“When you get home, tell your mom to come to the corral,” Mrs. Pollard said after I had hung up my saddle and bridle following our afternoon ride. I was headed for my motorbike and the dirt road that doubled as a racetrack, the first leg of my journey toward home. I looked at her with a puzzled expression. It was time for dinner, homework, baths, and bed. No one ever went to the corral in the evening.
“Something is wrong with Apache. He hasn’t eaten his food.”
Apache was Mom’s horse. He was what my dad called “a mean ol’ cuss,” and Mom was the only one with the nerve to ride him.
Apache’s nasty personality was legendary in our local riding group, a bunch of elementary school students and the moms who kept us in line. Three afternoons a week and Saturdays were riding days. The horses grazed in the Venezuelan grasslands overnight and while we attended school. They were rounded up and brought to the corral by a weathered, bow-legged cowboy named Don Venado every afternoon. The horses knew where each belonged, and they habitually headed into their assigned slots, ready for their daily meal under the corrugated tin roof that covered the stalls. Apache’s stall was the first on the left. The one next to him stayed vacant, for good reason.
As we trickled into the corral after school and early on Saturdays, stopping to collect brushes, combs, saddles, and bridles from the tack room, we hugged the right side of the aisle separating the two rows of stalls that faced each other. Apache made a habit of lunging, teeth bared, at anyone who might get too close to him on their way to their own horse. We learned the hard way to give him a wide berth, whether in the stalls or on the trails. His kicks were as accurate and as nasty as his bites.
Apache was the fourth descendant of Spanish horses to join our family. When we moved from Utah to this small Venezuelan mining town south of the Orinoco River and showed interest in learning to ride, Mom and Dad began looking for horses for my brothers and me. One by one, Indio, Tonka, and Apollo came to us. Then Mom decided that she wanted to resurrect her childhood riding skills and join us on the Saturday rides through the countryside. Mostly I think she felt sorry for Mrs. Burdan and Mrs. Pollard, herding so many kids and horses every week.
When Apache arrived on the scene, there were no external indications that he had been treated badly. But his hateful belligerence made us suspect that he hadn’t come from a happy home. Mom was determined to win him over with kindness, and eventually they came to an uneasy truce. She never walked behind him when brushing his hindquarters or tail, and she always watched the whereabouts of his feet, lest he try to stomp on hers. She had someone hold his halter rope when she cleaned his hooves, fearing he would use the opportunity to take a chunk from her back or shoulder.
Saddling him was a tug-of-war. He filled his lungs with air and held his breath, making it impossible to tighten his cinch. Mom would pull and strain, holding onto the end of the strap, waiting until he had to exhale so she could quickly tug the cinch again. At the end of the battle, Mom climbed into the saddle. To his credit, he never did try to throw her. And he always ate his food.
That night, after I delivered my message, Mom wolfed down her dinner, pulled on her jeans and boots, and headed to the corral, leaving Dad to deal with the evening routine alone. Mrs. Pollard was walking Apache in circles around the riding ring.
“Anne,” she said, “I’m pretty sure he has colic. His stomach is hard and hot. He hasn’t eaten. The only thing we can do is keep him on his feet and hope his guts will start things moving in the right direction.” She handed Mom the rope and final instructions before heading home to feed her own family. “I’ll be back in a little while, and we’ll give him an enema if nothing has changed. Just keep him on his feet. Keep him walking.”
Mom and Mrs. Pollard spent the entire night with Apache. There was no veterinarian within hundreds of miles, so they were on their own, doing the few things they knew to do. They walked him for hours, they gave him an enema that did nothing to help, they struggled to keep him on his feet, and they prayed desperate prayers. Eventually he refused to walk any farther and he lay down, eyes glazed in pain. His bloated belly hurt when they touched it. He moaned when he moved. They struggled uselessly to get him on his feet again.
As dawn approached and Apache showed no signs of improvement, Mrs. Pollard said, “I’m so sorry, Anne. We need to let him go. I’ll go home to get my gun. We really have no other choice.”
“I know,” Mom replied, brokenhearted that her “mean ol’ cuss” of a horse wasn’t going to survive this bout of colic.
While Mrs. Pollard was gone, Mom stroked his sleek brown neck and poured her heart out to Apache, telling him that she was sorry that they hadn’t been able to help him, that she was sorry to lose him, despite his cantankerous personality. And she begged him to get up.
Somehow something miraculous happened in those quiet early morning moments. Apache lifted his head for the first time in hours. He looked at Mom and he tried to stand. When Mrs. Pollard returned, he was still trying to get up. The three of them, Mom, Mrs. Pollard, and Apache, worked together to get him on his feet. Two sleep-deprived moms and a weak, exhausted horse walked slowly, hopefully, in circles in the riding ring again. Gradually, as they plodded, Apache’s body set itself to rights.
In the days that followed this long, awful night, we noticed a change in Apache’s personality. His near-death experience had seemingly purged him of his nastiness. Maybe he knew that he had almost come to the end of his days, and this was his chance at redemption. So, he thanked the women who spent that night trying to save his life by never kicking or biting anyone again. He was, indeed, a new horse.