Horse Lover by H. Alan Day

inner workings of government that gives you a different sense of identity. As a rancher, I responded to animals and land and, to some extent, government. Stepping into the heart of national government with the intent of influencing felt like stepping into something far larger than any ranch I had ever managed.
    Our quest for the golden legislation started with a senator Dayton knew from Oregon. He listened attentively to the high points of the sanctuary plan—saving the government money, easing the burden of wild horses on the BLM , giving eighteen hundred unadoptable horses a place to live—and extended his support. The representative from Oregon with whom we next met did the same.
    The next stop was former Arizona senator Barry Goldwater’s office. I had attended the University of Arizona with his son, Mike, who was a good friend of mine. Barry, of course, knew Sandra from their days of crossing political paths in Phoenix. How much pull he would have with Congress, having retired about two years earlier, I had no idea. Barry whistled when he heard the number of horses we might be allotted. He had photographed wild horses on the Navajo reservation and would love to do the same up in the Sand Hills if we ended up with the sanctuary. He would do all he could to help our expectations come to fruition.
    After lunch we hit Senator Dennis DeConcini’s office. Along with Barry Goldwater, DeConcini had been a huge supporter of my sister when she went through congressional questioning before being appointed a Supreme Court justice. I hadn’t seen him since Sandra’s inauguration. I had not asked Sandra to contact him on our behalf, nor to contact anybody else, because I knew better than to do that, especially for a personal project like this one. But I did appreciate having a history that opened the door.
    “Take a seat and I’ll let the senator know you’re here.” The receptionist pointed to a partially occupied row of chairs across from her desk.
    Dayton and I watched people come and go. A young aide whizzed by balancing white paper bags and a tray of drinks. “Hey, real cowboys! Find a parking spot for your horses?” The receptionist rolled her eyes.
    “You did tie up the horse to the parking meter?” Dayton said, looking me in the eye.
    “Sure did,” I said. “Did you feed the meter?”
    “Hell no. I thought you did.”
    I shrugged. “Nope.”
    “Hope that stallion doesn’t kick the attendant who gives him a ticket. Last guy ended up with a few broken ribs.”
    A woman sitting across from us glanced up from her magazine. The receptionist giggled.
    “Alan, good to see you again.” Senator DeConcini made us feel like we were walking into his office on a red carpet. We gave him the lowdown on the sanctuary, and he exuded the same excitement as Goldwater. “Listen, I want you to make this office your headquarters,” he said. “My staff can help you make appointments and you can use our phones. I’ll add a rider on a bill we know is going to pass and I’ll make some calls to get the cooperation we need for this to go through.” We had just been offered a pot of gold. DeConcini suggested we lunch in the senators’ private dining room and ushered us on the underground train reserved for senators that runs between the Capitol and the senate building. After a brief tour of the Capitol, he wished us well and said he’d be in touch.
    The next forty-eight hours became a blur of meetings and conversations, most in offices, some in hallways. I had worn-out the heels of cowboy boots on dirt and gravel but never on concrete and marble. Dayton was the appointed poet, painting the plight of wild horses in word pictures and describing the ranches where they would run free. I detailed the sanctuary’s business plan. Not one politician found fault with the sanctuary or refused to support it in the form of a future vote. One of my favorite meetings was with Representative Ben Nighthorse Campbell of Colorado, who later