The Possibilities are Endless

One of my students loves cows.

In fact, she announced at morning meeting that she is hoping for a cow for her birthday next week. Mindful of the suburban enclave in which we attend school and reside, I can surmise with a degree of certitude that she is unlikely to get the cow. Yet, she remains exuberantly hopeful – and I can’t blame her. She is seven; her reasoning is sound and makes perfect sense.

A pet cow would eliminate having to mow the lawn and buy milk, and according to her generous estimate, their fenced in yard will provide ample acreage for a bovine pet to roam at leisure – rarely do cows crash fences into adjoining neighborly properties. When the weather gets cold or rainy, she will merely lead it to the garage for shelter and safe-keeping.

I know exactly where she is coming from because I was her once.

My passion was horses, and I was desperate to have one of my own. I had done everything that one could possibly do in a suburban family of eight with horses except to invest in ownership, and the time had come for that to change. It was time to take the plunge and make that commitment, I reasoned to myself. After all, I had done the preliminary research. I spent captivating hours reading about the equine species; Margaret Henry had kept me steeped in fodder for years: Justin Morgan Had a Horse, Misty of Chincoteague, and Album of Horses, were biblical in their relevance to my life at the time. I knew all of the famous Triple Crown winners, and the years they won, I could identify every breed, knew what it was used for, and the differences between each. I spent hours upon hours drawing horses. To this day, I can still draw a darn good horse without much effort at all. My ability stemmed from knowing the anatomy of horses so well. As I drew, my brain named the parts: fetlock, cannon, withers, crest, poll. I even accompanied my best friend to her weekly riding lessons, and finagled my way into a stable-hand job for the hour that she was riding each week.

It was clear to me that the only thing left was to actually purchase a horse.

Before approaching my parents about this proposal, I carefully inspected my plan for the customary loopholes and arguments that they would undoubtedly unearth. I prepared clever solutions for each. I was fairly certain that my strategy was without flaws.

My first step was to ask for a ten year advance on my allowance. At a dollar a week, this would provide me with enough cash to buy a wizened old gelding who had been put out to pasture. After all, I was going for a gentle family pet, not a sleek breeder stallion. As for stabling, I couldn’t remember the last time we had squeezed our car in the over-flowing garage, so that was the obvious place for the new steed (after we got rid of the junk). I was more than willing to clean out the garage and do other odd jobs around the house to earn money to pay for its food. And luckily, we lived on a dead-end street with only nine houses. Surely I could cash in on our friendly relations with the neighbors and ask them to turn a blind eye while I rode the trotter up and down the street after school.

It seemed fool-proof.

I still remember the scene as it unfolded at the kitchen table after dinner. I astutely planned it so that my parents were both well-fed and relaxed. I dawdled with dishes until my siblings left the room and then launched my proposition.

As you might have imagined, my grand assertion did not go as swimmingly as I would have liked. In hindsight, my strategy was all wrong; I should never have led off with the ten-year advance on my allowance. It went horribly downhill from that leadoff request, and I never regained solid footing.

At tomorrow’s morning meeting we will find out if there is a new bovine companion in my student’s life. I hope that she has better luck than I did convincing her family of the urgency and feasibility of her dream. Even if it doesn’t come to fruition, it is wonderfully magical to be in her shoes. To be steeped in the possibilities of a world without boundaries when you are seven, or eight, or ten, or even older.

I also know someone who wants to be a deer when she grows up.