Trickster #3

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  “Is that going to be expensive?” Erik asks. “If he keeps costing me money, I’m going to have to get rid of him. Maybe I should just turn him loose.”

  What!? How can he say that? He doesn’t care about Rascal at all.

  “I have a better alternative,” Dr. Mac says. “I know a woman who runs a rescue shelter for ferrets in situations like this. You pay for the X rays, and I’ll arrange for Rascal to go to the shelter. Fair?”

  He hesitates for an instant, then says, “All right.”

  “What a moron,” I say after Rascal’s owner—his former owner—has gone. “What an idiot, what a rat! Can you believe that guy?”

  Dr. Mac puts Rascal into a roomy cage and closes the door. “You seem surprised.”

  “Of course I’m surprised. Aren’t you? He thought it would be easier to dump Rascal than to take care of him! That’s … That’s …” I can’t think of a word strong enough. Where’s Sunita when I need her?

  “That’s irresponsible?” Dr. Mac asks, as she adjusts the water bottle hung from Rascal’s cage.

  “Way more than irresponsible,” I protest.

  Dr. Mac writes a note in Rascal’s file. “When taking care of Rascal got boring, he took the easy way out. It happens all the time. Drives me nuts.” She slaps the file closed. “Know what I mean, David?” she says pointedly.

  I nod my head slowly. She’s talking about me.

  “You have been known, on occasion, to cut corners, too.”

  “But I would never do something to hurt an animal the way that guy did.”

  Rascal’s cage rattles as he limps over to take a drink.

  “What about Trickster?” Dr. Mac points out.

  Ooh—that hurt.

  I slump on a stool. “I know. I keep trying not to think about it, but it won’t go away. How can I explain this, Dr. Mac? It’s like there’s a piece of me that I can’t stand, the corner-cutting part. I start doing things and then, they’re boring, or it takes too long, and I … just … stop.”

  “It’s too bad you can’t take that piece out.”

  “Exactly! Like a sliver or a wart. A big, ugly wart. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

  “You already know the answer to that. Maybe you need to grow a new piece, a ‘do-things-right’ piece.”

  I spin around once on the stool.

  “I was responsible today, taking care of Ashley. I sort of flooded the kitchen, but I cleaned it all up.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it.” I get up and follow Dr. Mac to the file cabinets behind the reception desk. “Honest. When I wanted to quit, I kept thinking about Trickster, how my corner-cutting hurt him. Not that me cleaning the floor would help him. I guess that’s stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” she says as she opens the file drawer. “Seems like it’s all connected, if you ask me.”

  The phone on the desk rings, and Dr. Mac picks it up. “Veterinary clinic,” she says crisply. “Lucas?” She pauses. “When did it happen? Have you taken his temperature?”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it Trickster?”

  She motions for me to be quiet. “I’ll be right there. Don’t get upset. It’s probably nothing, just a little colic.”

  I can’t stand this.

  “We’re on our way,” she says.

  “What?” I ask as she hangs up.

  “Quinn has a sick horse.”

  “Trickster?”

  “No—it’s Starfire.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dr. Mac drives without a word, pushing the van above the speed limit once we get out of town. At first I was pumped about going with her and seeing Trickster, but the closer we get, the more I wish I had stayed at home. What if Mr. Quinn kicks me out of the barn?

  “Maybe I’ll just stay in the van,” I say as we turn down the lane to the stables.

  “Fine,” Dr. Mac says, driving fast enough to create a cloud of dust behind us.

  “Or I could just find the girls and, you know, steer clear of Mr. Quinn.”

  Dr. Mac hits the brakes, and the van skids to a stop behind the barn. “Do what you want, David.” She grabs two equipment boxes out of the back, slams it shut, and jogs into the barn.

  I wish I had the guts to follow her. I want to see how Trickster is doing. I owe him an apology, too. If I had tied him up the way I should have, he’d be fine by now. We might even be out riding together.

  I feel like a pile of manure just thinking about it. No—I don’t want to go in the barn.

  I sit on the bumper of the van. If my dad were here, he’d tell me to march right into the barn and deal with what’s bugging me. “Get back on the horse when you fall off” was one of his big mottoes. It was easier to do when he was around. Everything was easier when Dad was around.

  “Come on, boy, you can do it.”

  It takes a second to realize where the voice is coming from. It’s Mr. Quinn, talking to Starfire as he slowly leads the horse into the courtyard. Dr. Mac is behind them, watching closely.

  Starfire looks like a different horse from the one who rescued Brenna yesterday. His head and tail are down, and he walks slowly. He stops suddenly, jerking at the rope held by Mr. Quinn, and swings his head back toward his belly.

  No wonder Dr. Mac was in such a hurry to get here! Starfire is Mr. Quinn’s favorite horse—his most expensive one, too. If anything happens to him …

  “See, this is what I was telling you about,” Mr. Quinn says. “His belly is sore.”

  Starfire shakes his head and takes a few steps forward.

  “Has he been rolling around in his stall?” Dr. Mac asks.

  Mr. Quinn shakes his head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “Still, it could be colic,” Dr. Mac says. “The symptoms point to it.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, too,” Mr. Quinn says. “But he’s not having any trouble going to the bathroom. He’s had diarrhea for the last hour. Do you think it’s colitis X—that disease that kills racehorses?”

  “Relax. I doubt that’s it,” Dr. Mac says. “That’s pretty rare. I’d suspect a lot of other things first. Let’s get him in a stall. I’ll start an I.V. to replace the fluids he’s lost. Where can we put him so he’s isolated from other horses?”

  “How about the foaling barn?” Mr. Quinn asks as he strokes Starfire’s back. “It’s empty now.”

  “Great,” Dr. Mac says. “If he has a virus, or something contagious, we don’t want it to spread to the other horses.”

  That doesn’t sound good.

  “Come on, Starfire.” Mr. Quinn leads the sick horse across the courtyard. Starfire stops suddenly and whinnies loudly, his neck arching up and his hooves pawing at the ground. While Mr. Quinn is distracted, I slip into the barn to check on Trickster.

  My footsteps echo on the cement. The barn is clean and empty, the stalls all mucked out, with hay waiting in the hay nets for when the horses come in from the pasture. The girls must have worked really hard to get all the chores done.

  I walk faster.

  A familiar whinny comes from a nearby stall.

  It’s Trickster.

  “Hi,” I murmur as I walk toward the stall. “How are you doing? How’s the leg?”

  Trickster bobs his head up and down. His sore leg is wrapped to keep the swelling down, and he’s still not putting weight on it. As I lean over the stall door, Trickster whinnies again and knocks over his empty water bucket with his nose.

  Not only is his water bucket empty, but hay from the hay net is spread all over the stall, and the floor has a lot of manure and urine on it. Yuck. Not a nice place to recuperate in.

  “What happened? Did the girls forget about you?” I can’t believe they missed Trickster’s stall. That wouldn’t have happened if I’d been here. “Come on, boy—we’ve got to get this place cleaned up.”

  First, I lead Trickster into the aisle and tie his lead rope firmly to a metal ring on the stall door so he can’t run off. Then I grab a shovel
and wheelbarrow from the supply room and quickly clean the stall floor. Once the stall is clean with fresh straw on the floor, I fill the water bucket.

  When I lead Trickster back into the stall, he immediately takes a long drink of water. He lifts his head, shakes his forelock, then drinks again.

  “Thirsty, huh?”

  He lifts his head for another breath of air, then puts his entire nose back in the water. I’ve never seen a horse drink that way before.

  “What are you doing, you goofball, learning how to swim? You are the strangest horse I ever met. Take it easy, there. If you drink too fast, you could get a stomachache.”

  I reach for Trickster’s halter to distract him. How long has he been without water? I gently tug his face toward mine so I can straighten his forelock. Wait a minute … what’s this?

  Trickster has strange bumps on his lips. They look like blisters—small, clear, and tender.

  “I don’t think these are supposed to be here,” I tell the horse. “What have you been doing?”

  Trickster snorts and pulls away from me. His ears flick toward the aisle of the barn. Then I hear footsteps. Someone is coming. Good. If it’s Dr. Mac or Mr. Quinn, I want them to see this.

  “Hello?” I call, sticking my head out the stall door.

  “David!” Maggie says. “What are you doing here?”

  The girls are leading their horses in single file behind Jared.

  “Hey, how come you guys went riding before you cleaned Trickster’s stall?” I ask.

  Jared looks puzzled. “We didn’t. We cleaned everything before we left.”

  When I describe the condition of Trickster’s stall, he shakes his head.

  “No way, man. I cleaned that one out myself. And I gave him water.”

  That sounds like the kind of excuse I’d give if I were caught not finishing a chore.

  “Whatever,” I say. “I took care of it. But I think something is wrong. Trickster has bumps by his mouth. They’re really weird.”

  Jared frowns. “He’s probably been chewing on his stall. Horses do that when they’re bored. I’ll go get the doc to look at him. Can you help the girls groom their horses? Just a quick brush-down. These critters were acting a little antsy on the trail. I think they want something to eat and a nap.” He shakes his head. “What a day.”

  “OK,” I say warily. There certainly seems to be something strange in the air today.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It takes a while to get the horses into the grooming stalls because they’re all acting ornery. Gertie won’t budge unless you push her, Gus keeps dropping his head, and Claiborne wants to kick anything that gets too close.

  “Jeez,” I say. “What did you do to these guys?”

  Zoe takes off her riding helmet. “You mean what did they do to us? It was the strangest ride I’ve ever been on! Start. Stop. Start again. Stop. Walk two feet. Stop.”

  Brenna takes a brush off the shelf and starts to brush down Elsa, her horse. “It was the perfect pace, if you ask me. And Elsa was a lot easier to handle than Blitzen was.”

  “If you went so slow, then why are they sweating so much?” I ask. “It looks like they were racing.”

  Sunita gently strokes Gertie’s neck. “I think that’s why Jared brought us back early,” she says. “He said they looked stressed, though he didn’t know why. When we got close to the barn, he made us get down and walk.”

  “You walked them back?” I ask.

  “Whoa, girl,” Sunita says as Gertie stamps the cement impatiently. The old horse flares her nostrils and breathes fast. I’ve never seen her do that before.

  “How long has she been breathing like this?” I ask as I reach for her halter.

  “I’m not sure,” Sunita answers. “She was OK when we started, and then she started breathing rapidly like this.”

  “The other horses are acting weird, too,” Zoe adds. “Even Claiborne.”

  She pats his back, and Claiborne raises his hind foot to kick.

  “Yikes!” Zoe says as she scoots out of the way. Instead Claiborne kicks his leg up toward his stomach. Next to him, Elsa paws the ground anxiously.

  “Maybe there’s a bug or something going around,” I say. “Starfire is definitely sick. Dr. Mac put him in isolation in the foaling barn. Gertie?”

  Suddenly, Gertie coughs. The old mare’s body is quivering. Her eyes roll up in their sockets. Her legs shake. Gus and Claiborne snort and twist their heads, pulling on the cross-ties. Elsa whinnies.

  Then Gertie’s front legs buckle. “Oh, no!” I shout. “Get out of the way, Sunita!”

  As soon as it starts, it’s over. Gertie stops shaking and collapses to the floor, her legs folding under her. Her neck is stretched at an awkward angle. Her halter is still attached to the cross-tie ropes. Claiborne shrieks in distress and rises up on his hind feet.

  “She’s going to choke! Here, help me!” I grab Gertie’s heavy head and try to release the cross-tie. “Brenna, help!”

  “I’ll get Dr. Mac,” Sunita shouts.

  Brenna helps me hold Gertie’s head while Maggie and Zoe fumble with the cross-ties.

  “Lift the head higher!” Maggie says.

  Brenna and I strain. Gertie better not wake up or we’ll all be in trouble.

  “There!” Maggie says as she and Zoe release the cross-ties at the same time. Gertie’s head and neck suddenly sag, and we lower her to the floor.

  “Is she …?” Zoe asks.

  I feel for the pulse under Gertie’s jaw just like I’ve seen Dr. Mac do. “No, but her heart is racing.”

  “What happened? What’s going on?” Dr. Mac asks as she runs up and kneels next to me.

  “She was breathing hard and started shaking,” I say. “The other horses are acting weird, too.”

  “Back up, everyone,” Dr. Mac says. “You, too, David—move away.”

  We stand in the aisle as Dr. Mac listens to Gertie’s heart and lungs with a stethoscope. She moves down Gertie’s body, listening to her belly, too. Gertie’s eyelids flutter, and she thrashes her legs.

  “Look out, she’s waking up!” Maggie says.

  Dr. Mac scoots out of the way as Gertie struggles to her feet. The horse looks dazed, like she’s not sure where she is.

  Dr. Mac grabs her halter to keep her still. “It’s OK, girl, you’re safe.” She turns to us. “I want to get her out to the paddock by the foaling barn. Any horse acting strange should be brought out there. How are these guys?” she asks, pointing to Gus, Claiborne, and Elsa.

  “They’re not right,” I answer quickly. “I think they’re sick.”

  Dr. Mac points at Maggie. “I want you kids to wait by the van. I’ll call someone to come and take you home.”

  “But—” Zoe starts.

  “No buts, Zoe. You don’t have enough experience being around horses to help here. It’s one thing to help with an injured cat or dog, quite another when we’re dealing with a thousand pounds of horse.” Dr. Mac is not fooling around.

  The others take off, but I stay with Dr. Mac. She takes the cell phone out of her equipment box and punches in a number, tapping her foot impatiently as she waits for the connection to go through.

  “Let me stay,” I ask. “I can help—you know I can.”

  Dr. Mac holds up one finger. “Yes, hello,” she says into the phone. “Gabe? It’s J.J. Get down to Quinn’s—stat! We have a situation here. Starfire is having heart problems, another horse just had a seizure, and we have a couple of cases that look like colic. Yes, it’s ugly. Hurry.”

  “What is it, Dr. Mac?” I ask as she puts the phone away. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know yet—some kind of strange viral infection, something in the water, or it could be a plant they ate in the pasture. I just hope we can figure it out in time,” she says grimly.

  “You don’t mean …”

  “Yes, I do. This is serious, David. These horses might be dying. Now go with the others. There is nothing you can do to help around
here, and I would feel better if you were home.”

  It takes a second for everything to sink in … Gertie’s seizure, Starfire’s heart problem, all the horses acting weird. Then it hits me like a hammer.

  “Dr. Mac, I think Trickster’s in trouble, too!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  We find Trickster writhing on the ground in his stall, rolling in pain. His coat is sweaty and covered with bits of straw and manure. The stall that I just cleaned—what, half an hour ago?—is already a mess again. It smells really awful, not at all like regular horse manure.

  “Trickster!” I shout.

  He twists his head around toward us, then tries to get to his feet, but freezes when he’s halfway up. He looks like he’s sitting up like a dog.

  C’mon, buddy. Stand up.

  “Classic colic sign,” Dr. Mac says. “His stomach is hurting him something awful. If he sits like that, it makes him feel a little better. What we don’t want is for him to roll around on the ground. That could make his intestines twist. Horses can die from that.”

  Trickster slowly gets on his feet, his back legs shaking. His eyes roll back in his head as his belly spasms.

  “Let’s get him out of there,” Dr. Mac says. “Walking can make a colicky horse feel better.”

  “But what about his leg?” I ask.

  “That’s the least of his problems right now. Help me here.”

  Dr. Mac enters Trickster’s stall, clips a rope to his halter, and leads him out. Trickster steps gingerly on the concrete.

  “Walk ahead of us,” Dr. Mac says. “He’ll follow better if he can see you.”

  We slowly make our way through the barn, Trickster’s lopsided clip-clopping noise on the floor reminding me of his injury.

  The paddock outside the foaling barn looks like a hospital waiting room, except the patients have four legs and long tails. Gertie, Gus, Claiborne, and Elsa wander in the paddock, their heads low and necks dark with sweat. Jared sits on the fence keeping an eye on them. Through the foaling barn door, I can see Mr. Quinn talking to Starfire.