by Laura Crum
I gave Pistol some bute intravenously, just to make him feel better, and Lonny loaded him in the trailer. I was about to suggest lunch when the receptionist dashed out the back door of the office.
"Gail, Lisa Bennett just called and she's got an emergency. She said someone let all the horses out of their corrals. One of them got into the feed room and ate a bunch of grain, she thinks. She says he's colicked-pretty bad."
"Tell her I'm on my way."
FIFTEEN
I drove to the Bennett Ranch as fast as the law allowed; even so, it took me forty-five minutes to get there. Lone Oak was just that far away. I arrived to find a small group of people gathered in the barnyard. Glen, Al Borba, Tim, and Susan Slater stood in a confrontational square. Lisa was leading Chester in circles.
My heart sank. Not Chester. Damn. I observed him closely as Lisa led him in my direction. His expression was alert and he wasn't sweating. Good signs.
"He's better," Lisa announced. "Maybe he didn't get much grain. He couldn't have been in there very long."
"What happened" I asked her as I took the horse's pulse and respiration.
"Someone let all the horses out of their pens this morning. Al said everything was normal when he fed, and sometime between then and ten o'clock, when Dad went down to the barn, someone came along and did this."
Chester's pulse and respiration were only slightly elevated. While I watched, he started pawing the ground and acting like he wanted to roll. Lisa got him moving again. "That's what he's been doing," she said over her shoulder.
"Is he the only sick horse?" I was filling a syringe with banamine.
"Yeah. The others were just milling around. But he's too smart for his own good. He opened the latch and got in the feed room. He knows where we keep the grain. He was eating it when I found him."
Too much grain all at once was a sure recipe for colic, and maybe founder, too. "How much did he get?" I asked.
"It's hard to tell; the grain's in a big barrel. Not a whole lot, though."
"I'm going to give him a shot of painkiller, and we'll pump some mineral oil down him. Hopefully that will do it. He doesn't look too bad."
Chester accepted the injection in his jugular vein and the tube down his nose quietly, and I pumped the mineral oil into his stomach. "You'll need to keep a good eye on him for the next few hours," I told Lisa. "The banamine will wear off slowly, and if he starts to show symptoms of pain, we'll have to get right on it."
She nodded seriously as she stroked the horse's neck. Loud voices from the direction of the group around Glen made us both turn. Susan was declaiming again.
"What you're doing is cruel and inhumane," she announced to Glen. "I hear those poor cattle bawling every night."
"Oh, brother." Lisa rolled her eyes.
"What's going on?" I asked her.
"We're shipping all the steers at the beginning of next week, so we've been gathering the cattle and keeping them in these little holding pastures near the barn. Some of them are being weaned off their mothers, so they're bawling. Susan can hear it from her house. She thinks we're torturing the cattle."
I listened to Glen begin a fairly patient explanation of the logistics of cattle ranching. How the grass was done for the year and the cattle needed to be gathered and moved -otherwise they would starve.
"Do you think she let the horses out of their pens?" I asked Lisa quietly. "Freedom for animals and all that?"
Lisa looked confused. "She could have, I suppose. But would she come right back up here and start yelling at Dad?"
"Who knows?"
Susan's voice was raised again. "You're just shipping these poor little animals off to be slaughtered. It's morally wrong."
Glen's voice was still patient. "So just what do you want me to do with them?"
"Keep them and take care of them, of course."
There was a brief silence. Glen looked steadily at Susan, then at the pastureful of cattle behind them. "How about I give you one?" he said at last. He pointed at a big black baldy steer with black freckles on his pink nose. "That one right there. He's a real gentle steer. We call him Freckles. He'll let you pet him."
And Glen stepped up to the fence and stretched his hand slowly out to the steer, who did, indeed, allow his forehead to be rubbed. "What do you say?" Glen asked her. "I'll give him to you, and you give him a good home."
Susan sputtered. There was no other word for it. "Uh. Well. Where would I put him?"
"I don't know," Glen said evenly. "But if you want him to be happy, a pen in your backyard wouldn't be big enough. He'd need at least a quarter-acre. You'd have to feed him, of course."
Susan stared at the steer. There he was, a living, breathing animal whose life she could save. "I can't," she said miserably.
"I know you can't." Glen's voice was quiet. "I can't keep all these steers, either. I can't afford to, just like you can't afford this one."
"Then why do you buy them in the first place?"
"Would you rather they didn't exist? If people like me didn't raise beef cattle for other people to eat, they'd disappear forever. They'd be rarities in zoos. Is that what you want?"
Susan didn't say a word.
"What's wrong with the life I'm giving them? Sure, they're going to be butchered, but they ran around on the green grass all year, and I have every expectation they'll be killed humanely. Everyone has to die sometime."
Good point, Glen. Susan appeared worn down. Al and Tim were both staring at her with ill-concealed animosity. She glanced at Lisa and me, standing with Chester, and could see we weren't going to jump in.
Still looking at me, she asked, "Is the horse all right?"
"I think he'll be OK," I said guardedly. "Susan, you didn't let these horses out of their pens, did you?"
"Me?" She appeared honestly shocked. "I wouldn't do that."
"Well, some animal rights protesters have done things like that. I want to be sure you understand that you wouldn't be doing the horses a favor."
"I'm not that dumb," Susan snapped. She looked the group of us over with disdainful eyes. "I'm not giving up," she said clearly. "I'll be watching you." She marched off toward the road, the hem of her long skirt dragging in the dusty grass.
"How's Chester?" Glen asked me.
"We'll know in about four hours," I told him. "I just loaded him up on painkiller and mineral oil. So, how do you think this happened?"
"I don't know." Glen spoke reluctantly. "They were all out when I got down to the bam. Al says everything was normal at feeding time."
"Any of you see any strangers around the place?"
Lisa and Glen shook their heads negatively; Tim said, "Only that goddamn Susan."
Al's heavy voice broke in: "Anybody could have done it. I was out with the cattle. You can't see the barn from the big house. Any stranger could have driven in here and out again." Al's tone was defensively belligerent. Of course, this was his usual tone. But I wondered. Was Al anxious to prove the culprit wasn't necessarily someone who lived on the ranch?
"I think you should take this seriously," I said to Glen. "It wasn't an accident. Someone does seem to be," I searched for a better word and gave up, "stalking you. If I were you, I'd call the sheriff's department."
Glen's negative head shake was instantaneous. "I don't want to do that," he said firmly.
Our eyes met. Glen's were clear blue, with every one of his fifty-something years showing clearly in the lines around them. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention this to anybody."
"All right," I said slowly. "But if something else happens, I am going to feel free to report it, okay?"
He gave the slightest of nods. I could feel Al's and Tim's eyes drilling into me with separate intensity. I would have given a lot to be able to read their thoughts.
Glen turned to Lisa. "Put Chester in the front corral where we can keep an eye on him."
Lisa led the horse off; he looked bright and happy, for the moment anyway. The next few hours would show what
the prognosis was.
"Don't feed him any hay for a while," I told Al and Glen. "If he seems okay by dinnertime, you can give him half an ordinary feeding. And if he's passed that oil by tomorrow morning, you can treat him normally again."
Everybody nodded assent. Lisa returned. "Can I buy you lunch?" she asked me.
"My turn," I told her. "But it will have to be a quick one."
"Meet you over there," she said and got in her pickup.
Two minutes later, we walked into the Saddlerack. As always, the cool air was refreshing in contrast to the heat of midday. Lisa took her usual table in the corner. Janey was behind the bar today. I could see Susan at the far end of the room, sitting with the bespectacled man she'd been with at the roping, talking animatedly.
It seemed sort of funny. Here we were, Lisa, Susan, Janey, and I, all in the same bar, seventeen years after we'd graduated from high school. We were quite a study in types. I suppose that in our high school years I was the smart one, Lisa the pretty one, Janey the sexy one, and Susan the hippie. As adults, we were not quite so typecast, but the cliches might still apply.
I stared at the four of us in turn. Lisa and I were reflected in the mirror behind the bar; we both looked a bit battered, I thought. My veterinary degree probably justified my high school label as "smart," and Lisa, despite the signs of stress, was still and probably always would be a very attractive woman. It was there in the bones of her face.
Glancing surreptitiously at Susan, I decided she looked much younger than Lisa and me; her fair skin was relatively unlined, as her hippie-esque attire was unchanged. Susan was quite recognizably the Susan of our high school years.
It was Janey who was the enigma. There she stood behind the bar-quiet, watchful, unreadable. She wore another tight T-shirt-this one white and sheer enough to reveal the black lace bra beneath it. As always, I had no idea what mysterious alchemy in her nature had produced the combination of overt sexiness blended with hostility. What in the world made Janey tick?
Her belligerent expression seemed more or less habitual, as did her father's, but whether it was the outward sign of deep resentment or merely a superficial facade I couldn't tell. Could Janey, or Al, possibly hate Glen enough to be Lisa's stalker? Sort of a have-nots hating the haves, Russian Revolution motivation? It seemed pretty far-fetched.
Still, I asked Lisa, "What time does this place open?"
"Eleven o'clock," she said promptly. "They don't do breakfast. And yeah, I've thought about that, too. But why would she?"
"Revolt of the downtrodden?" I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. There could be lots going on neither of us knows about. Maybe she had an affair with your dad and he dumped her."
It appeared this was the wrong thing to say. Lisa got up abruptly. "I'll go get our hamburgers."
When she returned, several minutes later, bearing lunch, I apologized. "I'm sorry, Lisa. I didn't mean to offend you."
"You didn't," she retorted. "I'm not offended; I'm paranoid. It could be true."
"You don't really think so?" I took a big bite of hamburger. I'm not usually a fan of this particular food, but I had to admit, the Saddlerack did a good job with them. Not to mention that hamburgers and hot dogs were the only things on the menu-besides steak.
Lisa seemed to be considering my question seriously. "Maybe," she said at last. "If I were married to Joyce, I'd sure run around."
Now we were back to Joyce again. "Could Joyce be your stalker?"
"I guess she could." Lisa shook her head. "Oh, Gail, lots of people could."
"It's a limited number, though," I said slowly. "I could give the police a pretty complete list."
"Dad would kill you."
"I know. And I don't want to upset him. But if one more weird thing happens, I'm going to the cops. This is getting spooky. Come on; finish that hamburger and let's go back and check on Chester."
Chester seemed OK when we got there. I told Lisa to keep a good eye on him and call me if he got worse, then climbed back in my truck.
Lisa stood by my door, a slightly desperate look on her face. "Gail, I'm sure you're tired of this, but we're having a practice roping tomorrow night, for the Rancher's Days roping."
"The Rancher's Days roping?"
"Dad's big roping. He has it every year, the week he ships the cattle. It's this weekend."
I remembered. But still, "You're having a big roping here this weekend? Don't you think that's asking for trouble?"
"I know." Lisa looked miserable. "But Dad refuses to cancel it. He's had it every year for over twenty years now."
"Yeah," I said slowly.
"So would you consider coming up to practice with us tomorrow night and then rope with me in the big roping? That way you could keep an eye on things." The words tumbled out of Lisa in a rush.
"I haven't done a lot of good so far," I told her.
"But I feel safer when you're around."
"I'll think about it, Lisa. If Lonny will haul our horses up here, I'll try and come practice tomorrow night. But if anything else happens, I'm warning you, I'm going to the cops."
"That's OK with me. Dad's the one who's going to skin you alive. Thanks, Gail."
"See you tomorrow," I said.
SIXTEEN
Tuesday did not begin auspiciously. I spent the morning with one of my least favorite clients, preg-checking her herd of forty broodmares. A pregnancy check on a mare is no big deal, if you have a set of stocks handy or the mare is gentle. Amber St. Claire had no stocks, however, and several of her mares were downright rank.
In order to check a mare, I had to stand directly behind her and thrust my arm (encased in a plastic sheath) up her rectum all the way to my shoulder. Thus I could palpate the cervix and uterus and determine if a mare was bred or open. Naturally, such a position causes a veterinarian to become extremely vulnerable to being kicked. Without stocks, I normally tranquilized any mare whose disposition I was unsure of. Amber, however, wouldn't hear of this.
It wasn't concern for her horses' possible reaction to the drug; Amber didn't want to pay for any "extras."
"If you tranquilize them, it's on Jim, not me," she said.
I bit my tongue on, The hell it is, and said, as politely as I could manage, "It's standard procedure."
"Not at my place," she snapped back. "Go ahead and do them or I'll find a more capable vet."
I turned away, doing my best to hide what amounted to outright fury. If the decision had been up to me, I would have dispensed with Amber's business then and there, but I knew Jim was not going to see it my way. Instead, I simply motioned at Amber's stallion manager to lead the first mare up. Maybe I'd be lucky.
I wasn't. The fourth mare I examined launched a savage blow at my midsection. I jerked sideways reflexively and she caught me on the thigh instead of in the guts, but it still hurt like hell.
Limping in circles, I cursed the mare and Amber impartially but inaudibly. When I could control my voice, I said, I hoped quietly and firmly, to Amber, "The rest of these mares get tranquilized. "
She didn't say a word. No doubt she was worried I'd sue her. Good. Let her worry.
Tranquilized, the rest of the herd presented no problems, but I returned to the clinic knowing full well that Amber's phone call would have gotten there before me. Sure enough, Jim motioned me into his office as soon as I walked in the door.
"I know; I know," I said wearily. "Amber just called to tell you I'm an incompetent veterinarian."
Jim's brief grin came and went. "How did you know?"
I recounted my adventures briefly and finished up with, "I'm not preg-checking any more questionable mares without tranquilizing them. I don't care what the client wants. My whole thigh's black-and-blue."
"Gail, we can't afford to antagonize clients like Amber St. Claire."
"You preg-check her mares next time. You can do them without tranquilizers, if you want."
Silence followed that remark. "Just do your best to get along with her," Jim sai
d at last.
I shrugged. He knew as well as I did that I was right. It was just one more battle in our never-ending employer-employee struggle. Jim was as tight with money as Amber St. Claire, and his work ethic was Puritan in its intensity. The only reason he cut me any slack at all was that I had lasted with him for almost five years-a world's record. No other vet had stuck it out for longer than six months.
I endured Jim for a number of reasons-not least because I wanted to stay in Santa Cruz and Jim was the only competent horse vet in the area. I couldn't afford to open my own practice and, to be fair, Jim was more than competent; he was unsurpassed as a diagnostician. I'd learned a tremendous amount in my five years of working under him.
To top it all off, I'm stubborn. I was determined not to give up and quit, and Jim, for his part, seemed at least halfway pleased to have found someone who could keep up with his work schedule. Despite the fact that he paid low wages, expected long hours, and had a tendency to shift the difficult clients off on me, we got along. Mostly because I made sure of it.
Still, Jim irritated me at times. And this was one of them. I was further annoyed when I climbed back into my truck for the next call, turned on the air conditioner, and heard only a dead rattle. No cold air. Of course. I'd forgotten. The air conditioner was broken, and Jim had declined to fix it, saying we didn't need one in this climate.
I rolled the windows down, and a hot wind blew restlessly around me. It was better than nothing. Four hours and six calls later I was not so sanguine.
"Damn you, Jim." I thumped the dashboard in annoyance, hoping something would fall into place and the air conditioner would kick in. The temperature was in the nineties.
