The Million-Dollar Stallion and the Minimum-Wage Girl

I was in my twenties when I took a job at Charlie’s Training Stables, home of some of the finest Arabian horses in Texas.

Now, “fine” is a polite word.

“High-maintenance, expensive, dramatic, and dusty” is more accurate.

And me?

I knew absolutely nothing about horses.

I just knew they were beautiful and bigger than me, which, in hindsight, should’ve been my first clue this job would be trouble.

6 A.M. and the Smell of Reality

Every morning, the barn hit me like a wall:

that thick mix of warm hay, sweet feed, leather, and a smell Charlie called “good horse musk” but I called “Lord Jesus be near.”

My job began with feeding, the clatter of metal grain buckets echoing down the aisle, the horses snorting clouds of steam in the morning light, every stall door rattling like they were all auditioning to be fed first.

Then came mucking.

Picture shavings, poop, more shavings, more poop, and me: sweating, swearing, and trying not to lose a boot in the mess.

The hay lived in a stack so tall it deserved its own zip code.

I had to climb it like a toddler scaling a department-store Christmas tree, hay scratching my arms, dust getting in my eyes, that prickly smell of dry grass filling my nose.

At the top, I’d shove a bale off and watch it tumble down in a glorious itchy avalanche.

And then… a horse named “Proud…the stallion worth more money than I would earn in a decade.

Proud was striking, sunlit copper coat, black mane, nostrils flaring like he was smelling trouble (usually me). But he had a temperament somewhere between a dragon and a teenage boy who’d been told to clean his room.

He snapped. He lunged.

He kicked the back wall so hard the whole barn shook.

When I mucked his stall, the air became electric, like the moment before a thunderstorm. His hooves scraped the floor. His breath hit the back of my neck like a warning.

“NO, PROUD! BACK UP!”

I’d yell, sounding about as intimidating as a Girl Scout selling cookies.

Charlie told me, “Show him who’s boss.”

Which was rich, because the boss was clearly Proud.

One day, while I was bent over cleaning, I felt him come up behind me and, may God strike me down if I’m lying…but he was either ready to strike me down, or could it be…trying to mount me?!

I decided then and there that Proud was possessed.

The Breeding Program: My Origin Story for Lifelong Therapy

Charlie eventually assigned me to assist with the breeding.

This meant standing in front of a mare with a “twitch”, a giant clamp that goes on her soft muzzle so she focuses on that instead of kicking Proud into the next zip code.

I can still feel the warm velvet of her muzzle under my hand, her breath puffing out against my wrist, her whole body quivering with tension.

Behind me, Proud pranced, strutted, and made ungodly roaring noises like he was announcing himself to the universe.

I squeezed the twitch.

The mare widened her eyes.

Proud made sounds that should never come from an animal.

And I questioned all my life choices at once.

Bath Time and the Enemy Hose

Most horses loved a bath, the warm water running over their sweaty coats, their muscles relaxing, the smell of wet horse rising like humid barn incense.

Not Proud.

Every time the cold spray hit him, he’d snort, shake, and whip his head around to nip at me. The water mixed with dust and sweat and turned into a gritty film on my skin.

Ironically, the only time he was calm was when I had to clean his sheath.

Men…

The Tractor That Hated Me Back

Every day, we filled the manure spreader with heaps of used shavings from the stalls, a sour, earthy smell that stuck to my clothes long after I got home.

I’d drive the tractor out to the pasture, bouncing over every rut, praying it stayed upright.

Backing it into the barn?

Impossible.

The spreader would jackknife like it was trying to fold itself into origami, and Charlie eventually said, “PJ…maybe not the tractor today.”

Bless him.

Foals, Freezing Water, and One Very Hydrated Mare

The foals were adorable, all knobby knees and baby fuzz, smelling like sunshine and milk.

Until you tried to halter them.

Then they turned into chaotic pinballs, kicking, biting, dodging, definitely the offspring of Proud.

Winter was another level.

The air bit at my face, ice forming on the water troughs.

I had to swing a sledgehammer to break the surface, cold shards splashing my jeans, my fingers going numb, breath fogging like smoke.

At night we blanketed the horses. The blankets smelled like wet wool, dust, and horse sweat, and trying to buckle them under a cranky mare was basically CrossFit.

Speaking of mares…

There was one who turned her stall into a marsh every night.

I’d open her door each morning and the smell, the steam, the squelch under my boots, I wanted to lie down and give up on life. She rolled around in it so not only did I have to gut the stall but had to bathe her, too! I think she knew…

The Night Proud Escaped

I finally earned my way to groomer for the horse shows, Charlie had me sleeping on a cot right next to Proud’s stall.

I drifted off to the sounds of horses shifting, snorting, chewing hay.

Then, chaos.

“LOOSE HORSE!”

“GRAB THE GATE!”

“WHO LET HIM OUT?!”

I sat up so fast my neck popped.

Proud’s stall was wide open.

He was gone.

My blood turned to ice.

I imagined headlines:

“Million-Dollar Stallion Lost by Girl Who Can’t Back a Tractor.”

By miracle, Proud had only gotten a few stalls down and stopped to impress a mare with his signature roar-growl-chest-puff routine.

That was the moment, the exact moment, I realized this career had an expiration date.

Not because I didn’t love the horses…but because Proud was absolutely going to kill me.

The Heart of It

Looking back, those days smelled like hay and sweat and ambition and fear and dusty sunshine.

They tested every muscle I had, including the emotional ones I didn’t know existed.

Those horses, especially Proud, toughened me and softened me at the same time.

They taught me grit.

Patience.

Presence.

And the deep importance of stepping back and taking a pause when something intimidates you.

But the truth is, I was in the best shape of my life, covered in sweat, dust, and stories.

Who needs a gym when you can work at a horse stable?

Those horses worked me harder than any treadmill ever could, body, mind, and heart included.

Authors Note

Before any seasoned horse folks come after me:

Yes, I probably did everything wrong.

Yes, Proud probably sensed fear, confusion, and sadness from three barns away.

And yes, I understand now that horses are angels with anxiety.

But hey, I lived, I learned, and I left with quads of steel and stories for days.

So I’d call it even…

 PJ Hamilton