by Lisa Wingate
“Puggy?” Nate repeated, and I realized the subject wasn’t going to die a quick and painless death.
“Oh, sure.” Aunt Netta was happy to strike up a conversation, even at my expense. “When she come out of her mama, her poor little face was all flattened up and she had a cone-shaped head, bless her heart. Her daddy looked into that hospital bassinet and said, ‘Kind of a pug-nosed little thing, ain’t she? Hello there, little puggy.’ She was cute as a bug, looked like a little pink baby piglet, and the funniest pug nose, just like this.” My attention ricocheted from the horse as Aunt Donetta provided a visual aid, of all things. “But she grew out of it just fine. The nickname stuck, a’course. She always was a big eater, so it kinda fit, even after the nose got normal.”
Please, embarrass me a little more. Blood rushed into my face, and the muscles in my arms tensed. The horse shifted away, sensing the change.
“She doesn’t look like such a big eater,” Mimi said. Apparently, now that the subject had turned to diet and exercise, she was willing to join in.
I tried to focus on the horse again. I could feel the rapport breaking down, his body stiffening, preparing for flight. His ears flicked toward the side of the corral, where Mimi had started chronicling her fitness regimen.
“Well, hon, some people just get high metabolism right outta the gate,” Aunt Donetta remarked. “I was always thin, until I got old and fat.”
“I have a protein supplement and a workout routine that is very good for the mature woman,” Frederico offered.
“Well, sugar, sign me up!” Aunt Donetta clapped her hands together enthusiastically, and that was all it took—Lucky Strike shied away again, practically ran over me, and proceeded to the opposite fence, where he began pacing back and forth.
“See, that’s what he does,” Willie complained, slapping the pipe fence in frustration. “All day long, all night unless he’s dead asleep, or you put a halter on him and tie him up. In the stall, he weaves back and forth, back and forth. You put him in a pen, he runs his legs off, up and down the fence, up and down the fence. He don’t ever settle. I ain’t never seen a colt so bad. It’s no wonder he couldn’t go back on the track. He’s always sore in the front end from pacing his fool head off all the time. I didn’t know those things when I bought into the horse. They had him so drugged up, he was just standin’ there in the stall, asleep on his feet.”
I stood watching the animal’s behavior, getting a dismal sense of the possibilities ahead. Lucky Strike was what horsemen call a weaver. He repeated the same pattern over and over and over, his eyes slowly going glassy, his countenance numb. Finally, he stopped calling out to the other horses, but continued pacing up and down the fence, repeating the pattern like an autistic child self-stimulating in an effort to block out everything else. At this rate, and having already shown a propensity for bone injury, he would eventually do enough damage to his legs to make himself completely nonfunctional. He would end up where useless but well-insured horses tend to—mysteriously dead in his stall, so that a hefty insurance claim could be filed.
There was no telling what had been done to the horse to keep him racing after his body began breaking down. Some techniques used with racehorses were gruesome and borderline inhumane. No wonder he didn’t like people. The trick now was to convince him that it was safe to trust, to move beyond the trauma of the past. Such a hard lesson to convey, coming from someone who didn’t believe it anymore.
Glancing at my father, I shook my head, but he only nodded encouragement and gave me the thumbs-up. Dad had always specialized in lost causes of the animal sort. The horses in the trailer the night of the flood were the offspring of a little gray mare my father bought at the auction barn. She staggered into the sale ring on her last legs, just a yearling, so thin and sick even the slaughter buyers didn’t want her. My father wasn’t sure Maggie would survive the ride home, but when she did, he charged Kemp and me with her care. He said if she didn’t make it, she at least deserved the dignity of dying with someone stroking her head and speaking softly in her ear—it wasn’t right for a creature to leave this world without ever having known kindness.
Maggie recovered and carried me through the 4-H horse shows and trail rides of my childhood, and when I went away to college, my father sent her with me so I wouldn’t get lonely and decide to drive home every weekend. He had no idea that, with Maggie staying at a stable near the college, I’d eventually fall for a boy who liked to compete in rodeos and rope calves, and one thing would lead to another. It wasn’t a problem until Danny’s application to veterinary school was denied, and he decided that he really wanted to do rodeos, anyway. His plan was to hit it hard, try to make the finals and get some endorsement deals.
After a short hesitation when his parents told him they wouldn’t be sending him any more money if he didn’t pursue a degree, he did what he wanted to do. One thing about Danny—he was never afraid to go for it. That character trait drew me in like a fly to fresh honey. There was always in me the latent sense that life was on a short timeline, perhaps because our years with my mother had come and gone so quickly. Now, having already passed the age at which she died, I was realizing that you don’t live your parents’ lives, you live your own. …
As Lucky Strike weaved back and forth along the opposite fence, it crossed my mind that even while I was away, I’d imagined the events that might eventually bring me back to Daily—a funeral, the big family reunion Aunt Donetta always claimed she was going to plan one of these days, a health problem with Aunt Netta or my father, maybe Kemp finally finding the right girl and planning a wedding.
The filming of a movie wasn’t anywhere on the list. Any minute now, I would come back to reality and realize I was daydreaming in my office. …
The idea wore a prickly coating of disappointment. I didn’t want to wake up at my desk, spend the day cooped up in a classroom. As strange as it seemed, given my feelings about coming home in the first place, I wanted this to be real. It felt good to be in a place where the rocks and the trees, the scents and the sounds, the buildings and the people were familiar. I knew these horizons—the jagged hills, the spiny yuccas and prickly pears, the prairie grasses that hid the scattered seeds of bluebonnets, which would provide the first colors of spring next year. I knew the hidden places that sheltered neighbors’ ranch houses and old pioneer farms, now crumbling with age and sinking into the landscape. I knew where the thunderheads would blow over the rim when fronts came in, where the wet weather creeks would form, how quickly they would rise up …
I stopped before moving through the thick, dark pool of self- recrimination that told me I, of all people, should have known how quickly Caney Creek could take in rainwater off the hills, grow, and become deadly.
Don’t do this. Just enjoy the day. Stay focused.
I took in a breath, exhaled, thought only about what was inside the round pen, not what was outside. Only this moment. Nothing beyond …
Moving toward the fence, I began to slip into a rhythm, maintaining a comforting calm that drew the horse closer. I was aware of Willie outside the fence, calling Justin over to stand next to him, then explaining the process of resistance-free training. “Now, you see, young fella, that horse—even though he’s lived all his life in a stall—somewhere inside him, he’s got the instincts of a herd animal. See how Lauren’s pushin’ him away each time he don’t act right? That’s what a mare will do to a bad-behaved colt, or a herd sire will do to a unruly yearlin’. Horses’ll isolate one of their own to punish him for not behavin’ in a good way. They know the worst kind of punishment for most any critter is isolation. See, Lucky Strike don’t like that, because his instincts are tellin’ him he ain’t safe out there on his own. In the wild, a horse knows that if he’s by hisself, he’s vulnerable. He needs the rest of the herd to survive, to be safe from mountain lions and other predators and all forms of danger.”
To my complete surprise, Justin Shay began to ask questions. “Is she making him move up and
down the fence now, or is he doing that on his own?”
“Nah, that’s her,” my father said, joining in the horse-whispering conversation. “Watch how she steps toward the front of him just the littlest bit to bring him around and head him the other way. She’s lettin’ him know who’s dominant here. She’s makin’ it a lot of work for him to stay out there on the fence, pacin’ back and forth and lookin’ off at nothin’.”
“Like the guy in the script,” Justin observed. “But in the script, he just does it once, and then the horse starts following him around the corral.”
“Real life ain’t as easy as the movies,” Willie pointed out.
“Some indavi’jals are smarter than others, some more stubborn, and some’s been through more trauma in the past. Sometimes a creature’s been hurt so bad he figures it’d be better to run hisself to death than to let anybody get close to him again. It ain’t much different between horses and people, when you get right down to it, son.” Willie’s usually gruff voice grew soft, almost tender, strangely wise. “We’re all products of our experiences, see? We do according to what we’ve learnt. Every livin’ creature is born with a need to trust and a need for self-defense. Which one wins out depends on how that animal gets treated by life and by people. Once them habits are formed, they’re hard to break, but it ain’t impossible to change. A good horse whisperer don’t have an agenda. He lets the horse progress at his own pace. That’s the difference between a horse trainer and real horseman. A real horseman don’t want to break the animal, he wants to win it over.”
“That needs to be in the script,” Justin murmured contemplatively. “Nate, that needs to be in the script.”
“Yeah,” Nate muttered. He’d moved to the other side of the corral, so that he was standing by himself, his arms hooked loosely on the fence. I could feel him watching me, studying the process, the movements of the horse, then me again.
I glanced over my shoulder just before Lucky Strike finally stopped pacing and dropped his head. My eyes met Nate’s and I felt the intensity of his gaze travel through me like an electrical current.
I turned back to the horse. Stay focused. Stay focused. …
“Watch this,” my father whispered as Lucky Strike turned toward me again. The pride in his voice made me swell inside. I had always wanted, above all things, to make my father proud.
“Wow,” Amber whispered.
“We need that in the screenplay, Nate,” Justin said again. “Nate?”
Nate didn’t answer. I didn’t have to look at him to know why. I could feel his gaze in every part of me. I could feel him searching, thinking, wondering. When Lucky Strike disconnected and moved away again, he moved in Nate’s direction. I lost track of the horse, found myself looking at Nate instead. I wondered what he was thinking. Was he considering the scene, imagining how it would play out on film, calculating stage direction, and camera angles, and dialogue, or was he thinking about something else?
I wanted it to be something else. I wanted the way he studied me to be something more than writer’s curiosity.
The thought surprised me, and as soon as it solidified into something I could identify, I chased it away like a stray dog on the porch. What was I thinking? What was wrong with me? Had anybody else noticed me staring at him?
“It’s a God-given gift.” Aunt Donetta was on the ragged edge of tears. She’d moved around the perimeter to stand by Nate. “It’s so good to see Puggy with a horse again. Ain’t she amazin’, Nate? Ever since she was little, she could make friends with any livin’ creature, no matter how scared it was, I’ll tell you. When the sheriff had a stray dog he couldn’t catch, you know who he’d come get. … ”
My stomach twisted into a slipknot. Aunt Donetta had seen. She’d picked up on the look between Nate and me. She’d sniffed it out like a fox scenting fresh eggs. Now she was up on her tiptoes tracking down the source so she could burrow under the fence, get inside, and find something meaty.
I tried to ignore the spectators and concentrate on the horse, but all I could hear was my aunt giving a resume of sorts. Nate was getting the short course in Eldridge 101, with an emphasis on Puggyology. “Puggy’s so good with horses … why, she was toddling out to the horse pen before she could even talk … Even when she was up in middle school, all she ever wanted to do was hang around the barn with her daddy. We wondered if she’d ever figure out she was a girl. She was such a cute little thing, but you couldn’t melt her down and pour her into a dress. Just jeans and boots. We thought she’d never take an interest in boys, but … ”
“Aunt Netta!” I protested under my breath. “You’re distracting the horse.”
“Oh,” she whispered, as if she didn’t know people in the next county could hear. “Sorry, hon. I just thought Nate might want to use some of that background in his movie writin’. You know, a good horseman’s born, not made, my granddaddy always used to say. That’s sure true about Lauren. … ” Aunt Netta went right on talking.
Nate listened and occasionally asked questions.
I gave up and went back to working with the horse, moving him up and down the fence again and getting him to stop on command. Things were looking up—until Justin Shay decided we’d wasted enough time tinkering. Stepping into the round pen, he smacked the gate shut behind himself and sent the horse into another tailspin. Lucky Strike proceeded to shy away and weave up and down the opposite fence at a gallop, blowing and tossing his head.
Justin flashed a hand in the horse’s direction. “Why’s he doing that? I thought you had him calm.” It seemed like we’d been through this question several times before. “When you came into the round pen, the stimulus changed. He reacted. Part of building rapport is learning to anticipate the effect your actions will have on the horse.”
Justin Shay’s mirrored sunglasses swiveled slowly in my direction, and his mouth dropped open, silently saying, Somebody tell this … this person who she’s talking to. “I don’t have time for this idiotic … shhh … stuff.”
“It takes time,” I admitted. “Habits don’t change easily. That’s why they’re habits. You have to remember that the horse can’t talk to you and explain how he feels. Animals show feelings through body language.”
“I don’t have time for someone else’s feelings!” he exploded, and if the hideousness of that statement struck him at all, it didn’t show. It struck me, but not in a way I would have predicted. I was taken aback by the realization that those words had been quietly cycling through the back of my mind for two years now, only I hadn’t really heard them until Justin Shay put a voice to it. Since the accident, my existence had been a carefully executed strategy of insulating myself from everyone else’s needs so I could focus on my own. I didn’t want to deal with anything beyond my pain, my guilt. In the process, I’d made my world so small that there was nothing else in it—just me in a condo, going through a routine that seemed undemanding, yet felt exhausting. No energy for family, friends, relationships, even for the students I professed to care about. I showed up for class, gave them what my contract stipulated, then crawled back into my hiding place and went numb.
On the fence, Willie was worried about the ongoing breakdown in communication. “Now, son,” he soothed, perhaps concerned that Lucky Strike was once again about to be fired. “Anything worth doin’ is worth puttin’ time into. Just give Striker some time. He’ll make a horseman out of ’ya, if you’ll let him.”
Justin seemed to consider the comment, and there was a sense of collective breath holding among the audience, a realization that everything hinged on the whims of a temperamental superstar who was more unpredictable even than the horse.
Finally the would-be horseman took a breath and let it out slowly. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
I paused to confront a minor internal conflict over whether I wanted this project to fail or to succeed. Maybe it was best to convince Justin Shay that he should move his production to Hollywood and hire a stunt double to play the horseman. With
a snap of his fingers, he could probably buy out my father and Willie. Dad would be safe, and everything could go back to normal.
Back to the way things were …
The way things were seemed impossibly small now, like a suit that had shrunk in the wash, so that it didn’t fit comfortably anymore.
“Watch his ears. The ears will always tell you where his attention is. Body language doesn’t lie,” I heard myself say.
“Okay, watch his ears. What else?” The movie star rubbed his hands together impatiently, ready for the next step. Unfortunately, Lucky Strike wasn’t in agreement. Justin was quickly frustrated again, and the horse went back to pacing the fence.
Over the course of the next two hours, it became clear that Lucky Strike’s personality and Justin’s were very much alike. Progress was one step forward and two steps back. Somebody was always mad at somebody else.
By lunchtime, all of us were ready for a break. I was glad when Joe, who lived in an apartment above the barn and looked after the horses at night, informed us that lunch had arrived. We were all happy to halt the horse-training lesson and proceed to the open-air tent, where food was being set out for the construction crew and volunteers.
My father and Willie led the way, muttering and talking among themselves. Amber lagged behind, compelled, as usual, to cast a little ray of sunshine on the seemingly hopeless situation. “That was so interestin’ to watch,” she said as we crossed the barnyard. “All that stuff you said, too. I think every bit of that should be in the movie.”
“Thanks,” I said absently. I was focused on a sky-blue minivan bouncing up the driveway with a cloud of caliche dust billowing behind like white smoke.
“I think you did real good, too, Justin,” Amber went on. Justin didn’t respond, so she turned her attention to the minivan. “Oh, there’s Mrs. Doll. It’s so nice of her to come deliver the drinks and desserts every day to go with the stuff the churches bring out. The food oughta be super good today. It’s from Caney Creek Church. Those ladies can put together a feed. When I got up this mornin’, Pastor Harve already had the smoker goin’ down there. I could smell it all the way from my house. Peepaw took some vegetables from his and Mrs. Doll’s gardens and went down to help do the cookin’.”