Chapter Fourteen
By the time we get outside, Karl, the guy who drove the ponies away yesterday, is opening the trailer. Gus is nowhere in sight.
“Sorry I’m late,” Karl says as he lays the end of the ramp on the ground. “Gus only called me a little while ago.”
Gus obviously forgot that we didn’t open until noon on Sundays. For once, his incompetence was a good thing.
“Where is Gus?” David asks.
Karl backs Babe out of the trailer. “He’s not feeling so good this morning. Here, take this,” Karl hands Babe’s lead to David. “I’m just dropping the ponies off.”
“What time will Gus get here?” I ask as he heads back into the trailer.
“He’s coming to pick them up at one,” Karl says.
“What! But the pony rides go until four today!”
“I dunno about that,” Karl says. “Gus just said to tell you to have these critters ready by one. That’s all I know.”
David and I watch anxiously as Buster slowly emerges, limping much worse than he had yesterday. David opens his mouth to say something, but I put my fingers to my lips. We don’t want Karl to take back any of the details of our plan to Gus.
I take Buster’s lead rope. He looks up at me—his face tight with pain—sniffs my hand, and sighs heavily.
I pat his neck. “Poor guy,” I say. “You had a rough night, didn’t you?”
Buster swings his head toward me and lets me scratch his chin. His feet and Babe’s are caked in manure. When they left last night, their hooves were much cleaner than they are now.
“Did Gus keep the ponies locked in that trailer all night?” I ask angrily. “Did he even feed them?”
Karl looks up from the trailer hitch. “Gus is paying me to drop off the ponies and bring his truck back to camp. You seem like nice kids, but honestly, that’s all I know. Have a good one.” He gets into the cab, waves out the window, and slowly drives away.
David is already focused on Buster. “How you feeling there, buddy?” he asks. “How’s that foot?” He moves his hands from the pony’s shoulder down the leg. “Definitely warmer,” he says. “And more swollen.”
“Stay with him,” I say. “I’ll get everything we need.”
In just a few minutes we have our mini-triage station assembled. The problem is our patient doesn’t want to cooperate.
“Come on, buddy, just pick up your foot a little bit.” David pleads.
“Just an inch,” I add.
“Let’s try something else,” David suggests.
We have Buster lift and lower his other feet, taking it slowly and loving him up, then we try to get him to lift the injured foot.
“Ready?” David asks.
I nod, poised to slip the empty bucket under the hoof when it’s off the ground so we can start the treatment.
“One, two . . .”
Buster lifts the foot on “two.” I get the bucket in position, but the nasty smell makes me gag. “Yuck!” I say.
David wrinkles his nose and leans away from the stink. “That’s a really bad sign.”
“I’ll call the doc.”
“Is the pony in distress, breathing hard?” Dr. Gabe asks on the other end of the phone. “Is he foaming at the mouth or unable to stand up?”
It’s tempting to lie because it might get him here faster, but I make myself do the hard thing. The right thing.
“No, sir,” I admit. “The leg is warmer than it was yesterday, more swollen, too.” I look out the window. “Right now he’s drinking water.”
“Don’t let anyone ride him,” Dr. Gabe says.
“We won’t,” I promise. “But Gus is picking them up early, at one. I told you that he called them dog meat yesterday, didn’t I? How soon can you be here?”
Dr. Gabe covers the phone and says “I’ll be right there” to someone in the clinic. To me he says, “A two-year-old Labradoodle that was hit by a minivan was just carried in. I have to go, Josh.”
• • • • •
David and I don’t stop moving for the next hour, first setting up the riding corral, next grooming the horses. Buster stands calmly, sore leg soaking in the bucket of Epsom salts while I go over his coat with the currycomb and the brush. David does the same with Babe; then he takes out the tools to check her hooves.
“I still feel rotten I didn’t do this yesterday,” he says, picking up Babe’s foot.
“You’re doing it today,” I point out. “That’s what matters.”
“No.” David shakes his head. “You’re doing it.”
“What?”
“Time for your next lesson in horse maintenance. Come here.”
David shows me how to check and clean each of Babe’s hooves with a hoof pick that has a small brush attached to one side. It’s a little scary at first, especially when I pick up Babe’s first front foot. But I do what David says, first running my hand down Babe’s front leg and giving a bit of a squeeze near the bottom so she will pick up her foot.
I’m not queasy, not yet, but I sure am nervous. I take a deep breath, and another, slower than the first. David talks to both Babe and me in a quiet, low voice. I work carefully and steadily and keep breathing. Babe stands there patiently. After I pick and brush out that first front hoof, David shows me how to run my hand along her side and down her back leg so she knows which foot I’m headed for next.
I finish cleaning that back hoof then move on to check her other front hoof. I run my hand down her leg and squeeze; she lifts the foot, almost like magic. Babe’s last hoof has a small stone stuck next to the frog, the bottom part of the hoof that acts like a shock absorber.
“What should I do about that?” I ask.
“Try getting it out with your finger or the brush,” David advises. “You don’t want to pick too hard at the frog; it’s really sensitive. You only use a pick there as a last resort.”
“Okay,” I say. But I hesitate.
“Go ahead,” David encourages me. “You can do it.”
I take another breath and dig my finger in and—the stone comes out! I let out a big breath and finish cleaning Babe’s hoof with the brush.
“Awesome,” David says. “Walking on stones like that can bruise a horse or cause an infection.” He kicks the stone out of the way so Babe doesn’t step on it again. “I bet these guys haven’t seen a farrier in months. See how her hooves are chipped and uneven?”
“Can I ask a dumb question?” I ask.
“I specialize in dumb questions,” he says with a grin.
“What’s a farrier?”
“Farriers are in charge of hooves, kind of a mix between a blacksmith and hoof doctor. All the horses at Quinn’s stables see Angela regularly; she clips, files, and balances their hooves and replaces the shoes. The horses love her. Mr. Quinn calls her the ‘horseshoe master.’”
“Maybe we should be calling ourselves “pony ride masters!” I say.
• • • • •
We get the grooming finished just in time. Jules comes around the corner of the store leading the line of kids who are ready to ride. Not surprisingly, Sophie is in the front. She’s taught the pony song to her new friends, and they sing it so loudly that they drown out the traffic noise. Jules has everyone sit in a neat line by the planters and then joins us.
“We can’t use Buster?” she asks.
“Dr. Gabe said not to,” I explain.
“How do I explain that to the kids?” she asks.
David is tacking up Babe. “They’ve all gotten boo-boos, they’ll understand.”
“You could have them make get-well cards for him,” I suggest.
“Good idea,” she says. “Brenna left a message saying she’ll be here soon. Sunita will be here later. Her family’s having a big Sunday dinner.”
“You better bring Sophie over here,” I say. “If she sings that song any louder, she’s going to hurt herself.”