so much so that I felt like I ought to be depositing milk or mowing the lawn or something. Dawn, Bert and Brent, their son, always made me feel at home, whether by offering a soda or beer, or just leaving me to my business with the filly like I was a regular fixture. When I had questions or just wanted to shoot the breeze, if one of them was there, they were more than willing to stop whatever they were doing (and there's plenty to do there) and talk for a spell. Whether they were there or not, it was made clear that I was welcome to come and visit Dylan's foal.

     I had been visiting Dylan's filly for about three weeks at Dawn and Bert's; it was time to get serious. A BLM inspection of our facility, finishing touches to the corral; signing adoption papers at the BLM pens at Palomino. Do yourself a favor: when visiting Palomino for any formal business, make an appointment by phoning in advance. They all wear many hats out there and a sudden, unexpected paper-signing visit can summon forth a situation akin to fleas on a hot skillet.

     Next was the brand inspection, since she was crossing county lines. I believe Dawn knows every living (and some not) brand inspector this side of the Mississippi, as it happened within a day. It was now time to schedule a homecoming. I've been without a truck for awhile having killed mine on the way to Redding awhile back (we hit a dang cow in the open range near Old Station), so I was unable to trailer myself. Not a problem. My sense is that, absent an advance visit, Dawn and Bert rather like to deliver so they can get a feel for the place and the people… they have their own standards.

     On a Friday night, the 17th of September to be exact, they followed me in "The Beast," an old, beat-up, topless (in summertime) Landcruiser I drive. On the way up, the weather started getting bad; by the time we arrived at my place, it was raining some and hailing here and there. We gave the filly her booster shots, then led her in. It was easier than I thought it was going to be. Despite the trailering, the shots, and the near dark when we arrived, she loped in like she owned the place. Dylan was ecstatic! His filly had finally come home.

Dylan, even though he had spent quite a bit of time at Dawn's getting to know his new charge (as well as embarking upon a romance with Dawn's granddaughter, Brittany), resisted naming her, claiming "I have to get to know her first." Once home, it took him until about noon the next day to dub her Ginger, and Ginger it was.

A week and one half later, we enjoyed another arrival. Ginger greeted him with a snort and a kick. You see, the day Ginger was due to come home, a colt arrived at Dawn and Bert's place. I saw him and thought, "Two kids are often easier to care for than one." I told Dawn we'd take him, too. So what was I to do with a filly named Ginger? Name the colt Fred, of course.

     This is the first of many parts.

Tom Sargent is the Director of the Institute for Business & Industry at Truckee Meadows Community College in Reno, NV. When not working, sailing or raising a boy and his horses, he speaks to groups about feral horse and range management topics. He can be reached at tsargent@tmcc.edu.