Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  Trish scrambled to keep from landing on her seat.

  “Wow!” She shook her head. “God, when you answer a prayer, you don’t fool around.”

  “Thanks, Caesar.” At his name the dog left his self-assigned position at the animal’s hocks and nuzzled his slim nose into Trish’s hand. “Good boy,” she whispered. “Good job. Now let’s get her up to the barn.”

  Slowly the three made their way to the lighted stables. Every time the filly stalled, a sharp bark from Caesar reminded her of the nip on the haunches. Trish led the droopy animal into the stall farthest away from the stabled horses, one kept for sick animals but rarely used. She clipped the lead rope into one of the barn rings, then snapped the crosstie in place.

  “I know you want to lay down,” she stroked the sick animal. “But that will have to come later.”

  When she unlatched the door to the tack room, Spitfire nickered for attention. “Later, fella,” she said as she reached inside the medicine cabinet for the thermometer and petroleum jelly.

  The filly was too miserable to even flinch as Trish lifted the horse’s tail and inserted the rectal thermometer. Her gray head drooped as far as the lead ropes permitted. The two minutes back-pedaled into what seemed like an hour while Trish’s mind flipped pages in the medical dictionary searching for possible diseases.

  “Whew! A hundred and four,” she read after wiping the glass tube on her pant leg. “No wonder you’re shivering, old girl. You’ve got a fever. Let’s see what else.” Swiftly she checked the animal for other symptoms. Droopy eyes, sweaty, can’t hear any strange breathing, mentally she checked them off.

  “Be right back,” she patted the steamy neck. “Come on, Caesar. Let’s call the vet.”

  The phone was ringing as Trish slid open the back door. “Runnin’ On Farm,” she could barely get the words past her gasps for air after the run to the house. “Trish speaking.”

  “Hi, babe. What’s happening?”

  “Oh, Dad!” Trish swallowed past the boulder that had suddenly lodged in her throat at the sound of the familiar voice. “How did you know how much I needed you?”

  “Hey, we’ve always said great minds run in the same circles.” Her father’s voice rasped from a throat raw from coughing. “Now, what’s our great minds’ problem?”

  “It’s the gray filly. When I went back out to last-check the stock, she was down. Caesar and I—no, God, Caesar, and I got her up and into the barn. Her temp was one-oh-four.”

  “Slow down. Slow down. Why don’t you call the vet, then call me back. Then you can tell me what you mean by God, Caesar, and you.

  Sounds like a good story.” He paused, his voice deepening, reassuring his daughter. “Take it easy, Trish. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Trish forced her hand on the receiver to relax. “I’ll get right back to you.”

  Amazing, Trish thought when the phone at the vet’s was answered on the first ring.

  “Bradshaw here.”

  “I’m so glad you’re home. This is Trish from Runnin’ On Farm. I’ve got a yearling filly with a temp of one-oh-four. She was down, sweaty and shivery. She didn’t want to get up.”

  “First, get her up into the barn.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “Good, good. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Oh…and Trish?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry to hear about your dad.”

  Boy, news sure travels fast, Trish thought as she said thanks and hung up the phone. Then she turned the yellow pages for hospitals. Ah, St. Joseph’s. She wrote the number on a pad by the phone.

  “Hal Evanston’s room, please,” she responded to the operator.

  “That’s room 731. I’ll ring it for you.”

  “Thanks.” Trish scribbled the number down by the other as she switched the receiver to her other ear. “Dad?” Trish leaped in before he could give a hoarse hello.

  “Yes, Trish. What did you find out?”

  “He’s coming right over.”

  “Good.”

  “You don’t sound so good.” Trish cradled the phone on her shoulder while she pushed up to sit on the kitchen counter. “Been coughing again?”

  Her father chuckled, carefully. “Can’t get away with much around you, can I? Forget that for now. What’s going on around there, and what’s this about God and Caesar helping you?”

  As Trish finished describing the incident of the nip on the rump, Hal laughed until a coughing spell took his breath away.

  “Sorry, Tee. But that was a good one. ‘Please God’—and Caesar bites her on the rump.” He chuckled more carefully this time. “Guess I don’t have to worry about you at all. You, God, and Caesar. What a combination!”

  Trish giggled in return. “You be good now. No matter what, we need you around here. Next time Caesar might tune out his heavenly hearing.”

  “No chance. His ears are perfect. You just keep on praying, that’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” She gripped the phone like it was the lifeline connecting her to safety. “I gotta get back to the barn. Talk to you later.”

  “I’ll call you. The switchboard won’t let calls through after nine. They think we patients need our beauty sleep.” He snorted. “As if beauty sleep would do me any good at this stage in my life.”

  “Hey, is Mom still there?”

  “No, she and David left just before you called. They were stopping for hamburgers and then groceries. What do you need?”

  “Nothing. Talk to you later.” Trish breathed a sigh of relief when she hung up the phone. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but he sounded good, she thought. Except for that awful coughing.

  The headlights from the traveling veterinary clinic flashed in her eyes as she opened the gate. By the time the vet had parked the pickup and stepped out, Trish had run the distance to the barns.

  “This way, Dr. Bradshaw. I’ve cross-tied her in the isolation box.”

  The grizzle-haired man quickly unlocked the rear boxes. “Let me get my gear. Sounds to me like you’ve got everything under control.” As he talked, he chose syringes, bottles, and gloves and laid them in a stainless steel bucket. “You’ve got hot water?” He pulled on his galoshes.

  Trish wished she could find the button to shift the deliberate man from low to high gear.

  All the horses nickered, their curious faces hanging over the stall doors. Spitfire tossed his head and kicked the wall.

  “Later, fella.” Trish didn’t even take time for one ear rub.

  “They all look alert,” the vet said. “Good sign.”

  “So far it’s just the filly.” Trish paused. “Oh, and maybe one of the brood mares. I’d like you to check her before you leave.”

  “Sure enough.” They opened the stall door. The gray filly didn’t even raise her head. She leaned against the ropes, seeming to depend on them for stability.

  Trish held the animal’s head up while Dr. Bradshaw checked eyes, ears, nose, and throat. A hush fell over the stall as he placed his stethoscope against the filly’s heaving ribs.

  Make it something simple, God, Trish prayed in the silence of her mind.

  So he can give her a shot and make her all better.

  I prayed that for Dad too, she thought, and look what happened. He’s in the hospital. And cancer sure isn’t simple. She rubbed her forehead against the filly’s soft cheek. And there’re no shots to cure cancer.

  “This time a shot or two will do,” she whispered into the droopy ear. “I know it will.”

  “Well,” the vet said as he removed the stethoscope and patted the gray rump. “Looks like a virus to me. I’ll load her up with antibiotics to prevent any secondary infection, but the only cure is good care. And time. You’ve got to keep her eating and drinking. Especially drinking. So far, the ones I’ve seen respond pretty quickly when I catch them as early as this. The real problem comes if the
y go into pneumonia.”

  Trish felt the weight fall off her shoulders. “I’ll watch her.”

  “Make sure you don’t contaminate the other horses. This stuff is highly contagious. Don’t even go into their stalls with boots you’ve worn in this stall. Here, wash your hands before we go check that mare. Can you give injections?” he asked as he scrubbed his hands in the disinfectant water.

  “Yes. Dad made me practice. Said every horsewoman had better be able to doctor her own stock.”

  “Good. Good.” Dr. Bradshaw patted her shoulder, his hand accustomed to conveying comfort. “I’ll leave this bottle. You’ve got disposable syringes?”

  “Sure, in the tack room.”

  “Give her fifteen cc’s both morning and night. Warm water to drink, and mix her grain with warm water and a little molasses. If she goes down on you, call me right away.”

  “Got it. Fifteen cc’s.”

  The vet kept talking while he filled his syringe, swabbed the filly’s shoulder, and rammed the needle home. Trish gripped the halter extra hard, but the sick animal didn’t even flinch.

  When Trish unsnapped the tie ropes, the filly’s head sank even lower. “I’ll get some straw in here right away,” Trish promised her with a last pat. “You hang in there.”

  Outside the stall, the vet removed his boots and stuck them in the bucket. “You keep a pair down here,” he reminded her. “Do just like I’m doing.”

  “Okay. Will spraying the ones I have on with disinfectant take care of this evening?”

  “I think so. But galoshes are better.” He pulled a flashlight from his coverall pocket. “Let’s go look at that mare.”

  When they reached the brood mares, everything seemed perfectly normal. All of them grazed peacefully, the sound of their munching drowned out by the singing frogs. Trish held each mare’s head while the doctor listened to the horse’s lungs with his stethoscope.

  All was quiet. Dumb horses, Trish thought, of course you won’t cough while I have someone here to help you.

  “Can’t hear a thing.” Bradshaw took back the flashlight he’d given Trish to hold. “But watch them carefully. As I said, that stuff’s pretty contagious. Call me if you see or hear anything unusual.”

  By the time the vet had reloaded his gear and reminded Trish of all his instructions, two sets of headlights turned into the farm gate.

  “Looks like you have company.” He shut his door.

  “Mom and David are just getting home from town,” Trish said through the open wondow.” Thanks for coming so quickly. I really appreciate it.”

  “Any time, Trish. See you.” The doctor honked his horn and waved as the incoming cars braked in the gravel.

  “What’s Bradshaw doing here?” David slammed his car door.

  “The gray filly has a virus. He says it’s really contagious so we have to be extra careful.”

  “Oh great,” David groaned, “that’s all we need.”

  “I’ll be up in a minute. Just gotta fork some straw in her stall and get her a bucket of warm water.”

  “Want me to do it?”

  “Naw, my boots are already contaminated. Won’t take me long.”

  “Trish.” Dave stopped her. “Better be prepared. Mom’s pretty upset.”

  “About Dad?”

  “That…and other things.”

  By other things, he means me, Trish thought as she loped back to the barn. So what’s new?

  Chapter

  07

  Fifteen minutes later, Trish slid open the glass door and sank into the nearest chair. At the staccato tap of her mother’s heels, Trish looked up.

  Her “Hi, Mom” trailed into a whisper when she noticed the white line around her mother’s tight mouth. With a clenched jaw and hands to match, her mother stopped two feet in front of her.

  “I thought you cared about your father, but it’s just like I’ve always said. Those horses come first in your life.”

  The attack left Trish in a momentary state of shock. “But, Mom.” She shook her head, as if to clear her ears. “Someone had to do the chores. You know Dad always says—”

  “You listen to me for a change.” Marge’s words were clipped, each syllable sliced as if with a sharp knife. “Your father is more important to me than anything on this earth. The horses, the racing—I don’t care about those. When he asked for you tonight, where were you?”

  “But—” Trish was frantic to get a word in.

  “I’ve had it!” Her mother turned toward the living room. She shook her head. “I’ve just had it with you, Tricia.”

  “But, Mom!” Trish bit off the plea.

  “Horses. All the time! Sometimes I hate those animals.”

  “That’s not fair.” Trish leaped to their defense.

  “You were needed somewhere else—where were you?”

  “Mom! David went with you. Somebody had to take care of things around here.” Trish tore her fingers through her hair. “The filly went down and—”

  “Mother…Trish!” David vainly tried to interrupt.

  “Do you think Dad wants everything to fall apart around here?”

  Trish’s voice rose. “He’s sick enough, and all you’re worried about is whether or not I went to the hospital. Well, you can worry all you want to, because I couldn’t go tonight.” She brushed away the tears cascading down her cheeks. “And I probably won’t go tomorrow either.”

  “That’s nothing new. When have you ever done what I wanted?” her mother countered.

  “Well, Mom, if I did what you wanted, we wouldn’t have a jockey to race this year.” The rage welled up within her like a mushroom cloud.

  “You never want me to do the things I like best. I’d rather be with horses than with people any day!”

  “Tricia!” her mother reprimanded.

  “You started this, Mother. Dad and I love racing.”

  “That’s fine for a man. But in case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re fast becoming a woman. Racing Thoroughbreds is a man’s job.”

  “No! No, it’s not! You know there are women jockeys. And they do okay. You just worry all the time. You don’t want your daughter to be different.” The feelings of rebellion within scared her, but she couldn’t stop the flood of words. “Remember, you’ve said, ‘Always tell the truth.’

  Well the truth is, when it comes to racing, I don’t care if you don’t agree with me!”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady!”

  “I have a right to say what I think!”

  “Trish, go to your room.” Her mother took a step closer. “I’ll not allow you to talk to me like that.”

  “You can’t stand the truth, can you? When you don’t like what I have to say you send me to my room. Maybe I should sleep in the stable!”

  “Tricia Evanston!”

  “I don’t care. Anyplace is better than here.” Trish glared through her tears at her mother, then stomped down the hall. The slam of her door echoed through the house.

  With a grunt she pulled off her boots and heaved them one after the other against the closet door. The tears blinded her eyes and caught in her throat. If only kicking and screaming would help.

  I hate her! her mind screamed. She threw herself across the bed and sobbed. And I know she hates me. After all I did tonight to help, and she just rips into me. Those horses are our business—Dad’s and mine. The tears raised blotches on her face and soaked circles on her bed. I’d be better off at the track. Maybe she’d be happier if I weren’t here. But where would I go? She tossed her head from side to side, as if to drum out the furious thoughts. I hate her. I hate her.

  Her mind went numb. The word hate echoed in the dark corridors of her brain. Hate. I hate crying. I hate fighting. Oh, God, why are things so messed up? I need my dad! You say you love us, but Dad’s so sick, Mom’s yelling at me…. None of this feels like love.

  She gulped down another sob. With one hand she fumbled for a tissue on the nightstand. Tears and nose-blowing soaked tha
t one and the next.

  “Trish.” David knocked softly on her door.

  “What.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Oh, why not?” She sat up on the edge of the bed, blew her nose again, and mopped her eyes.

  “Don’t ask me to apologize.” She hunched her shoulders, her face hidden in her hands. “Not this time. She started it.” Trish could feel the tears clogging her throat again.

  David sat beside her on the bed. “Yeah, I know.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “But, Tee, things have been awfully rough on her today.”

  “Sure. And my day’s been wonderful? Why’d she have to take it out on me?”

  “She really felt we all needed to be together as a family, to give Dad all of our support.” He handed her another tissue.

  “Somebody had to be here, to keep things going.”

  “That’s true. But if you’d gone in for just a little while—”

  “I can’t go in there.” Trish buried her whisper in her fingers.

  “What do you mean, you can’t go in there?” David leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.

  “I can’t. That’s what I mean.” She fell back on the bed, the back of her hand hiding her eyes.

  David stared at her, confusion wrinkling his brow. “Well, if you don’t make any more sense than that, how can you expect Mom or anyone else to understand?”

  “I don’t know.” Trish’s voice sounded like it came from the closet, far away. “All I know is that I just can’t go in there.” The silence stretched.

  “And I hate fighting.” She sniffed. “I always feel so guilty afterward, like everything in the whole world is all my fault.”

  “Then go say you’re sorry.”

  “I hate that most of all.” She hiccupped. “Besides, this time it was not my fault.”

  “Tee.”

  “Well…” She could feel the thoughts whipping around her brain like a gerbil on a wheel. A knock at the door brought the wheel to an abrupt stop.

  “Trish.” Her mother’s voice came softly through the door.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “I guess.”

  David squeezed her hand.

  “Trish—” Marge joined her children on the edge of the bed, three sets of jean-clad knees pressed together. “Please forgive me for unloading on you like that. It was totally inexcusable.” She shook her head. “I know you had a terrible day too.”