My Million-Dollar Donkey Page 8

  “We can afford to take care of ourselves, you know, and it’s not like you can’t take the time off to attend to your health. Your hips are one more reason we should let someone else build us a house. Let’s take some time for ourselves, get your operation done, and enjoy having some fun without being encumbered by pain.” I didn’t want to admit I was growing weary of the extra burdens I had to embrace because my husband chose to remain an invalid rather than take initiative to make himself whole. Even if he didn’t want to become a fit, active person for himself, shouldn’t he do something about the problem for my quality of life?

  “Let it lie. I don’t believe in operations and I’ll never get one. Besides, I am needed to take care of this family and provide a home. I’m working on that very thing, and can’t afford the time off.”

  I had imagined that retirement would include us hiking, canoeing, exploring nature, and making love in the Georgia mountains. Mark professed he couldn’t do any of the above because his hips hurt. I sighed, feeling like a child who had been given the doll she wanted most in the world, yet watching the adults put the coveted item on a tall shelf for posterity to protect the doll from childish play.

  I couldn’t make him get an operation that he insisted he didn’t need or want, so I kept to the only “play” I could engage in without feeling lonely. I groomed the animals daily, each time running my hands along Dixie’s belly hoping to feel the baby kick. Rarely did I ride. Even though everyone assured me riding a pregnant horse would not be a problem, I worried about her carrying extra weight at this delicate time. Then there was the issue of the tack storage being too inconvenient. Most of all, riding alone wasn’t nearly as appealing as my Hallmark card memories of riding with friends when I was a kid. So, I ended up spending my time caring for the animals and reading about equestrian good times rather than living them.

  “I thought you wanted a horse for riding,” Mark commented one day after yet another morning had been devoted to hauling feed to the land. “You’re working awfully hard considering you don’t really ride your horse.”

  “I really do want to ride more, but going out alone isn’t much fun. What we need is another horse so two members of the family can ride together. That’s what my family did when I was young,” I said. “I want the kids involved, and a second horse would make riding a family affair.”

  “I’d like to ride myself,” Mark said.

  “Can your hips take that?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course. I’ll be sitting, so my hips won’t be a problem.”

  Thus began my case for buying a second horse, preferably a larger mount to support Mark’s 6’2” frame, but gentle enough for Neva to ride as well. I imagined romantic afternoons with my husband, us riding side by side, followed by idealistic images of a mother and daughter bonding on horseback. The dream would take a small investment up front, but buying another horse would set us up for years of low-cost, family-friendly entertainment. Mark agreed we should add another horse to our tiny herd, but this time, since the horse was for him, he wanted to pick the animal.

  The next time the farrier stopped by I mentioned that we were thinking about purchasing another horse, perhaps something bigger in stature than Dixie.

  “As a matter of fact, I just happen to know a guy with a few good horses for sale, if ’n you want to have a look-see,” he said.

  Another coincidence? Hmmm... So that night we stopped by another farm to look at more horses. The seller, Tom, had a John Wayne swagger and a curt way of talking that made me feel as if every question I asked made my naïveté more obvious. His equestrian facility seemed quite professional, so I trusted the horses were of quality. That is, until he led us to a stall with a huge monster of a horse pawing the ground. The animal had to be 19 hands high with feet the size of steering wheels and fur as thick as a bear’s.

  “Eric told me you wanted a big horse. This one’s a gentle giant, and I believe he’s just what you’re looking for,” Tom said.

  The horse looked like an animal that could breathe fire from his nostrils if he had a mind to.

  “I thought only Clydesdales came that large.”

  Mark eyes glistened. He liked the idea of towering over everyone else while riding. “You have to admit, he looks pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, for Paul Bunyan.”

  “I’m gonna try him out.”

  I grabbed his arm. “A horse this size isn’t for beginners and you’ve never had any real riding experience.”

  “I thought we were shopping for a horse for me,” he said, his expression making clear I had to be open to what he liked or we’d be going home empty-handed.

  I stepped back and let him climb up that mountain of a horse, all the while biting my tongue to keep from voicing predictions of doom and destruction. The horse bucked slightly and pranced around the ring like an overexcited dog, then started snorting and rolling his eyes.

  “I’m OK,” Mark said, more to himself than as a statement to anyone else. He clicked his tongue, a bare hint of sound. The horse took that whispered click as an order to spring backward and sideways like an erratic silver ball shooting around in a pinball game. Mark held on like a cowboy at the rodeo. Tom quickly grabbed the horse’s bridle so Mark could scramble down, the color draining out of both men’s cheeks. The horse kicked the air and tried to take a bite out of Tom, just to be sure we all knew his stance on welcoming a rider onto his back.

  Tom said, swatting the horse’s head. “Sorry. I bought this horse at an auction last night and the guy selling him said he was good. You can bet I’ll take him back to the auction, or the glue factory, next week.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t really know anything about the horses you’re trying to sell us?”

  Tom held up his hands. “Just this one. I picked ‘im up because I heard you wanted a large horse. Don’t worry. I’ve got others. Great horses. Not so big. Come on, let me show you the beauty I have in the back.”

  Mark and I exchanged a look of mutual distrust while Tom brought out a beautiful, black Tennessee gelding, statuesque, but a little less high-strung than the last animal.

  “He’s not what we’re looking for either,” I said, unnerved by the powerful build of the animal.

  “I like him,” Mark insisted. “He looks like Black Beauty.”

  “He’s pretty, but we need a calm horse. One the kids can ride, too.”

  “No reason to decide right away,” Tom said, tying the horse up under a bright light so his healthy, coal-colored coat gleamed. He brought out a twelve-year-old dapple-gray quarter horse gelding next. This animal stood a respectable fifteen hands high, and though he was plainer looking, he had gentle eyes and a smooth gait. He was also registered, which validated his age and genetic background, hardcore information I considered a plus since we obviously were apt to believe anything we were told by horse traders.

  “His name is Peppy and he has lots of experience in the show ring. The owner only gave him up because she’s trading up to a higher-end animal.”

  “Let me guess, she only rode him to church on Sundays,” I said.

  “How did you know?” Tom said with a grin, moving to saddle both horses before either of us could voice an opinion for or against.

  We took a sample ride on both of the horses. The black horse required a heavy hand but was majestic and energetic. The gray horse was less showy, but wonderfully well trained. My gut was convinced that the calmer grey was indeed the horse for us, but Mark was leaning towards the showy Tennessee Walker.

  “I think the bigger horse is better,” Mark said, slouching in the saddle like an imitation of an urban cowboy, which he really couldn’t pull off.

  “But anyone can ride the grey horse,” I said, patting Peppy on the neck. “The black horse isn’t as user friendly.”

  “Why don’t you just buy both?” Tom said, “I’ll make you a deal.” “We don�
��t need three horses. Besides which, we have one on the way. My mare is pregnant,” I said. “And we have a donkey, too.” “So, get rid of the donkey,” Tom said, patting the gray gelding on the shoulder. I decided I really didn’t like Tom much.

  “Anyone who knows a good horse wouldn’t let a fine animal like this one go.” He said, smiling at Mark. I thought of the story of the emperor’s new clothes.

  Sure enough, we came home with two more horses that day. Tom unloaded the animals just as dusk was setting in.

  “Don’t they look sweet together,” I said, watching the donkey and new horses stand nose to nose, getting acquainted like shy friends. “I’ll need to feed them tonight, but I’m afraid I don’t have buckets for four animals.

  “Just dump the grain in piles on the ground. That’s what I do,” Tom said backing out of the gravel drive.

  Donkey brayed, causing Tom to pause his car a moment. “What’s the donkey for?”

  “Perspective,” I muttered .

  After waving goodbye to the horse trader, I poured a ration of food on the ground for each horse in neat, separate piles as I was told. Tom’s empty trailer rattled in the distance, tossing dust up on the gravel road. Meanwhile, the horses turned their attention to the food with such ravenous passion you’d think they hadn’t eaten in a month. Suddenly, one of the new horses pressed his ears back. I scurried to get beyond the gate just as Dixie looked up and flicked her nose at the newcomers. Then, as if deciding her grain pile was not only sacred, but rather smaller than she’d like, she backed up to Peppy’s grain and fired off a hind kick. Unwilling to give up his territory, Peppy kicked back. A kicking duel began; loud, violent, and scary as hell.

  “Whoa! What am I supposed to do?” I shouted, panicking at the sight of the formerly gentle animals now in a full-out fight.

  “Why the hell are you asking me?” Mark said, waving his arms and shouting “Shoo!” as if the horses would see this gesture and respectfully stop with an “aw shucks, we didn’t mean it” attitude.

  Donkey looked up, his eyes watching the battle like someone following a ping-pong game. He kept chewing, slowly.

  The fight only lasted about thirty seconds, barely enough time for a person to crack his knuckles, but enough time for a gush of red to start pouring down the quarter horse’s foreleg. He limped aside, humbled like a dog with his tail between his legs.

  I stared on in disbelief and looked imploringly at my husband. “Now what?”

  “I’ll call Tom. He can’t have gone far.” Mark stepped over to the only three-foot area of our 50 acres that actually got a cell phone connection, made the call, and came back a few moments later looking uncomfortable. “Tom said our mare is just showing the newcomers who the boss is. This behavior is perfectly normal. By tomorrow, the horses will be getting along fine.”

  “Did you explain that Peppy has a hurt leg?”

  “He said we city folk worry too much. The injury is probably nothing, but if the horse still isn’t walking normal tomorrow, he’ll stop by and take a look.”

  “Isn’t there a ten-minute warranty on new livestock or something? When you buy a car you get three days to return the dang thing, you know.”

  “Not if you crash into a wall while driving off the lot. I did fish a bit and mentioned something to that effect. Tom told me in no uncertain terms that Peppy became our horse the minute we wrote the check. If he is wounded, he’s our problem now.”

  “How can he say not to worry when he hasn’t seen the wound?” “He’s a horse guy; he has a sense about these things. Told me we had to just wait and see.”

  I pulled out my cell phone. “He also said I should feed the horses in piles on the ground, but that was a wrong choice. I’m calling the vet.”

  “Don’t you think we should just trust the horse guy?”

  “Trusting anyone in the country is getting harder for me each day,” I said as I moved to the cell reception point on our land.

  The problem with being ignorant of any subject is that you’re at the mercy of those who allegedly have more knowledge than you. Who’s to say Tom did or didn’t know what to do regarding an injured horse? As city folk, we were trying to learn our way around the world of tractors, livestock, and mountain living, and our innocence forced us to turn to the natives for guidance on lots of matters. We wanted to trust those with experience, but lately the information we were given just led us deeper into the land of green mistakes.

  The vet at the clinic down the road was a general practitioner, mostly experienced with dogs and cats, but at least he was a trained animal doctor. I described the accident, and made an appointment for the next morning. We’d have to pay for a costly home visit, but I couldn’t put my horse in a carrier in my back seat and bring him to the office myself.

  “I’ll call and cancel if the horse looks better tomorrow,” I mumbled guiltily to Mark. The next day, the horse was standing alone under the trees, his leg swollen and covered in dried blood. His head hung low, and even his tail looked droopy. He had no interest in food and seemed so lackluster that even Mark admitted he was glad the doctor was coming.

  The vet showed up on schedule in a mobile unit van packed with medicines, syringes, and medical gadgets. He filled out paperwork and had me sign releases, then gave Peppy a shot for pain, an antibiotic, and wrapped the leg in miles of gauze.

  “I recommend we x-ray the leg. You can never be too careful with a horse injury in the ankle area. You have no electricity here, but we can run an extension from the neighbor’s house. If this injury is as bad as it looks, we might have to operate,” the vet said.

  “How much are we talking?” Mark asked.

  The doctor tossed out a number twice what we had paid for the horse. “And be forewarned, after surgery you might end up with a horse that’ll never be rideable again. You’ll have to decide whether you want to put him down, or just maintain him for the rest of his life.”

  “You want us to pay for the operation and, after the fact, decide if we want to put him down?” I said.

  “Or maintain him forever?” Mark added, imagining a future that prohibited our eating out for years to come because we’d be paying for this horse’s care.

  Floored by the potential expense of an operation or losing the horse all together, Mark told the doctor we needed time to think about what we wanted to do.

  “Now are you ready to ask Tom to stop by for a second opinion?” “I guess we should.”

  Mark called and explained the situation to Tom in his most businesslike voice. Tom responded by blowing a big raspberry into the phone receiver. “You called the vet! What did he do, get out of the car, give the animal a shot, wrap that leg, and charge you three hundred dollars?”

  Mark was holding a vet bill for $312 in his hand. “Well, actually... yes. That’s exactly what he did. He wants to take x-rays. Says we might have to operate.”

  “That’ll cost a fortune and ruin the horse for sure. I’ll come by this afternoon and take a look. Whatever you do, don’t be letting some animal quack cut him up. I have some stuff that will fix that horse up quick as a flash. You’ll see.”

  As Mark hung up he said, “Tom thinks he can fix the horse with some homemade potion he makes. He says we don’t need X-rays.”

  “So, who shall we listen to? The vet who has a college education and years of professional experience, but happens to only work with horses now and again, or the fellow whose entire life revolves around taking care of horses, yet has a fifth grade education?”

  “I say we listen to the country guy. His advice is free,” Mark said. “When in Rome...”

  “For the cost of this horse we could have gone to Rome.”

  Tom stopped by later that day. “Don’t act so nervous. This kind of thing happens with horses.” He ran his wrinkled brown hands along the horse’s flanks and the animal relaxed under his experienced touch. “Your
mare just wanted to establish her authority. Now that she has, your horses will get along fine.”

  He handed us a spray bottle filled with a homemade concoction consisting of iodine, peroxide and some secret ingredients he refused to divulge. For all we know, he might have added a dose of moonshine because the stuff smelled mighty potent.

  “Trust me. I use this all the time. It’s an old family recipe. Spray the wound twice a day, then throw some baking soda on top. Keep the leg dry. In a few months that gelding will be fine and dandy.”

  “Baking soda?”

  “Good stuff,” Tom said. He leaned against his truck, his face filled with relaxed humor. “Ya gotta trust nature to fix what goes wrong. Call me if you need a refill.” Then, whistling, he drove off leaving the two of us swimming in buyer’s remorse.

  “How are we supposed to keep the leg dry when we don’t have a barn?”

  “Maybe we could tie an umbrella to the horse’s head.”

  “Maybe he’ll just stand there under the trees until he gets better.”

  The horse hobbled out from under the trees into the mud and stared at us with distrustful eyes. A soft mist began, stirring up the mud at his feet.

  “I guess we better put Tom’s medicine on,” Mark said.

  “You do it,” I whispered.

  “He’s your horse.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the guy.”

  “You’re the one with horse experience.”

  “You’re the one who wants to fix the animal with Tom’s magic medicine.”

  “You’re the one who had to have this horse rather than the more robust one.” Mark said.

  Neither of us was going to tackle the chore alone, so we approached the horse, side by side, me with the spray bottle of foul amber liquid, and Mark with the box of baking soda.

  The dance world never seemed so far away, but working together on a problem, even if temporarily, felt good.

  “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”