The Horse That Went to Church

by Hilary Walker

  Father retreated a couple of steps towards the altar, presumably for Divine Protection.

  Movement rippled through the parishioners in the rear. A burly man had broken away from the crowd and was walking up the aisle with a confidence real or feigned—I couldn’t tell which.

  He was removing his Sunday tie as he progressed towards Firecross: I imagine to place it round my gelding’s neck and be the hero of the day.

  He looked so purposeful, I didn’t dare argue. After all, just how effective had I, the owner, been thus far? The idea may just work.

  I decided to let the man get on with it. While he was distracting Firecross I could prepare to take over once he’d captured my animal.

  But that’s not how it turned out.

  Firecross respects a firm hand, but bullies make him nervous. As the guy marched towards him, my horse’s neck arched and he grew several feet. Even from behind I could see his right eye get bigger and bigger. The whites were showing and his nostrils flared like red saucers. He was yet again in the red zone that Cesar Millan explains so well.

  Clearly the man had never watched The Dog Whisperer or Cesar 911 and didn’t understand the concept of heightened alarm in the animal world. Or maybe his macho side was expanding in proportion to the increased challenge from my gelding?

  The point is, he wasn’t deterred by Firecross’s warning to stay away. With one end of the tie in each hand he held it high, ready to fling over the bay’s ears.

  The horse allowed him within two feet then leapt to the left, knocking Father Frank over. He lay prone on his back, emitting soft groans.

  I was torn: should I make sure Firecross didn’t head for the altar and the desecration thereof, or help Father back to his feet? What would Jesus have done?

  I felt sure He would have decided in Father’s favor.

  Trying to ignore the clatter of hooves echoing round the church, I extended a hand to my parish priest. I could see him struggling not to utter something bad (which I would have fully deserved) as I pulled him upright again.

  “Are you hurt, Father?” I was afraid to know the truth, but I had to ask.

  “Luckily for you, no,” came the whisper. “Now get that horse out of my church!”

  “On it, Father!”

  But by now the burly chap was chasing Firecross along the front of the pews and down past the wall of windows. The congregation, who’d been recording events on their cell phones, once more flattened themselves against the back wall as the horse roared towards them.

  “Open the back door!” I yelled, running down the center aisle to the rear exits.

  Too late. I narrowly missed being squashed by my own horse as he cantered past the onlookers, skidded round the corner, recovered, and made a dash up the other side of the church (the side with the saints on it) with the burly chap still in hot pursuit.

  Panting from exertion, I faced the audience. “Please open all the doors and line up on the left side. When my horse comes round the next time, wave your arms and he’ll go out. I promise he won’t crash into you.” Please God, don’t make that a lie! “If anyone is uncomfortable with that plan, make your escape now!”

  But everyone was too busy taking photos and videos of my horse to move.

  “Okay, people!” I jumped up and down to get their attention. “Now would be a good time to open those doors!”

  Slowly, bodies peeled away from the exits and the ushers opened the doors.

  Finally out of breath, the burly man pursuing Firecross slumped into a pew, gasping for air. He’d not reckoned on a marathon, and my equine was too fast for him.

  The naughty bay noticed he was no longer being chased and slowed to a trot, then a walk. He strolled down the wall of windows and, I was happy to note, looked tired. He stopped and I could see he was less tense.

  Well, Cesar Millan always says, “Exercise, discipline, then affection.” Firecross would be jolly lucky to see any affection today, but he’d had lots of exercise, so I was optimistic that he was ready for some discipline.

  As instructed, the crowd had obligingly lined up in rows between the open doors and the last pew, and across the center aisle. The only place left for Firecross to go was outside.

  I was about to mosey up to him when a little kid broke away and walked towards the horse. His mom yelled, “Freddie, get back here—NOW!”

  But the boy was on a mission. His hand was outstretched and I saw something in his palm. Firecross stretched out his neck inquisitively and took a step forward.

  With total confidence, the kid continued towards the bay.

  “Here you are, horsey.” He proffered the item (which I fervently hoped wasn’t poisonous to equines) and the animal took it. The boy stroked the wide muzzle with his other hand, and when the treat was finished, Firecross licked the little man’s hand. He giggled, “That tickles!” but he kept his palm under the horse’s mouth.

  We all watched, mesmerized.

  I became conscious of a barrage of cell phones recording the moment and thought I’ll need to get a copy of this!

  Then I walked up to the pair, with Firecross’s lead rope and broken halter.

  “Keep doing what you’re doing,” I said to the boy in a low voice. I rubbed Firecross’s shoulder while drawing the rope over his neck, and loosely held the two ends under his throat in a makeshift collar. I had a spare halter in the trailer, to where I hoped I could lead him without further mishap.

  “Hey, do you have any more of those treats with you?” I asked the kid.

  “Yup.”

  “Then do you mind coming out with me so I can lead my horse to the trailer?”

  The boy beamed. “Sure thing, ma’am!”

  The parishioners were climbing over each other in their eagerness to catch the little boy on their cells as he walked along offering treats one after the other in his outstretched hand, followed by a large bay horse flanked by myself and an anxious mother.

  (I later discovered the treats were raisins.)

  Once at the trailer the child continued to offer Firecross more treats while I rummaged in the changing area for my spare halter.

  Only when my horse was safely attached to the trailer did I have time to consider how on earth he had got out of it in the first place.

  The side door was wide open, and it was clear that someone had opened it to pet him. When they left without closing the door he’d exited through the gap. But who’d opened the narrow door designed for humans, not horses?

  I would probably never find out. All I knew was that I would never again bring my horse and trailer to church.

  The little boy was tugging at my jacket. “Ma’am, can I ride your horse, please?”

  Firecross is not—as will have been evident from the morning’s events—a quiet horse. And certainly not kid riding material.

  But this boy had saved the day and I wanted to reward him. A better idea occurred to me, if his mother agreed.

  She was hovering in the background, clearly afraid of my horse but ready to leap in if her son needed saving.

  I turned to her. “I have a very calm, beginner friendly horse at home. Would you allow your son to come to my house and ride him, instead?”

  “Please, Mom, please, please, please!”

  “All right, Freddie.”

  Freddie gave his mom a jubilant hug and we arranged a time for the lad to come for his well-deserved ride.

  The whole episode was being recorded on the parishioners’ phones. Their owners were watching from a safe distance and completely forgetting where they were.

  A loud “Ahem!” sounded behind them. It was Father Frank. “It appears to have escaped your minds that you’re here to attend Mass, not gawp at an equine spectacle.” I studiously avoided his eyes.

  Sheepishly, the priest’s flock put away their phones and headed back into church, Freddie and his mother included, after the former had given Firecross a good-bye pat on the neck.

  Father Frank arched his eyebrows at me before foll
owing his parishioners. I was now the black sheep who would not be allowed back into the fold until I repented of my evil ways.

  Which was upsetting, as I wasn’t the one who’d let Firecross out of the trailer in the first place!

  I let down the ramp, led him up it, closed the butt bar and ramp behind him and drove him out of the church parking lot.

  Chapter 6: Virality

  Will you be surprised to know I didn’t make it to the show that day?

  My nerves were too frayed from the angst of getting my horse out of church without killing anyone. Plus I still needed to go to Mass, which now meant missing my second dressage class of the day anyway.

  I drove home rather despondently and went to afternoon Mass at a completely different church, where no one knew me.

  Later that evening I saw my Facebook page was inundated with comments. They were from friends who’d seen YouTube videos of a horse loose in church and recognized my gelding.

  I couldn’t bring myself to watch the videos of my humiliation.

  And I still wasn’t sure how to approach Father Frank. He’d be rightfully furious with me after this incident and I figured I’d better look for another church.

  At least Firecross hadn’t pooped inside. Of course, as soon as the parishioners turned to go into the church, he did do a dump in the parking lot, which Father saw. I cleaned it up as best I could with him watching—hands on hips—wordless and exasperated.

  But Firecross hadn’t killed him, and I was grateful for that mercy.

  All week I stewed about what to do. Should I chicken out and start attending the other church, which was much further away? Or should I tough it out and face the music?

  By now my friends were talking about how The Horse That Went to Church YouTube videos had gone viral. They were everywhere: Twitter, Facebook, and other social media of which I’m totally ignorant. Wherever you looked, apparently there they were.

  So it didn’t matter which church I went to: I’d be known globally as the idiot who let her horse into the House of God. May as well return to my regular place of worship.

  I showed up on Sunday as usual, at 7:45 A.M. so I could park my scruffy Expedition and spend a few minutes gathering my thoughts before Mass began.

  But the parking lot was packed. What the heck? Was it Super Bowl Sunday with everyone wanting to go to Mass early today? No, it was the wrong time of year for that.

  So what was up? I began to get nervous that I wouldn’t find a seat. Drat!

  Sure enough, it was standing room only.

  This had never happened before. The church was usually half full at this Mass, and I could always be sure of sitting in my usual pew.

  Why had all these people decided to come now? Did they know something I didn’t? Had the end of the world been announced behind my back and they were making up for lost time by repenting at the last moment?

  Well, I was here now, and would just have to grin and bear it. Thankfully I was wearing a scarf, which I could take off and fold up for a kneeler on the hard floor.

  The only spot I could find was at the back by the baptismal font.

  I dipped my middle finger in the holy water to cross myself and Father Frank came in to begin Mass.

  Great! He was the one man I wanted to avoid, and here we were, face to face. I fervently hoped he’d be nice because we were in public.

  But he put his arms around me and gave me a huge hug! I was stunned. What on earth was going on today?

  Father registered my bafflement: “You’ve no idea, have you?”

  I shook my head.

  “These people are all here because of that stupid horse of yours. He’s made our little church famous, and you’ve brought a whole load of lapsed Catholics back into the church. It was like this for the Vigil Mass yesterday afternoon, too. I expect the next two Masses today will be the same.” He smiled ruefully. “I don’t imagine this enthusiasm will last forever, but I shall encourage as many as possible to continue with us on the road to Heaven.” He patted me on the back. “And now excuse me, I have to say Mass.”

  Trust God to turn a disaster into a miracle!

  THE END

  ABOUT HILARY WALKER

  Hilary Walker is an American citizen, English by birth, who lives in Maryland with her three horses, three dogs, schizophrenic house cat, normal barn cat—and abnormally wonderful American husband and teenage son.

  Her short fiction has won and placed in national competitions in the U.K. and the U.S. and her non-fiction appears in three anthologies: Horse Crazy and Horse Healers published by Adams Media and A Prince Among Dogs published by Revell.

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