I am in the saddle on a warm, beautiful creature. Winner is the creature; he is Mom’s horse. But today it’s just Dad and me, and he rides alongside on Kafoose.
Hot air shoots out of Winner’s giant nostrils in gusty snorts, turning to steam as it meets the cold November air. His smell is a dusty musk, its appeal as irresistible and mysterious as the smell of wet cement. Our hips move in unison as he walks, an easy clip clop on the pavement.
Pavement turns to soft, dense earth that gives way to his heavy hooves. My tiny human heels press into Winner’s femur-sized ribs, and the walk becomes a trot. The graceless gait pounds bone into flesh in a constant walloping cadence. Neither of us is in shape for this. It’s been months since he’s been ridden, months since I rode.
I learned to ride as an eighty-pound eight-year-old. Mom, pregnant with her fifth daughter, signed me up for 4-H club when we moved to Idaho. It was always her dream to live in the country and have horses. Mom and Dad bought an old barrel racing horse for me to ride. His name was Slick and he did whatever my tiny body asked him to. After that summer of 4-H and a Reserve Champion ribbon at the county fair, Slick’s arthritis got so bad he had to be put down.
We had a handful of other horses over the years, but to my mind they were all wild. I never trusted a horse like I trusted Slick, so after he died I hardly ever rode.
But now I am a grown woman—I’ve survived college and childbirth and I’ve watched an entire season of Heartland. Mom assured me that Winner is a good horse. So I’m ready for this. I want to be on a horse again. I want to have that eight-year-old feeling again.
Winner’s trot becomes quicker, more eager. He waits for my cue—one kick, both feet, once more—and then breaks into a lope. Awkward bouncing smoothes into a four-part rhythm—thu-dump, thu-dump, thu-dump, thu-dump. His mane and my hair swish in synchrony as his hooves pound the earth and reach out for more. Our breaths are jolted from our lungs with each impact, hearts racing—his with exertion, mine with exhilarating terror.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I pull back on reins, asking him to stop just to see if he can. But around the next bend, we fly again. The sensation is just as incredible as I remember. This is what he and I were made for.
For two hours Dad and I ride along farmer’s fields and canal paths. Finally we are back at the barn. I reach down and pat Winner on his thick, strong neck and rub a spot near his shoulder where horse mothers nuzzle their babies.
“Good boy, Winner,” I say. “Good boy.”
In the afterglow of flow, I swing my leg over the saddle and plant my feet back on the ground. Dad dismounts Kafoose and helps me remove Winner’s saddle and bridle. As he unfastens the neck strap, Winner suddenly rears up as if agitated or afraid.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dad says, trying to calm Winner.
But the handsome chestnut horse rears again, stumbles backward, and collapses to the ground.
I rush to Winner and kneel beside him on the ground. He looks as powerless and fragile as a newborn kitten, but it isn’t right. He’s too massive and muscular to look like this. I place my hand on his side, still sweaty from the saddle. I can feel his chest heaving with labored breaths and it’s the only movement he makes. Blood is trickling from one of his nostrils. His body is struggling to live, but the glint is gone from his eyes.
“Maybe he’s had a heart attack or an aneurysm,” Dad says. He stands and begins shoving his foot into Winner’s side near his heart in a forceful, steady rhythm—a horse version of CPR. With each shove, Winner’s tough flesh creaks and a wheeze escapes his nostrils.
After a minute Dad says, “I think he’s gone.”
Winner’s breathing is shallow now. He isn’t snorting. He isn’t trying. He isn’t coming back.
I run to the house to tell Mom. I am trembling. I don’t know what happened, Winner fell, I’m so sorry, he fell, I don’t know, I’m sorry.
She runs to the barn and I stay inside, staring for a long time through the kitchen window to the barnyard where Winner is dying. I can see Mom and Dad talking to each other, making phone calls, touching Winner.
Two hours later the vet comes to euthanize Winner, still in the place where he fell. Mom covers him with a big quilt. It is such a cold night. In the morning, the horse mortician takes his frozen body away.
“It’s not your fault,” Mom says when I apologize again. “I’m glad he had a great last ride.”
But she is crying. He was her horse, her favorite horse. This hurts more than anything—not losing Winner, but seeing Mom lose him.
Months pass, maybe even a year. The clip clop and the dusty musk are still there, still tempting me. Mom has a new horse, Chevy. He’s a skinny and sweet old horse who was neglected by his previous owners. She has plumped him up with grain and vegetable oil. He is easy like Slick, she says. Looks like him too.
I swing my leg over the saddle and find another field, another canal path, another chance to lope. Mom is on Kafoose, riding next to me.
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