When I was a kid, Dad bought me a hobby horse. My uncle gave me a ten-gallon hat. Grandma surprised me with two six-shooters in a holster on Christmas day. Mom bought me cowboy boots three sizes too big. “How cute,” they all said when they saw me dressed as a cowboy. Hopping on my springy horse made me feel like a big man.  It gave me a rough, gritty identity even at six years old. In my little fantasy world, I rescued damsels and chased the bank robbers. I was as heroic as the Lone Ranger sitting atop his horse, Silver. I couldn’t ride my hobby horse enough.  His name was Rusty, and I rode him along the dusty trails and canyons. I rode Rusty day and night, and even dreamed of riding him when I was sleeping. Then one day, I fell off my horse and collapsed on…