Trigger

Ron riding Trigger (notice the ears are laying back on his head which is never a happy sign) and the corncob bin in the background

I'm going to suggest that Trigger was a bay American Morgan - one of the earliest horse breeds in the US, according to Wikipedia. I don't know this for certain. I do remember he was a pretty horse with a white stripe along his nose and white socks. And he was one of the best part of our weekly Sunday trips to Gramps (aside from Ruthy's fried chicken, potatoes and banana cream pies), at least for me. I'm not sure what Trigger's age was when he died, but he was still around and avoiding the saddle and harness with youthful vigor when I entered college. The day he died, Dad told me it was the first time he saw Gramp cry. I never saw Gramp ride Trigger, so the two old guys had a companionable bond that apparently went beyond horse and rider.

Back in those days when we headed to Gramp's and after we all choked and coughed out the dusty remains of the road once we got there, the focus was on the "timber" and the hunt to find Trigger. He probably saw the dust cloud from the car rounding that last corner and took to the back 40 as fast as he could. We'd usually locate him as faaaaar back in Gramp's land as possible, out past the groves of poison ivy and bramble thickets. Only if we made it past those obstacles and had a suitably delectable treat would he finally resign himself to the bridle hidden behind someone's back. For the record, I don't think we were fooling him with the hidden bridle. And so began his long, slow, resigned trek to the barnyard to get saddled up for the afternoon.

All in all he was a good sport, sort of. Gramp's barn had metal roofing that came to a point at the corners about 7 or so feet off the ground in the barnyard. It was jagged and sharp, and could double as a makeshift guillotine. The reason I know this is because it was the place Trigger picked up his pace in order to attempt to knock his riders (or their heads) off. He'd stroll lazily, mildly around the barnyard and just when the rider was lulled into relaxing their hold on the reins, he'd pick up the pace and aim for that overhang for all he was worth.

The only one who seemed to have command of Trigger was Dad - when he rode him, Trigger didn't dare aim for the head-lopper.