Trickster stretches his neck. His eyes are warm and friendly. The short hairs of his muzzle tickle as he moves his nose over my hand and up my arm to pick up my scent. I can smell him. Man, it is so good to smell a horse again! For a second, it reminds me of how Dad and I smelled after we came home from the barn. But Dad’s not here. It’s just me and this magnificent horse.
“Want some water?” I ask, taking the last step toward him.
He looks me straight in the eye. Trickster is smart—I can see that right away. His eyes twinkle for an instant, then he plunges his muzzle into the bucket. A wave of water soaks my shoes. I bet he did that on purpose.
He raises his muzzle out of the bucket, shakes his head once, and his long forelock flops over his eyes. I set the bucket on the ground and brush the hair to the center of his forehead. He shakes his head again so it flops back over his eyes. He likes his bangs in his eyes, just like me. I wonder if his mother ever gave him a hard time about getting a haircut.
“You goofball,” I say. He looks totally relaxed now. His ears are straight up, and he is breathing slower. His eyes scan the back of the house, taking in the clinic, the girls on the deck, and the fence line, but he doesn’t seem frightened.
Dr. Mac steps closer to Trickster so she can check him out. “Tell me about him,” she says to Mr. Quinn.
“He’s a chestnut gelding,” Mr. Quinn says.
A gelding is a male horse that has been neutered to prevent him from fathering any foals. Dad told me that.
“Five years old, fifteen hands high,” he replies, attaching a lead rope to Trickster’s halter.
The height of horses is measured in hands. One hand equals four inches. Fifteen hands means that he is sixty inches tall at the withers, where his neck meets his back.
“His previous owners described him as a smart horse, very playful. That’s why they named him Trickster. I don’t think they appreciated how fast he’s going to be. I got a good deal on him.”
“OK, buddy, can I examine you now?” Dr. Mac asks as she pats Trickster’s strong jaw. “Stay right there, David. He seems to like you.”
Dr. Mac uses her stethoscope to listen to Trickster’s lungs and heart. “Heart rate is forty-five beats per minute. Respiratory is thirty. A little high, but not scary. I’d say he’s still nervous about being hit in the trailer. Did he eat this morning?”
“A grain mix and hay. He doesn’t need a special diet. Good thing, too. I already have enough fussy eaters for one barn.”
Dr. Mac murmurs to Trickster as she runs her hands over his back, feeling for swelling. He’s fine until she gets close to the cut over his right hock. Suddenly, his skin quivers and he snorts hard.
“That’s sore, isn’t it?” Dr. Mac asks him. She presses gently around the edges of the cut. “He’s bruised here. I can already feel the swelling. The cut isn’t anything to worry about. We’ll treat it with an antiseptic spray, and it will heal on its own.”
“Do you think he injured the hip bone?” Mr. Quinn asks.
“Let me feel the leg first.” Dr. Mac goes down on one knee and runs her hands down the lower part of Trickster’s leg. I hope it’s not anything serious. I can already imagine what it will feel like to ride him.
“I want to see him walk,” Dr. Mac says as she stands up. “David, take the lead rope and walk him away from us. Slowly, now.”
Mr. Quinn puts his big hand on mine as I reach for the lead rope. “She said slowly,” he says, giving me a serious look.
“Yes, sir,” I answer. I’m going to do exactly what I’m told around this horse, especially when Mr. Quinn is watching.
“Come on,” I tell Trickster as we walk away from the house. I walk on his left side by his head. The only sounds in the yard are the soft steps of Trickster’s hooves on the grass. It feels so great to be next to a horse again.
“OK, bring him back,” Dr. Mac calls.
When I stop, Trickster rubs his jaw against my hair. “Cut it out,” I laugh. We make a wide circle and head back. I look over my shoulder at Trickster’s hind legs. He’s still limping.
“What do you think?” I ask Dr. Mac as we arrive back.
“I’m pretty sure he hasn’t fractured anything, but I want to take some X rays to make sure. I’ll be right back. Brenna, I need you to help me carry some things.”
Dr. Mac returns from the clinic carrying a portable X-ray machine. The X-ray machine is the size of a toaster oven, with a long electrical cord that she plugs into an outlet on the deck.
Brenna brings out a box and sets it down on the deck. Dr. Mac pulls a heavy apron out of the box and hands it to Mr. Quinn.
“Here’s your apron, Lucas.”
“What does he need that for?” I ask.
“The apron is lined with lead,” Dr. Mac says. “Lucas is going to help me with the X rays. This will block the radiation from his body. Or mine.” She ties on a lead apron over her jeans.
“I can help,” I say.
Dr. Mac pauses briefly. I hope she’s not afraid I’ll screw up. “I’ll do whatever you say,” I add.
“All right,” she answers. “You’ll need to put on an apron, too.”
Dr. Mac holds Trickster’s rope while I wrestle with the apron. It is way heavier than it looks. Once it’s on, I take the rope back. “Don’t laugh at me,” I tell Trickster under my breath.
Trickster flares his nostrils and snorts once, blowing my bangs into my eyes.
Mr. Quinn slips on giant mittens that go all the way up to his elbow. “These are lined with lead, too,” he explains to me.
Dr. Mac takes a thin metal case the size of a big book and slides it into a slightly bigger wooden box. “The X-ray film is in here,” she says, handing the box to Mr. Quinn. “I want you to hold it by the edges and place it right behind Trickster’s sore hock.”
Mr. Quinn pats Trickster’s rump to let the horse know he’s there—horses do not like surprises. Then he bends over and holds the X-ray box behind the sore joint in Trickster’s back leg. “Is this where you want it?” he asks Dr. Mac.
“Perfect,” Dr. Mac says as she picks up the X-ray machine. “Stay still.” She aims the lens at the hock and pushes a button. The machine beeps once.
“Done,” Dr. Mac says. She takes out the first X-ray film and puts another in the box. “Different angle this time,” she says as she and Mr. Quinn move around.
Trickster twists his head around to see what’s going on.
“Relax,” I tell him. “They’re just taking pictures.”
When Dr. Mac has taken four different X rays, each from a different angle, she takes the film into the clinic to process it. When she comes out of the clinic a few minutes later, she looks relieved.
“No breaks, no fractures,” she says. “I suspect that when the trailer was hit, it threw Trickster against the far wall. He hit his hock, which accounts for the bruising and cut. He must have lost his balance and twisted his hock a bit.” She points to the injured joint.
“If he’s hurt, then how could he run the way he did when he first got out of the trailer?” I ask.
“You have to understand a horse’s personality before you make any medical diagnosis,” Dr. Mac says. “This fellow strikes me as high-spirited. Would you say that’s right, Lucas?”
Mr. Quinn pets Trickster’s neck. “He’s young, doesn’t know his limits. Horses like this can injure themselves by pushing too hard. We have to make sure they don’t do that.” He turns to Dr. Mac. “How do you want to treat the leg?”
“Rest, cold packs, and some anti-inflammatory medicine,” Dr. Mac answers. “I don’t think you should coop him up in a stall. He’ll go nuts. A moderate amount of gentle exercise—walking—will help.”
“How are you going to get him back in the trailer?” I ask. “He didn’t like it very much.”
“I’ll give him a mild sedative,” Dr. Mac says. “That ought to calm him down.”
“I could ride in the trailer with him,” I offer.
Mr. Quinn grins. “No, I don’t think so. The two of you locked in a small place like that, something is bound to happen. Wouldn’t be safe.”
“Still want us to follow you in the van?” Dr. Mac asks.
Mr. Quinn checks his watch. “It’s already pretty late,” he says. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Bring the kids out early, and we’ll put everyone to work then.”
Trickster shifts his weight and bumps his shoulder against me. He likes me. I know I’m not making this up.
“Mr. Quinn, can I help you with Trickster?” I ask. “I mean, with the exercising Dr. Mac was talking about.”
Trickster snorts, and my bangs are in my eyes again.
“Well,” Mr. Quinn says slowly. “That’s quite a bit of horse there.” He rubs his hand over his buzz cut. “Let me think about it. We’ll talk when you come out tomorrow.”