The Boy Who Loves Horses (Pegasus Equestrian Center Series)

by Diana Vincent

  “Not yet.”

  “Hmm, tranquilizers it is then.” He stepped back to his van and returned with a stainless steel device that looked like a gun with a syringe barrel. “Tess warned me I might need this.”

  River stepped into the paddock to keep the black’s attention focused on him as the vet circled behind to where he could move in closer to the back fence, and then shot him in the neck. “Shouldn’t take more than ten to fifteen minutes,” he said as he came back around.

  They waited, watching the horse gradually lower his head as the drug took effect. Dr. Patterson asked a few questions as to where they had found the horse and why River even wanted him.

  “It’s just the way he stands and faces off. Even as run down as he is, he has a spark to him. I think he has a lot of heart,” River explained, speaking hesitantly as he tried to put his feelings about the horse into words.

  “Umm,” Dr. Patterson said noncommittally. “You know there’s a good possibility he’s stolen.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought that,” River answered. “I want to give him a chance though, even if his owner turns up. They were going to take him to the auction and I’m sure the only bidders would have been meat buyers.”

  “I see. Does he have a name?”

  “They called him Demon.”

  Dr. Patterson laughed. “Looks like we might be able to get close to the demon now.” The black horse with his nose almost to the ground, swayed on his feet.

  River and the vet entered the paddock. Demon halfway raised his head and tried to turn his back end towards the approaching humans, but only managed to wobble a few steps to the side. River carried a halter, and talking in a low, soothing tone, moved up to Demon’s head and gently put it on. He stayed by his head as Dr. Patterson began his exam. The vet listened with his stethoscope, took his temperature, ran his hands along his body and legs, pushing and probing; and inspected the sores. As River held Demon’s head up, Dr. Patterson lifted his lips and inspected his mouth.

  “There’s no lip tattoo or any brands. He’s not that old,” the vet said as he squinted at and then palpated inside the mouth. “See here,” he pointed out to River. “His permanent corner incisors are just in…feel here…that’s a canine pushing through. Notice how all his teeth have these indentures; we call them cusps.”

  River nodded. “How old do you think he is?”

  “I’d say between four and six years old.”

  “That young,” River said incredulously.

  “These sores appear to be rain rot,” Dr. Patterson said, studying the scabs and bare patches on the horse’s hide.

  “I thought it might be ringworm,” River said.

  “No, I don’t think we’re dealing with ringworm. But the treatment is pretty much the same. Probably would be best to keep him isolated until the sores heal. Try to keep him in a dry environment. He may not like it, but it would be best to confine him in the stall when it rains.”

  “Okay,” River agreed. “What else can I do?”

  “The best treatment is bathing him with an antimicrobial shampoo several times, and removing this crustiness as you’re able. I’ll leave you some shampoo but of course you’re going to need to be able to handle him. In his case, I think a shot of penicillin might also benefit.” The vet continued around the horse, palpating joints and inspecting sores. “Well, I really don’t find anything seriously wrong other than malnutrition and his neglected feet. Without being able to watch him move I can’t tell about lameness. I don’t see any point in the expense of x-rays until you get his feet into shape. Then if you notice persistent lameness we can get films.” He stepped back from the horse. “Do you want to try to trim his hooves a little now?”

  “Will he be able to stand?” River asked.

  “I think so. Let’s give it a try. Sierra,” he called to her. “Can you bring those tools over here?”

  Sierra picked up the hoof knife and trimmers that River had set down at the edge of the paddock and brought them over to the black. She handed off the tools and took the lead rope from River. Dr. Patterson helped steady the black’s shoulder as River lifted each hoof and trimmed away the overgrowth as the vet directed.

  “Okay, good enough for now. I’ll take a blood sample for analysis and then give him his vaccinations, the penicillin, and a vitamin booster. We might as well worm him now, too.” Dr. Patterson walked back to his van to get the medicines, which left Sierra awkwardly alone with River, still holding onto Demon’s lead rope. Ignoring her, River absorbed his attention in inspecting Demon’s sores.

  Dr. Patterson returned with syringes protruding from his pocket and a small rectangular device. After drawing blood samples and injecting the medicines, he said, “Let’s check for a microchip just in case.” He used the rectangular device to scan along the left side of Demon’s neck. “Nope, nothing,” he said and replaced the device in his pocket. “Well, I think that’s all we can do today.”

  River removed the halter and they left the paddock.

  “If you want, we can take a few pictures and I can pass the word around through my connections to see if anyone has reported a stolen horse that might match. Most people who lose a horse tell their vet about it, so there’s quite a network of unofficial stolen horse reports I can search through.”

  “Okay,” River agreed.

  “River, you can take pictures with your phone,” Sierra reminded him.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, still not looking at her. He took out his phone and Dr. Patterson brought a small camera from his van and they both took pictures.

  “I recommend these supplements and feeding routine,” Dr. Patterson said, writing out a list. “Give him as much grass hay as he’ll eat and supplement with alfalfa three times a day, but introduce the alfalfa gradually. Here’s the shampoo; of course you’ll need to be able to get close enough to bathe him.” Dr. Patterson laughed. “I suspect you’ll eventually work that out.”

  “I hope so,” River said with his eyes on Demon, standing forlornly where they had left him.

  The vet packed up his van, said goodbye and drove away.

  “River…” Sierra started.

  Without looking at her, he walked away.

  Sierra sighed and followed him back up the hill, feeling hurt but also very irritated. Why does he have to be so difficult?

  *****

  6 Laila

  Courage, wisdom born of insight and humility, empathy born of compassion and love, all can be bequeathed by a horse to his rider. - Charles de Kunffy

  *****

  Sierra and River spent the rest of the afternoon in avoidance; stepping out of each other’s way or averting their eyes if they happened to pass. A mixture of anger and guilt roiled within River. Deep inside he knew his anger towards Sierra was not justified, but even so, it was how he felt. How dare she talk about me to other people! He could imagine the conversation; telling her friend how stupid he was and what a loser. The only thing River believed he had going for him was his ability to work with horses, and he didn’t believe telling someone about that could take more than a few words.

  He did not like her friend and he blamed Sierra for introducing them.

  Sierra usually helped Manuel and him bring the horses in for the night and feed, even though it was not part of her job. Today he noticed her leave on her bicycle right after she had finished cleaning her tack. Well, he guessed she was mad at him in return.

  After the horses had all been brought in and fed, he said goodnight to Manuel. Then he walked down to the lower paddock to check on the black. The tranquilizer had worn off and as usual, the horse threw his head high as River approached, watching him warily with ears back. River tossed in an armload of hay and sat on the ground next to the paddock fence near the feed crib. He waited silently, his eyes averted from looking directly at the black. He heard the horse snort and paw, but eventually he approached the hay. From the corner of his eye, River saw the black grab a mouthful and then fling his head up to keep his eye on the
human.

  I know how you feel. River sensed the mixture of fear, anger, hurt, and confusion as the abused animal defiantly faced survival. It was the defiance that attracted him; his unbroken spirit which he had not surrendered to abuse.

  Plus, the horse came from good stock. In spite of the neglect, River recognized a well-bred conformation.

  “Hermano,” he whispered out loud. “Que pasa? What happened to you?”

  At the sound of his voice, the black backed up a few steps, flung his head high and shook it with his ears flat, daring the human to approach his hay. River continued to talk to him in a whisper until the horse returned to grabbing mouthfuls. Finally, the black ate without flinging his head up after each bite. Progress.

  When the starving horse had eaten most of the hay, River slowly stood up. The black backed away and spun around; clearly indicating his readiness to kick.

  River went inside the barn and filled a bucket with grain and supplements. Now the dangerous part. A stall inside the barn connected to the paddock, and River went through the stall with the bucket. He spoke out loud but in soft tones as he approached the feed crib. The horse backed quickly away, then suddenly lunged toward the boy with flattened ears and snaking head. River stopped and raised one arm with palm forward. “No,” he stated firmly. The black halted with a loud snort. River lowered his arm and they stared at each other. The black flicked his ears forward, smelling the grain, and snorted again. He whirled and River flinched involuntarily as he visualized the hooves kicking out at him. But the horse trotted away and turned again to face the intruder. River continued on to the feed crib and dumped in the grain and then sidled away and back out through the stall door.

  The horse stepped back to the feed crib and thrusting his muzzle deep into the pile of grain, ate greedily, still bringing his head up between bites, aware of River watching.

  “Buenas noches,” River said softly, and left the horse in peace.

  *****

  The sun had long set and it began to drizzle as River walked home from the stable. He hunched his shoulders within his sweatshirt, put up the hood, and stepped up into a jog. Storm raced ahead; eager for her supper and a dry place.

  If he was lucky, no one would be around and he could shower, find something to eat, and escape to his room before he had to face any of his family. His father was away at the track for another month so no worries there. But he never knew when his Aunt Hazel would emerge from her bedroom where she spent most of her days in a drunken stupor watching television; especially towards the end of the month when the welfare check and food stamps were used up. Or his cousin Steve might be hanging out with his friends. With no adult supervision, his was a favorite party house.

  River’s stomach rumbled noisily and pangs of remorse churned with his hunger as he thought of his stupid fight with Sierra. He was already very sorry. She won’t be inviting me for dinner and I can’t blame her. Heaviness weighted his chest and sank into his stomach as he thought about working next to Sierra in her bright, cheerful kitchen that always smelled good, the welcoming warmth radiating from her mother toward him, and eating good food until his belly could hold no more. The cottage with Sierra and her mother felt like a family, or what he imagined a family that loved one another was like. A surge of loneliness waved throughout him, aching more than the emptiness of his stomach.

  He jogged into the yard of a large two-story house that bore only remote traces of a past grandeur. A pillared front verandah and railed porches off two upper-story rooms sagged with warped flooring, and most of the railings fractured. The few remaining shutters hung askew held up by one or two remaining nails, and only vestiges of peeling paint hinted the house might once have been white rather than the current weathered gray. Three wide, splintered and bowed wooden steps led up to a double-door entryway flanked by boarded up windows. Thick moss covered the sagging roof that leaked constantly after prolonged rains. The yard consisted of patches of weeds and mud amid fir trees and junk.

  The house had been in his father’s family for two generations, and now belonged to his father’s sister. Here his father brought him to live after River’s mother had been killed in a horse racing accident.

  A dim light escaped between cracks in the window boards and music poured forth from the living room stereo, drowning out any hope of finding no one home. River walked past the house to the backyard and into an old barn.

  “Here you go,” he spoke to Storm as he retrieved a bag of dog kibble from a corner of the barn and filled her bowl. She wagged her tail and hind end enthusiastically as she dove into her dinner. He filled her water bowl from an outside faucet, and then retreated back toward the house. Storm did not like it inside and would wait for him in the barn.

  River entered the house through a back door that led into a smoke-hazed, cluttered, dirty kitchen. A girl sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, leaning back against a cupboard and smoking a cigarette. She stared at him as he crossed the kitchen and into a hall that led to the living room.

  A corner lamp and two candles on a stand by the sofa provided dim light. An emaciated appearing boy lay sprawled on his back on the sofa, one arm and leg hanging over the side. He snored through his open mouth and River smelled the alcohol as well as a strong body odor as he approached. An ashtray with cigarette butts and the end of a joint sat on the floor near his dangling fingers. River went over to the stereo and shut it off. “Steve?” he addressed his cousin on the sofa, but received no response. He blew out the candles and went back into the kitchen.

  The girl sitting on the counter finished her cigarette and dropped it into the sink overflowing with dirty dishes, staring all the while at River. “Why did you turn off the music?” she asked in a tone that sounded like she doubted his right to be there in the kitchen.

  He shot her a discouraging glance without answering…who is she?..and then stepped over to the refrigerator to peer inside with a sense of pointless hope. The interior was well stocked with beer, both in cans and bottles; the only other occupants a few cans of soda, a bottle of catsup, something unidentifiable covered in green mold in a package, and a pizza box. River lifted the lid enough to expose the contents in the box, and dropped it quickly, screwing up his nose at the smell. Looks like coke and crackers for supper. He grabbed a cola can and the catsup, pushed the door closed with his shoulder and hooked a kitchen chair with his foot. He set his armload on the table in front of the chair and stepped back two paces to open a lower cupboard and grab a box of saltine crackers. He plopped into the chair, setting the crackers down.

  “You must be the gay cousin,” the girl said.

  He ignored her and popped open the top of his coke and took a long swig. Then he pulled a wax paper-wrapped column of crackers from the box and laid several squares out in front of him. He squirted a dollop of catsup in the center of each cracker and popped them one at a time in his mouth, washing them down with the soda.

  The girl jumped off the counter and sauntered over to the table, staring at him with a tangible intensity that drew him to look up and watch her approach.

  She wore a cropped black spandex top with a deep neckline, and tight, black hip-hugger jeans. The edges of a tattoo wriggled with the movement of a thin line of bare skin between her top and jeans, and a red jewel glinted from her navel. Thick heeled black boots came up to her knees. On her hands she wore some sort of lacey black stuff twined around her fingers and up to her forearms, meeting the sleeves of her top. Spiky black hair with one section dyed blood red and another turquoise blue, and an array of earrings framed a pale face that appeared even whiter in contrast with black lipstick.

  She pulled out the chair across from him and kneeling on one knee, leaned forward on her elbows, her hands supporting her chin.

  He stared into deep jade green eyes enhanced by thick black eye-liner and mascara, with two tiny silver rings pierced through her right eyebrow. Her complexion was sallow and bumpy in spots where thick make-up camouflaged acne; her cheeks hollow wit
h deep shadows under her eyes. Gothic girl. He recognized her from school; a senior, probably a year or two older than him.

  Her mouth smirked at him mockingly. He dropped his eyes and inadvertently found himself staring into the deep cleavage revealed as she leaned over. His face heated and deepened in color and he quickly brought his eyes down to gaze at his pile of crackers. She didn’t move and he could not help looking back up at her chest.

  She laughed. “I don’t think you’re all that gay.”

  From her chest he looked up to meet her eyes. She smiled triumphantly, exposing a stud in her tongue, and leaned back, dropping her knee to sit in the chair.

  “Are you?” she persisted.

  Embarrassed, River focused on more crackers, applying catsup.

  She laughed again. “Whether you are or not, you’re cute.” Her laugh, though mocking, was friendly.

  He looked up and half-smiled. “Cracker?” He shoved the package toward her.

  “Thanks.” She pulled a saltine from the proffered wax paper column and nibbled at it, as if it were a rare treat.

  He pushed the catsup toward her.

  “That’s actually disgusting.” She made a face that River thought was rather cute as it softened her features into more of the look of a little girl.

  “Are you Steve’s girlfriend?” he asked.

  “I’m nobody’s girlfriend and I never will be.” She said the word girlfriend, making it sound distasteful.

  “But you’re here with him?”

  “He said there was a party so I let him bring me here. Some party. I can’t wake him up so now I’m stuck here.”

  “What did he take?”

  “I don’t know. Some pills and he smoked a lot. I have no idea how much he drank. I might take a hit or two, but I’m not really into that kind of stuff.”

  “Umm,” River nodded.

  “Do you drive?” she asked.

  “I don’t have a license.”