by Gigi Amateau
This should have been a fun day of working with the young dogs who were all yelping and playing in the field, but something had gone terribly wrong.
The kindly Doctor Russ stopped and pointed just beyond the beagles, where I saw Poppa on the ground.
“There, Izzy, let’s go!” he shouted.
Izzy had never galloped. Doctor Russ didn’t ask, but still we charged onto the field. Izzy grabbed even more mane, and we raced to Poppa.
I called across the field to all who could hear. “I’m coming! Macadoo, the Belgian, is coming!”
The mares and geldings of the hunt club whinnied back, and all the horses and dogs moved out of my path.
Poppa held a bandage to his head, and his hunting jacket lay draped over his leg. He waved when he saw us. “Finally! Izzy, you’ve come! I wanted to see you, to tell you.”
“Judge, you’re going to be fine,” said Doctor Russ. “You need to get to a doctor about that leg. It may take a while, but you’ll be fine.”
Poppa’s faced paled, and he held his leg tighter. Izzy jumped down, ran the stirrups up the saddle, and slipped the reins beneath the stirrups. By doing this, Izzy was asking me to stand in this place until he came back. He pushed his way through the people crowded around Poppa. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think so.” Poppa wiped his forehead and nodded. “Job took a long spot over the fence down at the bottom of the hill. Is that right?”
“Poppa, you mean Molly. You rode her today,” Izzy corrected his grandfather.
Doctor Russ, who had dismounted the mule, spoke up. “Your Poppa wasn’t riding Molly. I was. He took my green horse, Picasso, out today. He’s right about the long spot over the fence. Picasso clipped it just enough to throw Judge here off balance and out of the saddle.”
“I’m still not sure how I ended up sprawled out in the grass or how my helmet came off. My head hurts.” Poppa winced. “My leg, too.” He reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a flask, and took a swig.
Izzy asked him, “Poppa, what are you drinking?”
For a moment, Poppa held the container out. “Here.”
Izzy smelled the bottle, then took a sip. “Cider.” He smiled and bent down to kiss his poppa.
We stayed on the field until the ambulance took Poppa away; then we walked home through the forest. Everything about our lives changed that day.
Poppa went to the hospital, and we went home to Cedarmont without him. When Izzy and I trotted back out of the woods, Job was standing guard at the gate, awaiting us, like he said he would be. Doctor Russ turned Molly out with Job and me. Izzy didn’t correct him and I was glad. I didn’t chase the white ducks or charge the sparrows that day. We all wanted to be together to await Poppa’s return.
Molly blamed herself, but how could she have changed Poppa’s decision about riding the young, green horse? “You know Poppa,” Job consoled her. “Stubborn as you.”
Izzy stayed out in the paddock with us well past nightfall. Even when Doctor Russ came out to get him, Izzy wouldn’t leave. A trace of moon peeked in and out of the clouds and made only a dim light. With no wishing stars in sight, I wished anyway that Poppa would be well and hurry home.
Poppa didn’t come back to Cedarmont. Izzy went to stay with Doctor Russ, but still came to tend to us every day. During the daytime and nighttime, Izzy left the gate between our two fields open so Molly, Job, and I could graze freely together.
One evening some weeks later when the nights turned cold, Izzy visited for a long while with us in the pasture. Like always, he scrambled atop my back. He took a flashlight from his pocket and read from his notebook. Then he wrote about Poppa, not birds or weather or insects.
Poppa sat up today and ate oatmeal, toast, and black coffee. He tried to read the paper. I read it to him, then Poppa fell asleep. His doctor says to keep the room dark. I don’t know when he can come home or when I can come home either. I’m staying with Doctor Russ till Poppa gets better.
“I like Doctor Russ all right,” Izzy said into the night. “Even though I can take care of myself. I’ll be fourteen soon. I could take care of Cedarmont for Poppa, too, but it’s Doctor Russ who’s making decisions for Poppa.”
Izzy closed up his notebook and stretched out on his back. I stopped grazing to give him a steady place to recline and stargaze.
“Let’s see if we can find Cetus, the whale. Do you know why I love Cetus, Mac?” Izzy asked.
I flicked my tail to keep him talking.
“A special star lives in Cetus. One called Mira Stella — the wonderful star. Macadoo, how do I tell you about Mira? Mira isn’t like all of these other stars. Mira is different; Mira goes away, then comes back.”
I nickered, but not so loud as to awaken Job.
Izzy stretched out long on me and rested his head on his arms. “Almost anytime, I could find the North Star, Polaris. It’s always there, every night.” Izzy sat up. He wrapped his arms around my neck. “But Mira shines brilliantly for weeks, then fades away to nothing, and to us, it looks like the star’s gone completely out. Sometimes, it even seems like Mira may never come back. If you find Cetus — the whale — you can see Mira there, shining brightly, and if not, that’s where she’ll be when she comes back. She’s always there, whether we can see her or not. Poppa told me that story when I first came here. He was trying to make me feel better about Mom; only she will never come back.”
Izzy pointed to all the pictures in the sky that he had taught me: Pegasus, Bear, Dipper, and the Great Dog. “Do you remember them, Mac? Never forget, okay?” he said.
I searched the valley sky for the wonderful star, Mira. Each looked wonderful to me. I blew out a long breath and ate some fescue.
In our silence, we watched the stars and planets rise and rest over Shenandoah, the Valley of the Stars. Izzy pulled his knees up into a ball and sighed. “I’m sorry, Mac.”
The next day, when Izzy came to feed us, I knew from his tear-streaked face that the story of Mira Stella had been his way of saying good-bye. It was time for me to go.
Izzy placed my leather halter around me. “You should have something of your own to take with you,” Izzy said. “This one with your name. Macadoo.”
Izzy hooked the lead to my halter and led me out of the barn. A stranger was waiting there with a trailer that was not ours. Doctor Russ walked with us.
“Izzy,” the vet said. “I wish I’d found a better solution for Mac. I thought Tamworth Springs might take all three. Molly is a seasoned hunter so their hunt club wants her, and no horse knows Saddle Mountain like Job does, so the riding school could use him to take kids out on trails. But Tamworth Springs said they can’t take on a Belgian right now. Mac doesn’t know how to jump and Belgians can be harder to keep than other breeds. I tried, son, but your granddad’s bills are mounting up and I’m sure he’ll find a good home.”
Izzy tightened his grip on my lead rope. “Doctor Russ, can’t you take Mac? He’s as good a horse as Molly and Job. Poppa always says so.”
“No, I don’t have the time to keep any horses of my own these days. I know it doesn’t seem fair, but I tried. This is a tough time for all horses.”
Izzy started to cry. “Please, there must be someone else who needs him.”
“I’m sorry. Your Poppa didn’t take this decision well either, but neither time nor money is on his side. There’s an auction tomorrow in Lynchville. Mac will find a good buyer there.”
Now I could not breathe. A sharp pain clamped my gut. I thought if I could roll on the ground I might feel better. If I could just walk in the field with Izzy, everything would be better. I danced around too much to load, and Doctor Russ tried to take me from my boy.
“Best if I do this,” the vet said. “He’s having a hard time.”
Izzy held me tight. “Mac’d do anything for me. I’ll walk him up; he’s a good horse.” Izzy sobbed into my neck; I nickered into his.
Izzy hopped into the trailer first. He clucked and I did the thing I loved and hated to do
. I loved to please Izzy, and I hated to go away. I jumped right up into the dark place.
Izzy touched my marked ear. “Be a good boy and remember.” Izzy wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then buried his face in my shoulder. “Mira Stella, right, boy?”
I nuzzled my boy’s hair.
The driver grew impatient for Izzy to say good-bye. “This horse is young; he’ll be fine. Come on, now.”
Izzy kissed me good-bye.
The truck started up; its engine knocked loud in my ears. As the trailer pulled out of the drive, through the window I heard Izzy shouting after me, “Don’t forget me, Mac. Don’t forget!”
When the trailer opened I was back at auction. The driver signed a paper; he handed my lead to a sun-leathered man, taller than Poppa and even taller than John Macadoo.
“Oh, the boys will like the size of you,” he said. “Must be more than seventeen hands, probably close to two thousand pounds. The boys will like to get ahold of you, all right.”
The Virginia auction house was smaller than the one I had survived in Alberta. In the queue behind the auction were two miniature donkeys chained to a post, pigs galore rooting all around, and six nanny goats bleating and racing around a small pen. Dozens of Black Angus awaited their fates, too.
A hollow dairy cow rested on the other side of the fence, away from the unwanted menagerie. Just past the cow, a frail Thoroughbred filly stood alone. The filly was all but a ghost.
The round man guarding the pens said, “This one sealed her fate first time out.”
“Sam says she’s a great-granddaughter of Secretariat,” another, younger, one said. “Seems a waste.”
The man in charge was not impressed. “Aw, heck, Curtis. This filly hardly matters. What matters is, can they run? Straight outta the gate, this little spitfire threw her jockey, then jumped the track. It’s a wonder they didn’t put her down then and there. I reckon her owner was trying to get away from taking care of business on-site, so here she is.”
“Look at her; she’s gorgeous,” said the man called Curtis. “If I had money in my pocket, I’d buy her. Shoot, have a descendant of Secretariat? I’d love that.”
“All you got is an empty pocket. Anyway, this filly’s so bad off she might not even make it to market. I’m afraid nothing could help her today.”
To keep the auction moving quickly, the filly and I were bundled together. At this auction, there were no children, no fancy ladies, and no cowboys with shiny belt buckles. No one strolled by our pen.
The older worker shoved me, then the filly, toward the chute. He held a prod to my hind, but I tried to keep peace between us. Knowing that I was still a fine Belgian, a purebred from Alberta, I walked into the auction house freely. Wherever I might go, I would bring with me the scar on my ear, the leather halter bearing my name, and my willingness to serve — all I had to remind me who I was.
At that moment, the filly needed me most. I could do little but befriend and comfort her. Her head drooped, and her shoulders sagged. She looked defeated.
“What’s your name?” She didn’t answer until the third time I asked.
“I don’t have a real name. I have a Jockey Club name, a family name, but that’s not me. I’m not a racehorse; not anymore.”
“Why did you throw your jockey?”
“I didn’t throw him. I started fierce, on the gun, just as I had been trained to do. He steered me into a crowd on the rail, and I stumbled. He rolled over my head.”
“Why did you jump the track?”
Her eyes brightened, and she whickered recalling it. “Because I love to jump. That’s all.”
The workers moved us closer to the auction floor. The filly pinned her ears at them and flared her eyes white.
“Listen,” I told her. “This will be over soon; then we’ll know what’s next for us. When we’re inside, there will be bright lights and loud noises. Men yelling terrible things. Close your mind to all of it. Think of someone you love.”
“I don’t love anyone,” she said.
“Think of something you love, then. Jumping! Nothing else.”
When the door opened to the sale going on inside, I saw the auctioneer sitting up high in a box. Smiling and talking too fast, he set his glasses on top of his head. He greeted each bidder by his first name.
The filly hadn’t time to ask me any questions. They led us into the auction house; the steel door slammed behind us. Inside, just five bidders sat waiting. I arched my neck, the way Molly had in her lessons with Poppa, the way my father did on the hill in Alberta. I walked over to the auctioneer to get a look and a sniff and to draw attention away from the underweight filly and onto me.
“Get on out front!” the workingman shouted, and stung me with the prod. The filly kept her head up and her gaze on me.
The auctioneer held his arm out toward us with a flourish; then to the men in the stands, he said, “Lot one-twenty-seven. Got a nice Belgian, boys; get a good look. He’s right friendly and healthy, too. Healthiest horse we got here today. Every bit of nineteen hundred pounds, maybe two gee. The filly here’s a great-granddaughter of Secretariat, one of the greatest Thoroughbred horses in modern history. She’s Virginia-born, gentlemen. The Belgian’s cleft in the ear, as you can see, but he’ll make a real nice pet.”
The kill buyers laughed. “Pet food, ya mean, Jimmy! But you didn’t hear me say that.”
“Now, boys, the Belgian belonged to Judge Harry Isler out in Buena Vista. Comes to you from just down the road. Been well cared for, as you can see. A companion to man and child alike. How about nine hundred? Come on, boys; don’t let him go to Mexico. No, no, no, not to Mexico. Not Canada either. Help me out; keep this purebred draft and this grand filly out of the slaughterhouses.”
The bidders stared down at their boots.
The auctioneer talked fast and faster. “Take a good look, now, boys! Nine hundred; nine hundred. Eight fifty? Boys, I’m old; I’m tired. Don’t make me work this hard. I’ll keep you here all night — eight forty-five, eight forty, eight thirty-five. See what I mean? All right, eight hundred. Seven hundred; six fifty. What’s it gonna take, fine Belgian like this? Six hundred. Six hundred. Five hundred. Four hundred. Three?”
One of the bidders nodded.
“At last, and I thank you. Three hundred, and I don’t want to know where they’re going to go. Is that it? Are we all through and all done? Allen, put your hand down unless you’re offering three fifty.”
The far door opened and I whinnied to see who had come.
“Stop!”
A lady walked in from the back — a lady with a floppy straw hat, a lady like Janey only not Janey.
Standing in the midst of the farmers, the new lady held up her hat and yelled to the auctioneer, “Five hundred, Jimmy, and let’s be done. I want this Belgian for my therapeutic riding school. A friend called me and told me to run up here and save him from these fools, and here I am. Five hundred; now, slam that hammer down.”
The auctioneer banged down his hammer. “Five hundred to Isbell Maiden. Isbell, you are an angel. I dreamed of you last night. May I take you to dinner?”
The bidding men howled like hunting dogs.
Before the filly or I could relax, the lady who had stopped the auction delivered bad news. “I can’t take the mare, though. I’m afraid I’ll have to let her go with one of you scoundrels,” she said.
The young man who had worked our pen spoke up. “Mrs. Maiden? Remember me? Curtis! I used to ride with you at the Maury River Stables when I was a kid.”
“Curtis, I could never forget you. You were a fidgety mess but as sweet as you could be. And you still have all those freckles.”
He laughed and moved closer to us. “Could I ask you a favor? Please, don’t give her to those buyers. I’ll treat her well; you know I will.” Curtis stroked the filly’s neck. “We have a barn and plenty of room. Could I take her?”
The filly whickered and Mrs. Maiden grinned. “That’s the easiest favor I’ve ever been asked
to do. She’s yours, Curtis.”
“Woo-hoo!” He threw his arms around Mrs. Maiden and lifted her up off the ground, so high that the lady lost her hat. “Oh, gosh, sorry, Mrs. Maiden,” he said, and set her down.
The auctioneer interrupted them. “Are you two about done with the side business? I sure don’t mean to interrupt this very important transaction. I’ve got fifty head of cattle, six goats, and twenty pigs to get through today. Isbell, do you mind?”
When Mrs. Maiden came with a lead rope, my lip was still shaking. She fluffed up my forelock. “Hi, Macadoo. I went to school with Judge Isler’s daughter, Charlotte, so he called me this morning. I wish he had thought of me first, but it doesn’t matter now. He wondered if I might need a new therapeutic riding horse, which I do! Judge tells me you’re as reliable as those old mules he’s been riding around the county for decades.”
Izzy and Poppa had saved me!
“He said his grandson was inconsolable when you left and I do need another horse for my therapeutic program. I’ll put you to work as a school horse and in the vaulting program, too. Come on, let’s get you home.”
The worker opened the door and led me back to the pen. The Thoroughbred filly passed by me with her head up. We walked just close enough to say good-bye and then each walked on to our new homes.
Mrs. Maiden loaded me in the trailer and we started on the road to her riding school, the Maury River Stables. She left the window open so I could breathe in the cool October mountain air. Mrs. Maiden drove carefully — I didn’t slip or slide once — and I reached her barn without one new mark on my hind or barrel, though I had plenty from the auction house.
The trailer pulled up to a common-looking barn at the foot of Saddle Mountain, whose two summits come together to resemble Izzy’s English saddle. I blew a long breath out over the gravel drive. I could see the blue mountains in every direction, but this place was not my home. My home, Cedarmont, was just on the other side.
Mrs. Maiden turned me out in a small pen beside the barn with a small run-in and two old cedars whose trunks had grown together into one. I trotted back and forth at the gate, looking for a way out.
