I once owned the best horse in the world. It’s true, everybody wanted him. He was a perfect blood bay, no markings. Oh, he had about four white hairs where a star would have formed if hairs multiplied like fungi, but they don’t, so no star. He was 15.2 hands, and finely muscled from carrying me around for a minimum of two hours every day. I fed him an all-grain mix, heavy with molasses, cut with a bag of 12% sweet feed because I hadn’t been educated. And of course, I added a supplement for hoof growth, one that’s probably not around anymore, replaced by a fancier, daily-dose, with more attractive packaging, and marketed on all the right websites. I fed a supplement derived from seaweed and it worked great but smelled terrible. But my beautiful Saddlebred consumed it willingly. This horse would walk through fire for me. He was spirited, and every time I lost my balance, I could feel him shift to accommodate by oaf-like tendencies. He tried to help me look graceful. But I sometimes still wound up on the ground, and he would stop, and look down at me pityingly…maybe with a touch of disdain. I’d dust my breeches off and climb back on, shaking my head at myself. He was beautiful, and people would stop their cars in the middle of the road to watch us. I’m…