February, somewhere in New Jersey
The icicles forming around my nose and whiskers made it hard to breathe as a bitter wind blew through the open-sided stock trailer. Every once in a while a huge truck whizzed by, inches from me. Oliver had told me that the farm was seven hours away. We drove for two.
As we turned into the yard of a run-down farm, I saw three skinny horses huddling together for warmth in a small paddock surrounded by rusted barbed wire tied to crooked fence posts with baling twine. A large pile of frozen manure and rusted metal farm equipment sat in the center of the paddock and an old, tired bathtub leaned precariously against a corner, anchored in place by the yellow-and-brown ice that covered the rutted, tire-scarred ground.
I planted my feet firmly while Rob’s friend pulled and jerked a chain he had put over my nose and clipped to my halter.
No way am I going into that paddock.
The chain hurt, but I didn’t care. Rob’s friend tied me to the trailer and went into the truck, pulling out a metal stick, too thick for a whip.
What is it? What does he plan to do?
“Earl, git yer fat butt off the couch and help me,” he yelled to someone in the house. While he waited, he took off my warm, heavy blanket and new leather halter, replacing it with an old, frayed nylon halter that smelled bad, like cat pee. Then he placed the chain under my lip and over my gums and gave it a sharp tug.
Ow…that really hurts.
I stood my ground. I was not going into the paddock.
“See here, I mean business,” he snarled.
A heavy, bearded man emerged from the house, lumbering down the porch steps as he pulled on a red checkered jacket.
“You owe me one, bro. It’s freezing out here and the game is in overtime. Flash Jackson just scored to tie. Man, that guy is good, I tell ya.”
Flash? Is he here? Things are getting strange.
“Give me a hand. Hold him.”
Earl held the chain while Rob’s friend walked behind me with the metal stick.
Whoa!
I jumped high in the air in surprise at the shock. It hurt — a lot. He did it again and I bolted into the paddock, trembling all over and snorting loudly, feeling violated. He nodded, smiling at Earl through brown-stained teeth, before spitting on the ground.
“Cattle prod. Best investment I ever made.”
I was so cold, so hungry, so thirsty. By now I knew I wasn’t going to the retirement farm. My heart began to pound and my stomach tightened as a feeling of cold dread came over me.
Where am I going?
Rob’s friend pricked me with a needle. I was sleepy, so sleepy. I could barely stay awake.
I drifted off into a restless, troubled, dream-filled sleep.
February, New Holland, Pennsylvania
“We made it to the ‘retirement farm’ OK,” Rob’s friend barked gruffly into his cell phone, jumping up and down next to the trailer to stay warm.
“It’s colder’n sin out here. I’ll let you know what he brings and I’ll send you a check next week, or would you rather have cash?” He stomped his feet, trying to stay warm.
“We’re lucky that meddling Beth ain’t here. I’ll bet she’s stuck in the storm. Glad to see the meat buyers made it. Thoroughbreds are highest quality, Grade A. Your nag’s got a lot of meat on him. He’ll get a good price.”
Are they talking about me? Where are we?
The big cement building and muddy stock-trailer–filled parking lot looked familiar.
The livestock auction!
Rob’s friend put me into a small pen with the other three horses and tied us to a metal bar. The frigid wind picked up, biting into my thin, newly clipped coat.
Freezing! It’s freezing.
As the other horses and I silently huddled together, desperately trying to stay warm, I smelt an acrid, sickening, bitter smell, like something burning. Looking up sharply, I saw Rob’s friend talking to a man wearing a cowboy hat.
He has a patch over his left eye! The kill buyer!
The deal was done in the parking lot. Rob’s friend led me to the back of the building where a large tractor trailer idled loudly, belching black clouds of diesel smoke. Inside the open back door, 12 horses stood shivering.
This doesn’t feel real. This feels like I am in the worst nightmare imaginable.
“Git,” the man in the cowboy hat growled as he roughly tried to pull me into the tractor trailer. I pinned my ears back and kicked out a warning.
I’m not getting in there.
The crack of a bull whip pierced the icy night air, accenting the terrible sounds of the rumbling truck engine, horses whinnying in fear and men cursing harshly.
“Git, hoss,” he snarled louder, stinging my flank with his whip, one, two, three times, each time harder than the last. I skittered sideways, my metal shoes sliding on the ice-covered pavement, and whinnied loudly to the others.
Think! DO something. There has to be a way out.
The stench of diesel fuel mingling with the smell of cigarettes and pig manure from the livestock pens made me dizzy. I suddenly felt weak. I stood unsteadily, pulling back against him, trying to catch my breath.
Oww. OWW!
I felt a strong shock — a surge of electricity — and jumped forward onto the truck, hearing Rob’s friend laugh cruelly as I did.
“You need a cattle prod, my friend. It’ll save you time.”
It was so crowded I could barely breathe. A scared horse slid to his knees, slamming into me. My legs buckled, but I stayed up. Every horse knew where we were going. Several hung their heads low, dispirited. Many were sick or lame, some had open wounds. The ones with fight left in them, who stood up for themselves by refusing to load, were hit with the bull whip or cattle prod.
Behind me, a tall, skinny grey with a big scar whinnied in terror. He reared and slipped on the icy tarmac, then fell over backwards, hitting his head with a sickening thud. I couldn’t help but whinny to him in empathy. The men tied a chain around his legs and dragged him into the tractor trailer where he lay breathing heavily, too weak to get up. I moved over, trying not to step on him.
To make matters worse, the freezing rain had arrived, announcing itself with a loud hammering on the metal roof of the trailer. The cold wind bit like an angry dog, growing more and more furious. As hard pellets stung us through the trailer’s open sides, a thin layer of ice beginning to form on the floor made it difficult to stand. I shivered uncontrollably, overcome with a deepening sense of dread. The stone in my stomach grew heavier.
This is it. I’m heading to the killers.
It took about an hour to finish loading. Then we began our sad journey. The truck moved slowly, sliding in the sleet that was now falling hard. Struggling up a couple of big hills, we had to stop, back up, and climb again. Each time, more horses slipped and fell. Several couldn’t get back up and scrambled on the floor, trying to avoid being trampled. I felt terribly for them, but I could barely stay on my own feet.
The truck lurched up one never-ending hill, reached the top and started down, dragged by the weight of the horses, moving faster. I felt a jerky motion, then we began to slide sideways, gathering momentum. I struggled to keep my footing as more horses went down. Through the sides of the trailer we could see headlights coming toward us on one side and dark woods on the other.
Suddenly, we heard loud voices shouting from the cab of the truck.
“We can’t stop! We’re going to crash!”
A loud mechanical-sounding squeal filled the air accompanied by a horrible burning smell. We slid faster still, careening out of control down a steep embankment toward the dark woods on the left side of the truck.
CRASH!
Metal groaned and ripped as the truck stopped suddenly and flipped over, flinging us against one side, tearing open the back. For a moment, it was silent. Then chaos — a panicked melee of scrambling hoofs, frantic whinnies and steamy, horse-sweat–drenched bodies desperately trying to escape. Somehow, I managed to right myself and stagger out. I noticed a cowboy hat on the ground, but no people. It was dark, icy and bitter cold, but we were free.
Run! Escape!
We started to run as a herd. Even the lame horses hobbled as best they could. When we were clear of the accident, the truck caught on fire, erupting in a huge fiery orange ball that lit up the sky.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Three explosions followed, as the flames climbed higher and higher into the dark sky. I ran as fast as I could through the freezing rain and the darkness, blinded by the headlights of oncoming cars. A couple of other horses ran with me but I quickly out-distanced them. Slipping a little on the icy ground, I jumped a guard rail and moved to the middle of the highway. I was fit and soon fell into an easy rhythm. I hadn’t galloped, really galloped, since I was at Gulfstream Park. It felt like another lifetime. After a while, I turned onto a smaller road, running past buildings still decorated with colored holiday lights. Gradually, I saw fewer buildings. Clusters of houses became fields and farms. I must have run for over two hours through the darkness and the ice storm, but I didn’t feel tired or cold.
I feel good. I feel FREE.
At the top of a hill I saw a light on in a big wooden barn with a stone foundation. I suddenly noticed how tired and hungry and thirsty I was. It was getting late. The excitement and adrenalin had kept me going, but my energy was fading. I stopped on the road, studying the tidy farm.
Should I risk it? Is it safe?
I was so tired and so thirsty. I was dying for something to drink.
Maybe I should just sleep by the side of the road? What if they take me back to the killers?
The icy wind picked up and I shivered violently.
OK, I’ll take the chance.
I walked cautiously into the courtyard, then stopped and looked around, alert.
Is it safe?
An old man with a white beard looked up from a sweat-covered mare lying on her side in one of the stalls and smiled.
“Hullo…what a nice surprise. Just in time to see the foal being born.”
I was so tired. All I wanted was a warm place to sleep and some food and water
That hay looks really good.
I took another cautious step forward and let the man touch my ratty old cat-pee halter. He slowly led me into a stall filled with deep straw with a pile of sweet-smelling clover hay in the corner and filled a water bucket. Feeling exhausted to my core, I drank deeply. He refilled the water and put a scoop of grain in the other bucket, which I devoured hungrily.
“Hmm…you were at the auction.” he shook his head, noticing the tag on my hind end. I’ll bet you were in that terrible crash I just heard about on the radio, the tractor trailer on its way to the slaughterhouse. Jeez, you galloped a long time — that was over 30 miles away.”
He gave me a reassuring pat. “You’re safe here.” Then he took a good look at me and whistled, “Wow, you are one good lookin’, fancy horse. You don’t look like most of the horses that go through that auction — skinny racehorses run too hard, or plow horses off the farm. A mystery, you are. Well, my granddaughter is in the pony club. I’m sure she has a friend who needs a horse for next summer.”
I hope I can trust him.
We stayed up to watch the mare give birth to a colt before I gradually nodded off and slept deeply, lying down on the thick bed of straw. It had been a very long day.
A few weeks later, I was watching a squirrel climb up the frozen tree outside the barnyard on his way to the birdfeeder, when I heard a car door slam outside.
“Good Morning, Paddy. Thanks for coming on such a cold day.”
Paddy?
“Good morning to you, Abe. ’Tis brisk, isn’t it? My Irish blood just can’t get used to these bitter cold days, but I try. This time of year fools you into thinking spring is around the bend and then we have a day like today. Sure, and March is coming in like a lion, just like they say. Let’s pray for the warm weather to come quickly, shall we?”
He shivered. “Now then, what have you got for me?”
“The mare, Sierra, you know. Her teeth were last done a year ago so she needs to be done,” replied Abe.
“There’s a new horse. Come and take a look. I’d like your opinion of him. Do you remember that crash last month? The tractor trailer with the auction horses?”
“Ah yes, the kill truck, I did hear about it, terrible,” Paddy replied.
“Well,” Abe lowered his voice to a whisper and continued slowly, eyes wide, “that night, a very good-looking, clipped, fit horse appeared at my farm with an auction sticker on his hindquarters — a good 30 miles from the crash. He has heavy shoes instead of aluminum racing plates. I think he’s a hunter or an event horse.”
He paused, taking a deep breath and exhaled.
“I haven’t told anyone. I suspect foul play and I don’t want the killers to come looking for him, so please keep quiet. He’s very well-mannered and I’m hoping he can be a pony club horse for one of my granddaughter’s friends.”
I looked over the stall door.
It’s Dee’s Uncle Paddy — the man I had seen in Central Park and at Beth’s!
He was wearing the same tweed cap and weathered green parka with patches of faded grey tape. Overjoyed, I nickered, hoping he would remember me. He came into my stall, his eyes widening in recognition as he looked closely at me.
“There’s a good boy,” he patted me, whistling under his breath. He opened my mouth and looked at my teeth.
“His teeth are in good shape. They don’t need to be done,” he told Abe. Next, he flipped my upper lip up and looked at my tattoo. “He just turned eight in January,” he continued. He turned to Abe. “Would you mind please fetching me a lead rope?”
When Abe was out of earshot, he looked me in the eye, fished a polo mint out of his pocket, fed it to me, and whispered, “Sasha, so that’s where that crooked policeman sent you! Or should I say Raja! Now I remember where it was I had seen you first. It was at Beth’s farm. I never forget a horse, especially a horse like you.”
Abe returned and handed the lead rope to Paddy.
“Abe, you’re right, he’s a handsome horse. But I’d make sure he’s safe before putting a child on him if I were you. We’ve no idea why he was on that kill truck.”
Paddy took off his cap and scratched the back of his head, cap still in hand.
“You know, my niece, Dee, comes to visit from New York during the school holidays. We’ve been looking for a horse for her. He might suit her.
Would you take 500 dollars for him? I’m sure that if he has any riding quirks, we can sort them out. I rode quite a few devils in my day when I was a steeplechase jockey.”
Abe seemed pleased. “You’re right. I was wondering what got him on that truck. Frankly, I didn’t want my granddaughter to be the first one to ride him.” Abe reached out to shake Paddy’s hand. “You have a deal.”