When I was about 10, my father — bless his generous heart — bought me something I had wanted my entire young life: a Pinto, a particular breed of horse with large patches of white, black and brown. This Pinto was named Windy. We spotted her ad in the paper that spring; she was in foal, trained to ride and drive. This last bit was important because the horse who usually pulled our sleigh had died. Windy was a bargain with a foal to boot. Two horses for the price of one. Dad got on the phone...
