help or a hindrance. I knew he’d try to protect her, but he was old and no match for Georgia. Tempo grazed near the other two and my guess was that he wouldn’t involve himself in whatever happened. He’d stay close and observe.
When I’d run out of reasons to delay the inevitable, I opened Georgia’s door. If I hadn’t moved to the side, she would have knocked me down. She left her stall at a dead run. I felt sick as I watched her gallop down the cement aisle and out of the barn. I ran after her to watch.
She went right for Lay Me Down, who had seen her coming and had trotted toward the far fence with Hotshot right behind her. Even with the bute, I could see Lay Me Down had trouble moving fast. Her trot looked stiff-kneed and choppy, the front legs worse than the rear. As a Standardbred, she should have easily been able to outrun aMorgan but there had been so much damage to her joints from racing that she’d lost her advantage. At least her lungs were clear: she’d need all her breath.
Georgia’s ears were flat back, and her neck was stretched out as far as a short, thick Morgan neck could stretch. At the end of her neck was her head with the lips curled back, exposing big, grass-stained teeth. She was moving so fast that all four feet were in the air at the same time. She looked like a TV trailer for a new reality show:
Killer Horses of Olivebridge
.
She reached Hotshot first—bless his poor, protective heart—and sank her teeth into his rump. He kind of kicked back but he was Hotshot; he didn’t know how to be nasty, even in war. His kicks were no more than little bucks, his rear legs never getting farther off the ground than a few inches. Mostly they acted as body blocks and in that sense they sort of worked. He managed to keep Georgia from reaching Lay Me Down and, in the process, got bitten a lot.
This assault took place at a fairly high speed. All three horses were moving at a trot or a canter—four horses, if you counted Tempo, who circled at the periphery. The fight got closer and closer to the barn, and I wondered if Georgia was too far out of her mind to listen if I blocked the entry and yelled if she tried to get inside. I quickly fetched the buggy whip just in case. The sound of a cracking whip was the one thing that always got her respect.
Until then.
They were right up against the barn, everyone coveredin foamy sweat, their breathing fast and heavy. Georgia squealed as she kicked and bit, throwing one end of herself or the other at Lay Me Down. I lunged toward her, cracking the whip, shouting, “
NO
,” and suddenly they were inside, the whip ignored.
Why hadn’t I shut the door?
I never shut the two big sliding doors that hung on the overhead track. Not even in winter, when the wind and snow were howling, and it was below zero. For all I knew, after all these years, they’d rusted in that position and couldn’t be shut. But I wished I had tried. I wished I’d thought of it. Lay Me Down and Georgia were inside now, going at each other, standing on the cement center aisle. Hotshot, Tempo, and I were outside, panting and scared.
The sound of metal horseshoes on cement is only pretty when it’s slow and rhythmic, like when a horse walks in or out of the stall at feed time. This sound was different. This sounded like a car accident. They crashed against closed stall doors and hanging chains used for cross-tying horses when they were being groomed. They grunted and squealed and breathed as loud as humpback whales.
When I thought I couldn’t stand another second, Lay Me Down fell onto the cement. Georgia came prancing out of the barn as proud as if she had just wiped out cholera. I went right to Lay Me Down, who was sitting dog style: front legs bent and tucked neatly to one side, her rear legs tucked to the same side. Her long neck rose straight up from her chest, her ears were forward and alert, listeningfor Georgia’s return. I knelt at her side and checked all I could see of her
When I’d run out of reasons to delay the inevitable, I opened Georgia’s door. If I hadn’t moved to the side, she would have knocked me down. She left her stall at a dead run. I felt sick as I watched her gallop down the cement aisle and out of the barn. I ran after her to watch.
She went right for Lay Me Down, who had seen her coming and had trotted toward the far fence with Hotshot right behind her. Even with the bute, I could see Lay Me Down had trouble moving fast. Her trot looked stiff-kneed and choppy, the front legs worse than the rear. As a Standardbred, she should have easily been able to outrun aMorgan but there had been so much damage to her joints from racing that she’d lost her advantage. At least her lungs were clear: she’d need all her breath.
Georgia’s ears were flat back, and her neck was stretched out as far as a short, thick Morgan neck could stretch. At the end of her neck was her head with the lips curled back, exposing big, grass-stained teeth. She was moving so fast that all four feet were in the air at the same time. She looked like a TV trailer for a new reality show:
Killer Horses of Olivebridge
.
She reached Hotshot first—bless his poor, protective heart—and sank her teeth into his rump. He kind of kicked back but he was Hotshot; he didn’t know how to be nasty, even in war. His kicks were no more than little bucks, his rear legs never getting farther off the ground than a few inches. Mostly they acted as body blocks and in that sense they sort of worked. He managed to keep Georgia from reaching Lay Me Down and, in the process, got bitten a lot.
This assault took place at a fairly high speed. All three horses were moving at a trot or a canter—four horses, if you counted Tempo, who circled at the periphery. The fight got closer and closer to the barn, and I wondered if Georgia was too far out of her mind to listen if I blocked the entry and yelled if she tried to get inside. I quickly fetched the buggy whip just in case. The sound of a cracking whip was the one thing that always got her respect.
Until then.
They were right up against the barn, everyone coveredin foamy sweat, their breathing fast and heavy. Georgia squealed as she kicked and bit, throwing one end of herself or the other at Lay Me Down. I lunged toward her, cracking the whip, shouting, “
NO
,” and suddenly they were inside, the whip ignored.
Why hadn’t I shut the door?
I never shut the two big sliding doors that hung on the overhead track. Not even in winter, when the wind and snow were howling, and it was below zero. For all I knew, after all these years, they’d rusted in that position and couldn’t be shut. But I wished I had tried. I wished I’d thought of it. Lay Me Down and Georgia were inside now, going at each other, standing on the cement center aisle. Hotshot, Tempo, and I were outside, panting and scared.
The sound of metal horseshoes on cement is only pretty when it’s slow and rhythmic, like when a horse walks in or out of the stall at feed time. This sound was different. This sounded like a car accident. They crashed against closed stall doors and hanging chains used for cross-tying horses when they were being groomed. They grunted and squealed and breathed as loud as humpback whales.
When I thought I couldn’t stand another second, Lay Me Down fell onto the cement. Georgia came prancing out of the barn as proud as if she had just wiped out cholera. I went right to Lay Me Down, who was sitting dog style: front legs bent and tucked neatly to one side, her rear legs tucked to the same side. Her long neck rose straight up from her chest, her ears were forward and alert, listeningfor Georgia’s return. I knelt at her side and checked all I could see of her
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