don’t want to move, boss.”
“Make him,” says August.
“Oh no you don’t,” says Marlena, shooting August a dirty look. She marches up the ramp and disappears.
August and I wait outside, listening to passionate entreaties and tongue clicks. After several minutes she reappears in the doorway with the silvermaned Arabian.
Marlena steps out in front of him, clicking and murmuring. He raises his head and pulls back. Eventually he follows her down the ramp, his head bobbing deeply with each step. At the bottom he pulls back so hard he almost sits on his haunches.
“Jesus, Marlena—I thought you said he was a bit off,” says August.
Marlena is ashen. “He was. He wasn’t anything like this bad yesterday. He’s been a bit lame for a few days, but nothing like this.”
She clicks and tugs until the horse finally steps onto the gravel. He stands with his back hunched, his hind legs bearing as much weight as they can. My heart sinks. It’s the classic walking-on-eggshells stance.
“What do you think it is?” says August.
“Give me a minute,” I say, although I’m already ninety-nine percent sure. “Do you have hoof testers?”
“No. But the smithy does. Do you want me to send Pete?”
“Not yet. I might not need them.”
I crouch beside the horse’s left shoulder and run my hands down his leg, from shoulder to fetlock. He doesn’t flinch. Then I lay my hand across the front of his hoof. It’s radiating heat. I place my thumb and forefinger on the back of his fetlock. His arterial pulse is pounding.
“Damn,” I say.
“What is it?” says Marlena.
I straighten up and reach for Silver Star’s foot. He leaves it firmly on the ground.
“Come on, boy,” I say, pulling on his hoof.
Eventually he lifts it. The sole is bulging and dark, with a red line running around the edge. I set it down immediately.
“This horse is foundering,” I say.
“Oh dear God!” says Marlena, clapping a hand to her mouth.
“What?” says August. “He’s what?”
“Foundering,” I say. “It’s when the connective tissues between the hoof and the coffin bone are compromised and the coffin bone rotates toward the sole of the hoof.”
“In English, please. Is it bad?”
I glance at Marlena, who is still covering her mouth. “Yes,” I say.
“Can you fix it?”
“We can bed him up real thick, and try to keep him off his feet. Grass hay only and no grain. And no work.”
“But can you fix it?”
I hesitate, glancing quickly at Marlena. “Probably not.”
August stares at Silver Star and exhales through puffed cheeks.
“Well, well, well!” booms an unmistakable voice from behind us. “If it isn’t our very own animal doctor!”
Uncle Al floats toward us in black and white checked pants and a crimson vest. He carries a silver-topped cane, which he swings extravagantly with each step. A handful of people straggle behind him.
“So what says the croaker? Did you sort out the horse?” he asks jovially, coming to a stop in front of me.
“Not exactly,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Apparently he’s foundering,” says August.
“He’s what?” says Uncle Al.
“It’s his feet.”
Uncle Al bends over, peering at Silver Star’s feet. “They look fine to me.”
“They’re not,” I say.
He turns to me. “So what do you propose to do about it?”
“Put him on stall rest and cut his grain. Other than that, there’s not much we can do.”
“Stall rest is out of the question. He’s the lead horse in the liberty act.”
“If this horse keeps working, his coffin bone will rotate until it punctures his sole, and then you’ll lose him,” I say unequivocally.
Uncle Al’s eyelids flicker. He looks over at Marlena.
“How long will he be out?”
I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “Possibly for good.”
“Goddammit! ” he shouts, stabbing his cane into the earth. “Where the hell am I supposed to get another liberty horse midseason?” He looks around at his
“Make him,” says August.
“Oh no you don’t,” says Marlena, shooting August a dirty look. She marches up the ramp and disappears.
August and I wait outside, listening to passionate entreaties and tongue clicks. After several minutes she reappears in the doorway with the silvermaned Arabian.
Marlena steps out in front of him, clicking and murmuring. He raises his head and pulls back. Eventually he follows her down the ramp, his head bobbing deeply with each step. At the bottom he pulls back so hard he almost sits on his haunches.
“Jesus, Marlena—I thought you said he was a bit off,” says August.
Marlena is ashen. “He was. He wasn’t anything like this bad yesterday. He’s been a bit lame for a few days, but nothing like this.”
She clicks and tugs until the horse finally steps onto the gravel. He stands with his back hunched, his hind legs bearing as much weight as they can. My heart sinks. It’s the classic walking-on-eggshells stance.
“What do you think it is?” says August.
“Give me a minute,” I say, although I’m already ninety-nine percent sure. “Do you have hoof testers?”
“No. But the smithy does. Do you want me to send Pete?”
“Not yet. I might not need them.”
I crouch beside the horse’s left shoulder and run my hands down his leg, from shoulder to fetlock. He doesn’t flinch. Then I lay my hand across the front of his hoof. It’s radiating heat. I place my thumb and forefinger on the back of his fetlock. His arterial pulse is pounding.
“Damn,” I say.
“What is it?” says Marlena.
I straighten up and reach for Silver Star’s foot. He leaves it firmly on the ground.
“Come on, boy,” I say, pulling on his hoof.
Eventually he lifts it. The sole is bulging and dark, with a red line running around the edge. I set it down immediately.
“This horse is foundering,” I say.
“Oh dear God!” says Marlena, clapping a hand to her mouth.
“What?” says August. “He’s what?”
“Foundering,” I say. “It’s when the connective tissues between the hoof and the coffin bone are compromised and the coffin bone rotates toward the sole of the hoof.”
“In English, please. Is it bad?”
I glance at Marlena, who is still covering her mouth. “Yes,” I say.
“Can you fix it?”
“We can bed him up real thick, and try to keep him off his feet. Grass hay only and no grain. And no work.”
“But can you fix it?”
I hesitate, glancing quickly at Marlena. “Probably not.”
August stares at Silver Star and exhales through puffed cheeks.
“Well, well, well!” booms an unmistakable voice from behind us. “If it isn’t our very own animal doctor!”
Uncle Al floats toward us in black and white checked pants and a crimson vest. He carries a silver-topped cane, which he swings extravagantly with each step. A handful of people straggle behind him.
“So what says the croaker? Did you sort out the horse?” he asks jovially, coming to a stop in front of me.
“Not exactly,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Apparently he’s foundering,” says August.
“He’s what?” says Uncle Al.
“It’s his feet.”
Uncle Al bends over, peering at Silver Star’s feet. “They look fine to me.”
“They’re not,” I say.
He turns to me. “So what do you propose to do about it?”
“Put him on stall rest and cut his grain. Other than that, there’s not much we can do.”
“Stall rest is out of the question. He’s the lead horse in the liberty act.”
“If this horse keeps working, his coffin bone will rotate until it punctures his sole, and then you’ll lose him,” I say unequivocally.
Uncle Al’s eyelids flicker. He looks over at Marlena.
“How long will he be out?”
I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “Possibly for good.”
“Goddammit! ” he shouts, stabbing his cane into the earth. “Where the hell am I supposed to get another liberty horse midseason?” He looks around at his
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