Bunny’s Liquor or Swimming Pools

KENNETH SAT ON HIS COUCH and watched television as the rain continued to fall outside. A flash flood warning blinked across his cell phone. It had been sporadically raining on the farms all week, limiting the activities that he could do to stay busy. Going to the gym would require leaving his house, and going to work would require driving even farther away. While he was surrounded by his animals, the rain only increased the loneliness that burned inside him.

Earlier in the week, when he woke up to the sound of rain, he looked outside his window and saw grey skies. It immediately triggered depressive thoughts and anxiety. The voices that he hadn’t heard in months had returned and were urging him to drink.

“Go get some. A little bit won’t hurt,” one voice said from deep inside his body.

When the voices got louder and louder he couldn’t take the torment anymore and mounted Ebony and rode to Bunny’s Liquor, across the street from where Marcus was murdered, where candles still remained on the patch of grass where he took his last breaths. On his way out of Bunny’s, he stopped by the makeshift memorial, opened the bottle, and poured out some cognac in honor of his late friend, then poured some down his throat.

“RIP, big homie,” he said while still mounted on Ebony.

The following three days were a blur. On Wednesday he made three trips to Bunny’s, and by the time Thursday had arrived, he had made a total of ten. He drank directly from the bottle until there was none left, making up for months of sobriety. Every trip to Bunny’s was blurrier than the one before, as he slipped in and out of consciousness and drank until the voices in his head were drowned out.

Empty bottles of cognac lay on his kitchen counter while he continued to watch television that morning. To the left of the television was a framed photo of a younger Kenneth, who had yet to try alcohol. He was young and he still looked hopeful.

Drinking had sparked a dangerous cycle in Kenneth’s life. Every time he drove he had to take a breathalyzer test in his car. If there was a trace of alcohol on his breath it wouldn’t allow the car to start, which forced him to ride Ebony instead. But when it rained it was too slippery to ride, which left him with limited options.

Kenneth had fallen back into the vicious cycle that he had been through for years.

Keenan and Anthony were fixing an old refrigerator on the ranch, two days after Kenneth had relapsed, when he appeared through the driveway mounted on Ebony.

“What the fuck y’all doing?” he yelled for both of them to hear. “Y’all having a garage sale or something?”

Anthony and Keenan looked at one another and suspected the same thing. Kenneth’s speech was hurried and his energy was higher than usual, clear signs that he had been drinking.

Keenan walked up to him and shook his hand, smelling a whiff of alcohol on his breath, confirming his suspicion. Kenneth’s triggers also involved some of his closest friends. Every time

Charles joked about his drinking problem it sent Kenneth spiraling into self-loathing. Weeks before his relapse, Charles had sent him a video of an Alcoholics Anonymous ad that he had seen on the side of the road. He sent the video as a joke, but it had the opposite effect. Shame made it harder to fight the temptation.

The morning after Kenneth rode into the ranch with alcohol on his breath, Randy and Keenan invited him for breakfast at Spires, a family restaurant blocks away from the farms. After ordering, Kenneth wanted to let Randy know what he had already suspected.

He spoke in a soft tone while he ate his eggs and bacon, resorting back to a childlike version of himself when he felt like he had news to share that would disappoint his parents.

“I just wanted to let you know that I relapsed this week,” he said in a soft tone while he slowly chewed on his food. “Not drinking felt like torture, and I know you probably already knew, but I just wanted to tell you.”

Randy took a drink of his coffee and nodded his head. Keenan did the same.

“I could tell,” Randy said. “I had a feeling it was going to happen. I just didn’t know when.”

The three friends continued to eat their food.

“You have to know your limits, man, and find some balance. We love you and we’re always going to look out for you, but you’re an adult. We’re not going to police you, but you have to be more responsible.”

“Exactly,” Keenan said, nodding in agreement. “You have to do what’s best for you.”

“I don’t know how to find that balance, though,” Kenneth said urgently, raising his voice. “I feel like I’m always running from it and alcohol is everywhere I turn. I feel like I can’t have fun with y’all because there’s always alcohol involved. When I’m not drinking I’m miserable, and when I’m drinking I’m also losing because I’m potentially going to do some stupid shit.”

“You become someone else when you drink and you talk about doing shit like killing people,” Randy said. “Then when you come down from it you get really bad shakes and withdrawals. Once you start you just can’t stop,” he continued.

Kenneth looked down at his food again. He was quiet and reflective.

“I want to fight it but I don’t know what to do,” he finally said. “I don’t know what to do.”

IT HAD BEEN only a few days since Kenneth relapsed, and conversations about his health began to resurface between the cowboys. “I don’t think he’s going to make it this time,” Anthony said while cleaning out a stall on Friday morning. “It was just a matter of time before he started drinking again.” Other members of the cowboys felt the same.

The next day brought its share of new concerns for the ranch. It had rained heavily throughout the week and many of the stalls were sloppy with mud—the perfect conditions for thrush. On Saturday, after the rain had cleared up and a cold gust of easterly winds arrived, Pirate, an older Thoroughbred, began limping around the arena. The ranch’s oldest and most beloved horse was favoring his back left leg, walking slowly while dragging his left leg in the mud. His leg was swollen to almost twice the size of his right. Keenan woke up that morning to check on the horses and immediately called Randy. Calling a veterinarian would cost just as much as calling someone to put Pirate down, and either option would force him to dig deeper into a pot of resources that continued to dwindle as each day passed.

After an hour of deliberation Randy decided it was best to call the ranch veterinarian, Fabio, a Mexican man in his fifties who had been associated with the ranch for years. He was kind and soft-spoken, with a heavy accent. He spoke with his hands when he could no longer come up with the right words to describe something.

“Did you see what happened to horse?” he asked Keenan upon his arrival, gesturing in the direction of the arena. “Did horse fight with other horse?”

“I don’t know if they fought, all I know is that I woke up this morning and Pirate was limping,” Keenan said. “That’s all I know.”

Fabio asked Keenan to help him pull Pirate into the middle of the arena for a deeper inspection. Charles, Carlton, and Randy looked on while Pirate hobbled to the center of the arena.

“Damn, man, Pirate really in some pain, boy,” Charles said out loud while he rubbed the sides of his shoulders. The temperature had dropped significantly.

“Yeah, man,” Randy replied. “I don’t know what Fabio’s going to say, but we’ll see.”

While they continued to look on, Kenneth’s dreads appeared over the wall, followed by his entire body. Minutes later he had climbed the wall and was standing next to Keenan listening to Fabio’s every word.

“Y’all gonna put him down?” he softly asked.

“Man, hell nah,” Keenan quickly responded. “We waiting to see what Fabio says, but you know we never pull the plug on a horse. Horses deserve to live just as long as us, man.”

He added, “We done built a physical attachment to these horses just like humans.”

Kenneth stood silent, staring at Fabio while he examined Pirate’s leg. It had been a rough few days for him since he relapsed earlier that week. His rides to Bunny’s continued, but seeing Pirate in that condition sobered him up despite the alcohol he’d already consumed that day.

“Okay, I am going to put anti-inflammatory liquid inside the body, okay?” Fabio said while continuing to hold Pirate’s leg in his palm. “It will take some of the pain away and then we’re going to put cold water for twenty minutes to help pain.”

“Let’s do it,” Keenan said, looking back at the group of guys and giving them a thumbs-up.

Fabio pulled out a cotton swab and rubbed alcohol in it on the side of Pirate’s shoulder. “Easy boy,” Keenan said as Pirate jumped a little. The IV needle went deep into the horse’s skin and pumped anti-inflammatory fluids for the next twenty minutes, followed by a shot of pain medicine.

“Make sure to put some bute on its leg two times tomorrow morning, okay?” Fabio explained to Keenan. “That pain cream will help a lot, and you have to put it once in the morning and once in the afternoon.”

“Will do, Fabio,” Keenan said.

Fabio believed that Pirate had injured his leg getting in and out of his stall. The wooden barrier that divided the arena from the stall had been slick from the rain and Pirate had slipped. It was an accident, but it also reflected the state of the ranch. Each rain brought new problems. Sometimes the water tore holes in the tin roofs, while other times it deteriorated the structure of the stalls.

At the current rate, the ranch would continue to crumble away with each rainfall, threatening the health and safety of the horses. Donations had run out almost six months ago and the ranch was surviving on its last funds. Randy’s attempts to raise money were falling short. Time was running out, and so was everyone’s patience.