by Linda Byler
The storekeeper had his helper help them across the street. The man could hardly push the cart up the bumpy drive to the springwagon. Lizzie was terribly embarrassed. She wished Emma would say something, anything, to make a conversation, but she didn’t. Lizzie thought of things to say, but they all sounded too senseless. She was relieved after the last bag had been loaded, and he said, “Have a good day, girls.”
“You, too,” Emma said.
“We will,” Lizzie said.
They untied Bess, and Lizzie took her turn on the driver’s side. Bess backed away from the hitching rack, then walked slowly down the drive toward the road.
“Put your brakes on,” Emma said.
“She can hold it. This isn’t a steep hill,” Lizzie replied.
Bess stumbled, and the reins flew out of Lizzie’s hands. Emma muffled a shriek, but Lizzie stood up quickly, reaching across the dashboard and grabbing them back as fast as she possibly could. She pulled back hard on them, saying, “Whoa!” She looked right and left, before pulling out on the road that led home.
“You’re not fit to drive. I told you to put the brakes on,” Emma said loudly, thoroughly frustrated at her driving skills.
“She didn’t fall.”
“She could have; she stumbled.”
“But she didn’t fall.”
Bess fell into her slow and easy trot, and Emma turned around, finding two boxes of chocolate milk and a bag of potato chips.
“Here.”
“You got chocolate milk? Good!” Lizzie loved store-bought chocolate milk, because it was so creamy and sweet, almost like a milkshake. The perfect thing to eat with it was potato chips, all greasy and salty.
“Mmm!” Lizzie took a long drink and smiled at Emma. “I didn’t know you got chocolate milk.”
“That’s because you were too busy watching the storekeeper’s ears. Lizzie, you were staring at him so much that I was embarrassed.”
“Well, Emma, he didn’t notice. I was trying to figure out how in the world that pencil stayed behind his ear. What kept it from sliding down?”
“It was probably stuck in there pretty tight.”
Lizzie crunched a potato chip and thought about that. Ears were funny things. Some boys’ ears were so big they stuck out from their hair, parting it at the side. Other people hardly had any ears that you could see. Mam always said people with big ears were kind, and people whose ears were small were stingy and mean.
Dat said that was an old wives’ tale, a myth, but it wasn’t with the storekeeper. His ears were big and he was a very kind man.
She pulled on her own earlobes. “Are my ears big?” she asked.
Emma turned to look. “Mmm, kind of. You have long earlobes. Watch where you’re going.”
Lizzie watched the road, glad that one part of her ears was big. She wasn’t always kind, just sometimes. Nobody was kind all the time, not even Doddy Miller. Once he had scolded them for coloring sloppily in their new coloring books, which Lizzie never forgot. Doddy Miller’s ears were huge.
Emma started singing, and Lizzie joined in as soon as she finished her potato chip.
“Over the river and through the woods,
To Grandmother’s house we go.”
It was a Thanksgiving song in the spring, but it fit for today, and their song rang out as Bess clopped steadily homeward.
chapter 17
Billy
“Lizzie, you’re going to have to give up,” Dat said firmly.
Lizzie swallowed the lump rising in her throat, looking at Dat with mournful eyes. “But, Dat . . .”
“No. This pony is completely blind now. She can’t even tell the difference between light and shadow at all anymore. Watch.” Dat held Dolly’s halter with one hand, waving his other one swiftly past her eyes. She didn’t even flinch. “See that?”
Lizzie nodded her head. Mandy stood beside her, nervously pleating her sleeve with her fingers, her big green eyes full of sympathy.
“Dat, some people drive blind horses,” she volunteered.
“Yes, Mandy, they do. But Dolly is past the age where she can even pull the cart very far. You girls don’t ride her much, and she just stands in her stall. Her legs hurt her all the time, because she has arthritis. See those painful knees?” Dat asked, bending down to run a hand expertly across a swollen joint.
Dolly flicked her ears, but stayed quiet, her head bent as usual. There was no doubt about it—she was hardly a healthy pony anymore.
“Well, what happens now? I mean, if we do have to get rid of her soon, what happens? She can’t be hauled in a horse trailer like ordinary horses. Her legs would never hold up,” Lizzie said.
“Oh, she’d be alright. She’d be a killer,” Dat said.
“A what?” Lizzie asked, horrified.
“A killer. It means she’d be sold for her meat. They use horse meat for pet food. She’s at the end of her rope, Lizzie. There’s no use trying to keep her,” Dat said.
“But nobody is going to kill her. That isn’t right!” Lizzie wailed.
Dat sighed. He opened Dolly’s door to her stall and patted her rump. She stepped painfully into her straw-filled box, stopping just inside the gate.
“She’ll never know what happened. They do it as swiftly and painlessly as possible. She’ll be put down, and never feel a thing. Actually, it’s kind to put her out of her misery,” Dat said.
Lizzie sighed, looking at the rafters overhead. She watched cobwebs swinging between them, pieces of hay twirling around as the breeze caught them.
Poor Dolly. She could not imagine life without her. She was such a sweet-natured, faithful pony. They had gone on so many rides in the cart, tied her to hitching racks, and untied her again, clopping briskly home with nothing to worry about. Now they would have no pony.
“You have Bess to drive,” Dat reminded her, as if reading her mind.
“I know. But she’s not a pony.”
“I’ll tell you what. We’ll get another one. If Dolly leaves next week, I’ll look around for a decent pony for you girls to drive.”
“Not a wild one!” Mandy said.
“Maybe a little wild,” Dat said, his eyes twinkling. “One you can hardly hold back!”
“Like Red!” Mandy squealed, clapping her hands.
Lizzie did not say anything. She didn’t smile or join in the conversation, because if she did, Dat would think she was happy about selling Dolly, which she most certainly was not. What did it matter to let her stand in her stall and eat? At least she was alive. The thought of her being made into pet food was more than she could handle. Probably Jim Zeigler’s cats will eat Dolly, she thought. That horrible slimy stuff from a tin can they fed their cats. The whole idea was just sickening.
Lizzie stalked out of the barn, her posture showing her rebellion. If he has to sell Dolly, I won’t be friendly about it, that’s for sure, she thought. He could at least let her eat oats and hay this summer yet, feeding in the pasture, standing under the apple tree swishing her tail at the flies. She didn’t even want another pony. It wouldn’t be Dolly.
Mandy caught up with her, touching her sleeve. “Lizzie, why are you acting so childish? It’s best to sell her,” she said.
“Mandy, I know it is. I just can hardly bear to think of it. She’ll be killed!” Lizzie lamented.
“We’ll get another one,” Mandy consoled her.
There was yard to be mowed that evening, so Lizzie started while Mandy helped Emma with the dishes. The grass was thick and long, so she had to use all her strength to push the reel mower through the thickest spots. Back and forth, back and forth she went, until her face was quite red and perspiration trickled down her spine. She loved to mow grass, so she kept going, in spite of becoming too warm.
She had just turned around on the farthest side of the lawn, when a truck slowed and rattled up the drive. It was a black and silver truck, pulling a matching horse trailer. Lizzie’s heart sank, then thudded thickly in her chest. Already! Dat had made plans to
sell her, so soon, and only told them a few hours ago.
She did not know what to do. She couldn’t help load her and she couldn’t watch. She hadn’t said good-bye to Dolly at all. How could she go out to the barn now with Dat there?
She’d just mow grass. She set her jaw firmly and plowed through the thickest grass, never glancing in the direction of the barn. On she went, determined not to cry. When she could no longer bear it, she glanced over, just in time to see a hesitant, bewildered old pony being led up the ramp.
Dropping the lawn mower, she ran blindly toward the house. She couldn’t go in to Mam and Emma, so she ran to the side of the house away from the barn, and flung herself down behind the chimney. She pulled up her knees, laid her head on them, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Moaning, she cried softly, tears mixing with perspiration, her hair sticking to her forehead. She had never felt quite as forlorn in her life, except maybe when Teeny and Tiny, the miniature ponies, had been sold. But in a way, that was different.
They could stay alive, their new owner being a kind, older gentleman. Dolly was simply going to die. It was quite the saddest thing she could ever think of happening on a beautiful evening like this. The sun was just above the mountain, making everything seem golden. The spring breezes were warm, just lovely. It was the time of year when you could open your windows in the evening and it smelled of lilacs and violets, warm summer grasses, and freshly tilled soil.
Sighing, Lizzie wiped her eyes, dug a Kleenex out of her pocket, and blew her nose fiercely. Fresh tears overflowed when she thought of poor Dolly, struggling to keep her balance in that trailer, speeding down the highway to some awful building where they killed her and turned her into pet food. She hoped every dog and cat that ate their food that was part of Dolly got sick and died. Especially the cats.
She bit her lower lip, trying to stem the flow of tears. She thought about going in to the kitchen right now, and telling Dat he was cruel. He was. He could have let Dolly live for a while yet. She couldn’t go telling Dat what she thought, because he wouldn’t like that. Amish children are taught to obey, respecting their elders, so it was really out of the question. But she was not going to be nice anytime soon.
She got to her feet, wiping her eyes with her tattered tissue. When she got to the kitchen, Dat was standing by the counter talking to Mam. She walked stiffly past them, sniffing, her nose held higher than usual, and did not say one word to them.
She had the satisfaction of hearing Mam say, “What’s her problem?” and Dat said quietly, “Dolly.”
Good. So he knew how badly she felt about losing her. Good for him.
Time has a way of erasing grief and sad feelings, Lizzie found out. She didn’t think much about Dolly as spring turned into summer and they all began playing on the ridge again.
Their cabins of the previous summer were in absolute shambles, ripped black plastic, rusty pallet nails, soggy pine needles, and broken boards, making the whole Lovely Acres seem a bit sordid.
Every afternoon when their work was finished, they all went to the ridge with plenty of food and Thermos jugs of ice-cold water or tea. Mam bought diet soda for Lizzie, and she shared it with Mandy in their little house.
As the summer temperatures soared, the ridge lost some of its charm, mostly because of the stifling heat. They spent their afternoons at the river as long as the heat prevailed.
One evening at supper, Dat told the girls a man named Bill Werner was bringing a pony for them to see. Dat shook his head and laughed, saying, “He said this little guy has spunk. He’s not sure if you girls can handle him or not.”
Mam frowned.
Mandy’s eyes opened wide, a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to her mouth. Lizzie just looked at Dat, her eyes narrowing.
“We’re getting a new pony?” Jason asked.
“We’ll see,” Dat said.
“Melvin, I sure hope you don’t get a pony that’s dangerous. These girls aren’t as strong as you are,” Mam said, a bit sternly.
When a horse trailer pulled in later, Lizzie dashed down the steps and out to the barn, Mandy at her heels. She was so excited, she forgot about being shy around the driver of the truck.
“Dad here?” he asked, coming around to the back of the trailer. He had long blond hair and a mustache, with a cap pulled low over his eyes. He had a big wad of chewing tobacco in one cheek, making it difficult for him to talk. He spat to the side, a long stream of dark-colored liquid landing an unbelievable distance away.
Lizzie swallowed, feeling a wave of nausea come up into her throat. Mandy whispered, “How can he spit that far?”
Lizzie shrugged her shoulders. She forced herself to look at the driver, then she said, “He’s around here somewhere.”
Dat rounded the corner of the horse trailer, saying, “Hello there!”
“Bill Werner.” The blond man stuck out his hand. Dat grasped it and they shook hands, quite furiously, Lizzie thought.
“Pleased to meet you,” Dat said. He looked so little compared to this tall, blond giant that Lizzie almost pitied him.
“Here he is. We’ll let you see him and see what you think. He ain’t no ladies’ pony. These your daughters? Dunno. Dunno.” He shook his head.
Lizzie’s heart raced as the door was let down. There was a clanking and rustling as Bill Werner walked up the ramp and loosened a grayish brown pony. They came down the wooden ramp so fast, Mr. Werner had to hold back the pony with all his might.
“Whoa there. Watch it now,” he said.
And there he was. This pony was so beautiful, Lizzie gasped before clapping both hands to her mouth. She hadn’t meant to make an audible sound, but she just couldn’t help it. He was perfect. A Shetland pony in grayish dapple color, except he was a bit brown, too. His heavy mane and forelock were the color of oatmeal, his neck was arched, his perfect ears pointed straight forward, and his nostrils quivered with excitement. He picked up his dainty forefeet before putting them down impatiently.
Dat walked around the pony, and Lizzie could see he was every bit as excited as she was. He gave a long, low whistle. “He sure is a nice-looking animal.”
Lizzie thought he sounded a little conceited. Why couldn’t he say “pony” instead of “animal”? Maybe he was too excited and felt a bit carried away.
Dat pulled away the pony’s lower lip, checking his teeth to see how old he was. That never made any sense to Lizzie, although she had seen it done lots of times. Dat had tried to explain the procedure to Lizzie once, about the length and shape of the teeth, but she didn’t think it could be a very accurate way of telling a horse’s age. Some horses might chew harder than others, so it was hard telling if you got a four-year-old or an eight-year-old. You just had to trust the papers, stating the age.
They talked about age, where he was raised, who broke him, and on and on about seemingly endless boring subjects. Lizzie wished Dat would try and hitch him to the cart, but he didn’t. Instead, he sent Lizzie to the house for the checkbook, wrote a check, and talked on and on about more boring subjects.
Finally, he led the pony back to Dolly’s stall. He snorted and shied, prancing around, bouncing on his feet as if there were springs in them.
At last the English man left, the trailer rattling behind the truck, down the drive and out the road.
Dat turned to Lizzie.
“Are you going to hitch him up?” Lizzie asked quickly.
“Do you want to?” Dat asked.
“Of course!” Mandy shouted.
So they got the pony from his stall. Dat asked the girls to come up with a name. They thought of lots of names, but none of them really suited him, until Dat suggested “Billy.” That was a nice-sounding name and not hard to say or with too many syllables or too fancy.
So Billy he was.
For as nervous as the new pony was, he did fairly well. Dat had to adjust so many straps that Lizzie became terribly impatient. The girth that went around his stomach was too loose, so he had to adjust that. The brid
le was too long, so he had to loosen and tighten four buckles. When they finally had him between the shafts, he wouldn’t hold still long enough for Dat to climb into the cart. He told Lizzie to hold his head, meaning the bridle, but to stay to the side, because he wanted to break loose so badly.
“Better let me go by myself the first round,” Dat said. His eyes were shining. He had no fear of ponies, loving the challenge of trying out a new one. Lizzie hoped she’d be allowed to go along after he had run him a while.
Lizzie held firmly to the bit, and after two attempts, Dat clambered into the cart. He found his seat the instant Billy lunged, and they were off, down the gravel drive, then turning on to the hard road, the wheels sliding on the macadam.
And then, Mandy and Lizzie stood beside the fence laughing helplessly as Dat’s straw hat flew off his head, and the pony went trotting down the road faster than anything they had ever seen. They could do nothing but hang on to the fence and bend over double from their laughter.
What was so funny, the pony didn’t trot like other ponies. His feet went so fast they whirred like a wheel. His little hooves went “blip-blip-blip-blip” so fast, it just created a giggle, even if you didn’t feel like giggling. They couldn’t watch Dat turn around, because he drove the pony out of sight, but when they saw him coming down past Uncle Eli’s place, they started laughing again.
“I never saw a pony run like that!” Lizzie gasped.
“He’s never going to make the turn into the driveway!” Mandy screamed, clutching the neckline of her dress.
And he didn’t. Dat was holding back as hard as he possibly could, but Billy lowered his head, tucked his mouth under, arched his neck, and ran. Dat finally got him slowed down enough to turn around, making the turn into the drive from the opposite direction. His hair stuck out in a wild circle and his beard was split in the middle, where it had blown back. He was laughing, his eyes shining, and when Billy slid to a stop, he shook his head.
“This pony is crazy!” he said, shaking his hands to restore the feeling.
