Clark winced. "Sometimes I hate that damned peacock," he muttered. "I could wring its noisy little neck."
"Know what you mean—my neighbors have one, and my wife keeps thinkin' she hears a baby screaming. Is it little Anny's pet?"
"Yeah. Half the things in here are Anny's pets. They eat me out of house and home, but if I got rid of 'em she'd never understand." Whenever his granddaughter found out that an animal was scheduled to be euthanized, he could rarely bring himself to go through with it; if he did, he had to face Anny's misery for weeks. Anny sometimes understood that animals with incurable illnesses ought to be put to sleep to spare their suffering, but it was useless trying to explain economic situations to her, or worse, owners who simply lost interest in their pets. Clark had gotten stuck with a lot of unwanted animals. The worst one was the big gray hydrocephalic cat which was now Anny's constant companion. Clark had first seen it as a kitten with a bulging head and yellow buglike eyes—severely retarded, dangerously uncoordinated. The owner had wanted to put it to sleep. Clark had actually had a needle in its vein, his thumb pressed against the plunger of a syringe of deathly green T-61, when he had felt Anny's sad, accusing gaze. Anny had not actually been there, but he'd felt her presence—he'd almost seen her: his twelve-year-old granddaughter who acted more like a six year old, her wispy blond hair not quite hiding the soft bulge at the back of her head. Shaken, he had given Anny the kitten, though it still made him ill to see the two of them together.
"How is little Anny?" Fred Brown asked, his tone carefully neutral—the same dutiful question that everyone asked, every time. Clark was sick of people asking how little Anny was. As if she'd ever get any better. She'd had all the surgery and all the medical treatments that were available, but nothing could correct the damage that had already been done.
"She's fine," he said shortly. He put Anny out of his mind and turned his attention to the nervous animals in the stalls. "I wonder what's got them all so jumpy," he muttered.
"Maybe a stray dog roamin' around? They could've picked up a smell they didn't care for."
"Maybe so." Clark looked at his watch. It was going to be a long evening, and with his luck it would be a difficult delivery. "Come on, let's get that cow in the swing-around," he said. As he strode back to the trailer, a cacophony of barks and howls erupted from the kennel in his clinic, and he frowned.
Anny lay underneath the covers of her bed with her cat Ace, holding a dim flashlight on the pages of a picture book about circuses. She smiled at the pictures. She'd never been to a circus but her mother had told her that one had just come to town and that in a couple of days she'd get to see it. It looked like ever such fun. All the pretty animals, glittering with spangles, and the clowns, and the acrobats in their brilliant costumes . . . she couldn't wait! She moved the light to the lines of big print and concentrated hard, but as always the letters meant nothing to her. She banged the flashlight against her head in frustration, and the light dimmed further.
Ace lifted his head suddenly, yellow eyes gleaming, ears pricked forward on his oversized domed head. Anny had rarely seen him look so alert. "Whatsa matter, Ace?" she whispered.
Ace gave her a quick glance when she spoke, then stretched awkwardly and climbed out from under the blanket. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the half-open window, where white curtains trimmed with blue fluttered in a soft cool breeze. Anny stroked him, smoothing his thick gray fur over his tensed muscles, scratching his big head.
Ace yowled. It was a low, disturbing sound that she had never heard from him before. His tail twitched.
"Ace?" Anny moved her hand away and stared at him.
The cat sprang from the bed to the windowsill, scrabbling ungracefully for balance, then disappeared out the window. "Ace!"
Anny threw off the covers, dumping the book on the floor, and ran to the window. In the bright moonlight, she saw her cat trotting across the back pasture in the direction of the woods: he vanished abruptly into the murky blackness among the trees. Tears stung Anny's eyes. She couldn't lose Ace! She had to go after him, but she wasn't allowed to go outside after dark. She whimpered, trying to decide what to do.
From the other side of the house she heard the clattering of gates and the bellowing of a cow: Granpa must have an emergency. Slowly she realized that if he was busy, he'd never know if she slipped outside, and Momma wouldn't be home from work until morning. Anny found her shoes, dumped one of Ace's stuffed mice out of the right one, and put them on, then pulled a coat on over her nightgown. At the last second she remembered the flashlight. She snatched it up and wiggled out the window.
Her breath frosted in front of her as she jogged across the back pasture. Two cows and a horse saw her coming and bolted, startling her with the loud drum of their hooves. She paused, wondering why they'd run away. The cows were placid beasts, and the horse usually came to be petted. Maybe they didn't realize it was her, since she'd never before been in their pasture at night. She shrugged, crawled through the spiky barbed-wire strands of the far fence, and entered the woods: dark and spooky, filled with rustling twigs and creaking branches. A flurry of leaves brushed against her legs.
"Ace?" Anny stopped and listened. Over the moan of the wind, she heard the soft patter and crunch of small paws running through dead leaves. "Ace!" She ran in the direction of the sound, dodging trees, stumps, and bushes, but she couldn't see the cat. She got out her flashlight and turned it on, but its light was no brighter than that of the full moon. She stopped and listened again. Nothing. She couldn't hear the paw-patter any more. She stuffed the useless flashlight in her pocket and turned slowly around.
The underbrush rustled. Anny turned in the direction of the sound, then froze in place when she realized that the sounds were much too loud to be Ace. Something big was crashing through the trees, coming closer and closer. Frightened, she ran away from the noise, but it followed her, louder every second. She tripped over a dead branch and fell sprawling. A huge dark shape, unrecognizable, flashed past in the nearby trees. Then it was gone, and the noise of its passage slowly receded. Anny gasped for breath. She got up and brushed herself off, trembling all over. What had that thing been? And would it come back?
She started to cry. Now she was too scared to go on looking for Ace, and she'd have to go home, and she might never see Ace again—what if he wandered to the highway and got run over? She covered her face with her hands, shaking and crying, until—suddenly—she realized what the creature had been. She laughed through her tears. Of course. It had been the horse, or one of the cows. Granpa was always complaining about that horse, threatening to sell it, because it was clever enough to open gates with its nose, and was always getting loose along with its pasture-mates. It wasn't anything to be afraid of. She could go on looking for Ace.
But she still felt uneasy. Maybe she'd better make sure. She trotted back through the woods, back in the direction of the house. She crawled through the strands of the fence and peered around the pasture as the wind soughed through the long grass at her feet.
She saw the horse and both cows standing in the middle of the pasture. The horse was nervously pawing the ground.
Anny shivered, the huge black beast running through her mind. A piercing squawk echoed in her ears, and she heard wings flapping vigorously above her. Something dove low over her head, screeching and drumming its wings, then vanished into the blackness of the night.
"Doc, what's wrong with them animals now?" Fred Brown asked.
"Huh?" Clark had the calf-puller fixed on the cow's rear and was hauling out the calf, puffing hard as he cranked the ratchet. He was getting too old for this kind of thing, too old and too tired. He ought to retire properly sometime soon, or at least hire an assistant. He'd tried that once, but the new man's enthusiasm and fresh-learned knowledge had intimidated him. It had jarred him into realizing how out-of-date he was, how out of touch with new methods; made him feel guilty about the stacks of dusty journals that he never quite got around to reading.
He hated feeling inadequate, and had solved the problem by getting rid of the assistant. He'd stubbornly kept working on his own. But he couldn't go on like this forever. Aloud, he said, "What'd you say, Fred?"
"All them animals are just settin' there. Staring. Not a one's making a sound."
"Fine by me," Clark muttered, not looking up. "Quieter the better. Grab her tail, willya, Fred? The calf's coming now."
Out in the pasture, the horse stopped its nervous pawing and stood motionless, staring intently in the direction of the woods. One cow stood on either side of it, just as still. Anny slowly walked up to them, touched them and poked them, but they ignored her. All of them were staring in the same direction, and the horse's ears were pricked sharply forward. Anny turned and looked. She saw a soft glow of yellow light coming from deep in the woods. Silhouetted against the light she saw a slow moving line of shadows: animals, walking quietly and sedately toward the source of the light. At the end of the line she saw a shadow that looked like an elephant.
Anny's breath exploded in a huge sigh of relief. They were circus animals! Why hadn't anyone told her that the circus was going to set up so near? Anny scrambled through the fence, ripping the hem of her nightgown on a barb in her hurry. She couldn't wait to see the tent. If she was quick enough maybe she'd get to see the whole line of animals go in, and Ace was bound to be lurking somewhere nearby. She ran through the woods, the light shining brighter and brighter as she neared the clearing where the circus tent had been set up.
She stopped in the bushes at the edge of the clearing, breathless and suddenly shy. She didn't want to meet any of the circus people, didn't want to find out if they would whisper about her behind their backs, or laugh, or call her stupid, or hey ree-tard!—the way other people did. She only wanted to watch.
The circus tent was a shiny silver dome, ever so pretty, with gold and blue stripes around its sides, and large black letters which Anny couldn't read. Its flaps were open and inside it Anny could see only darkness. The light was coming from somewhere outside. Two girls, fancily dressed in bright-colored coveralls, were directing the line of animals into the tent. And the animals! Anny had never imagined such a variety; this must surely be the finest circus in all the world, to have such animals.
A long-fanged golden cat marched into the tent and disappeared. It was followed by a big wolf with a pouch like a kangaroo's, then a large pink lizard with maroon wings and a snaky neck. Then two scurrying rodents. A low-flying bird with talons at its wingtips and sharp teeth in its beak. A small antelope with huge mooselike horns that seemed far too heavy for its body. A miniature elephant with an oddly shaped trunk and great yellow tusks . . .
One by one the animals vanished into the tent.
Anny hugged herself in delight, unable to believe that she'd seen such an incredible parade. Would there be any more animals? She didn't see any, but the two girls were still standing by the tent flap as if they expected more creatures to show up. Such pretty girls they were, with their vivid outfits and the sparkly jewels in their hair! But they looked worried. Maybe they'd lost one of their animals.
That thought gave Anny a jolt. She'd almost forgotten Ace! She looked around quickly, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. She'd been so sure she'd find him here. And it was getting awfully late—Granpa would be finished with his emergency any time now, in fact might already be finished, looking in Anny's room and finding the bed empty. Where could Ace be? Those girls might have seen him, but try as she would, Anny couldn't bring herself to go to them and ask. She was too scared of people, especially of pretty people who emphasized how peculiar she looked. No, she wouldn't ask yet. She'd look for Ace for just a little bit longer first.
She wandered back through the woods, stopping at intervals to listen, but she heard nothing until she neared the pasture fence. Then she heard something rustling in the leaves, thrashing, struggling.
"Ace?"
The sounds stopped for an instant, then began again. Anny pushed her way through the undergrowth. The moon passed behind a cloud, then emerged, shining bright in the sky, reflecting off frightened rolling eyes. At first Anny thought it was Ace, but when she crept closer she saw that it was a tiny dark horse, scarcely any bigger than Ace, with its front leg caught in the bottom strand of the fence. "It's okay," Anny whispered. "Don't be scared, okay?" She reached out to touch the frightened little horse, feeling a plastic collar fastened around the taut muscles of its neck. It belonged to someone, then. Of course! The circus. It was a little circus horse.
Anny tried to pull its leg free from the fence, but was hindered by the little horse's fruitless struggling. "Stop kicking!" she gasped. "I wanta help you out." Tears smarted in her eyes as a barb scraped against her arm. The horse ought to know she was trying to help; it ought to hold still. But it kept on pawing and fighting her. "Stop it!" Anny said. She put her knee against the horse's neck to hold it down, then grasped its trapped foreleg with both hands and finally managed to work it free. It wasn't bleeding very much, but the leg was dangling at a peculiar angle. The horse struggled to push itself to its feet but fell, thrashing and snorting. Anny picked it up, stroked it, tried to soothe it. She felt it trembling in her arms.
"It's okay," she said softly. "I'll take you to my Granpa. He'll fix you. It'll be okay."
Clark watched Fred Brown's truck and trailer rattle off down the road, hauling a cow and a brand-new calf. He dumped the calving chains in the rinse bucket and took a last look around the barn; he was a bit puzzled by the quietness of the animals in the stalls, but was too tired to worry about it. He switched out the light, patted his pockets and found the bottle of tetracycline; he'd better put it back in the clinic cabinet before he forgot about it.
He went in and put the bottle away; then, yawning, glanced about the room at the cats and dogs in their cages. The yawn stopped abruptly and he felt an involuntary shiver in his spine, for all the dogs and cats lay motionless in their cages, paws crossed, staring blankly into space. Clark watched them for almost a full minute, and none of them moved. Then, as if by mutual agreement, they suddenly stirred, whining, or pawing at the cages, or curling up to sleep, each behaving in its own ordinary way. Feeling numb, Clark reached out to quiet a crying puppy. He must have been dreaming on his feet. He really was going to have to get more sleep. . . .
The door squeaked open, then slammed, and Anny burst into the room. "Anny!" he said. "What are you doing out of bed?" Then he saw the little animal that she was holding, clutched tightly against her coat.
"Is hurt," she whispered.
"Where did you find that?" He peered closer—he'd never seen a miniature horse so small.
She pointed. "Outside."
"Anny, don't you know you're not supposed to go outside at night?"
She hung her head and nodded.
"Then why did you go out?"
"Ace went out." She looked at him pleadingly. "I had to find him."
Clark sighed. "And you found this little beast instead."
Anny nodded and said, "Can't find Ace." She clutched the little horse tighter and a tear slipped down her cheek. Clark gently pulled the horse out of her arms and laid it on the examining table; it struggled, trying to get away.
"Anny," he said, "I'm sure Ace will come back. Cats wander sometimes, you know, and they usually do come back. Come here now. I need you to hold the little horse for a minute. Okay? Come on, now."
Anny sniffed, rubbed the tears off her face, and reached for the horse, petting it gently. It quieted under her hands. Clark examined it quickly, finding no significant injuries except for the broken forelimb, but he puzzled for a moment over the hooves, each of which had a pair of extraneous digits dangling behind it. He had a vague memory of learning about it in school—polydactylism, or something like that; a birth deformity. He'd occasionally seen cats with six or seven toes on each paw; this must be the same sort of thing.
"Circus horse," Anny said suddenly.
"What?"
"It ran away,
Granpa. From the circus. All the animals, they ran away, but they all went back. Except this one."
Clark remembered his daughter talking about the circus, saying that she planned to take Anny to see it. They'd had an argument about it. He said, "Anny, do you mean you saw the circus? Where?"
She pointed west, in the direction of young Davidson's property. Clark frowned. Davidson had a big empty pasture near the main road, which he would rent to anyone who paid him enough money; it was not surprising that a small traveling circus might choose to set up there. It frightened him to think of Anny going that far in the dark, but she was so miserable about Ace that he hadn't the heart to scold her. That blasted cat! He hoped—guiltily—that it would never come back.
He looked back at the little horse; a miniature circus horse, and a freak miniature horse at that. He'd have to take it back tomorrow and collect as much money as he could, in cash. The very thought of dealing with a circus made him uneasy; he supposed there was nothing wrong with most of them, but the last one he had encountered had been a shoestring operation where he'd had to deal with multiple cases of animal abuse. He remembered the sick smell of the cages, the deformed animals in the freak show—the two-headed lamb that was already dead, the eyeless dog, the calf that staggered about on its knees, unable to get up—and worse, the humans of the freak show who had stood nearby, watching him.
But that had been many years ago. The little horse on the table was deformed, but it had not been abused; aside from its injury it was in good health. All Clark needed to worry about was ensuring that he got paid for his work.
He manipulated the bones experimentally; it seemed to be a simple fracture, easy enough to reduce and cast, but he'd better take some films to be sure. And he'd have to be careful with the anesthetic dose: the little horse couldn't weigh more than fifteen pounds. It wouldn't take much. Calculating dosages in his head, he pulled off the horse's plastic collar and shoved it aside, exposing the jugular vein. It was a tiny vein; it would be as hard to hit as a cat's. Clark wondered if he would ever get to bed.
Horses! Page 14