At eighteen gorgeous hands, the animals were stately, otherworldly creatures. She wasn’t scared at all and, clambering up my back onto my shoulders, pleaded for me to “Get clo-ssss-er, Papa.” I moved in cautiously and let her little hand take hold of the dark mane. The beast didn’t move, save for the hoof, which nearly crushed my foot. Becca is a lovely child—to me, the loveliest: affectionate, even-tempered, curious, playful, so like her mother.
