My husband had a magnificent Arabian stallion. That horse frightened me. When freshly groomed, his coat gleamed black and glossy, and his muscles rippled under his skin in flowing rivers of corded strength. I saw him nearly kill one of my husband’s men with a single kick that splintered the man’s ribs, punctured a lung, and split his breastbone. I have seen him stand watch over his brood of mares, his nostrils flaring, his ears swiveling to the slightest sound, and his hooves pawing the ground in fearless intimidation. I have watched him nuzzle and flirt with one of those mares before mounting her, and then do the same to another mare within that very hour. I have seen a mare deliberately position herself upwind of the stallion and whisk her tail and entice him with her scent and completely captivate him.
My husband’s stallion may be controlled by bit and bridle, but it is a delicate and dangerous and precarious task.