Friendly Foal

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  My nerves had sprung back that fast. I could have climbed the wall with her.

  “Down, Annie!” I shouted. But, of course, the shouting just made her worse. She tried harder to scramble over the door. I had to lift her hooves off to get her down.

  Something thumped from outside again.

  “Who’s out there?” I called.

  A cat meowed. Then I heard purring. And more purring. So much purring that it sounded like a humming band.

  And I had my answer.

  “Hey, Catman! Be right out.” I took the back stall door to the paddock.

  Just as suspected, I found Calvin “Catman” Coolidge sitting in the snow outside Nickers’ stall. His long legs were totally covered by a swarm of cats, including Churchill, Nelson, and a pure white longhair I was pretty sure I’d never seen before . . . although Catman owns about a thousand cats, and I might have missed one. My sister calls Catman the “Pied Piper of Cats.”

  He was staring at the sky, his long blond hair blowing like a flag in the icy breeze. The white cat snuggled inside Catman’s camouflage army jacket. Catman would have made a great hippie, like back in the 60s. Lizzy says he’s living history, but he’s only in eighth grade.

  “New cat?” I asked, easing down into the snow next to him. Shivering, I stuffed my straggling hair under my stocking cap and tried to tuck my jacket under me.

  Catman, on the other hand, wore no hat or gloves but showed no signs of being cold. Maybe it was the cats curled up on him like a fur coat.

  “Rice,” Catman answered. He and Lizzy are opposites when it comes to talking. If Lizzy’s a racing Thoroughbred, Catman’s an old Clydesdale, not about to take a step if a step’s not needed.

  “The white cat’s name is Rice?” I asked.

  Catman zipped up his jacket so only the cat’s white furry head stuck out. “David Rice Atchinson. Rice, for short.”

  I got ready for another history lesson. Every time Catman names a new cat, I learn something I never got in history class. “You gotta tell me who David Rice Atchoo’s son was.”

  “Atchinson,” Catman corrected. “U.S. president. For a day.”

  “No way!” Maybe I couldn’t still name all the presidents like we had to in fifth grade, but at least I would have recognized the name.

  Catman used his index finger to push his gold wire-rimmed glasses up his long nose. Even in the dark, his eyes shone true blue. “Zachary Taylor succeeded James Polk at noon on March 4, 1849.”

  I recognized Taylor’s and Polk’s names.

  “But it was a Sunday,” Catman continued. “And Zach refused to take the oath on the Sabbath. Far out, true? So under the Succession Act of 1792, Senator Atchinson, pro tempore of the Senate, took the oath and became president for a day. Groovy, huh? The new prez dug being top dog so much, he gave all his buddies cabinet seats.”

  I wondered if Ms. Mertz, my fifth-grade teacher, had any idea.

  Hundreds of bright silver dots were sprinkled across the black sky, like heaven’s private snow. Catman kept staring up at the same spot.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked.

  “Polaris,” he answered.

  “Huh?”

  “North Star.”

  I leaned toward him, trying to follow his exact line of vision. But I couldn’t tell the North Star from the South Star.

  Note to self: Is there a South Star? And if not, why not?

  Catman pointed straight through the branches of a big oak tree. “Tip of the Little Dipper.”

  I followed his finger through the leafless V of the oak’s trunk. Just a little to the left, I made out four stars in a crooked square, with more stars curved like a handle. “Is that it?”

  Catman shook his head without taking his eyes off the sky. “Big Dipper. Follow the pointer stars, those two at the end of the Big Dipper’s cup.”

  I let my eyes draw a line from the two stars, straight across the sky. The line led to a dim star that lay directly through the V of the oak tree. It looked like the tip of the Little Dipper. “That one?” I asked.

  “Polaris,” Catman answered.

  Wilhemina, Catman’s fat orange tabby, waddled from Catman’s lap to mine, purred and rubbed her face on my arm, then hopped back.

  Cats totally trust the Catman. Usually horses trust me the same way. And dogs trust Barker. It had been great hanging out with Catman and Barker when we moved to Ashland. We even share a part-time job at Pat’s Pets, manning the Pet Help Line.

  I fought off a yawn. I didn’t have time for tired. “I better get going. If I don’t at least do one imprinting lesson with the foal, I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight.”

  Catman finally looked down at me. He raised one eyebrow nearly to the top of his forehead, without even moving the other brow.

  “Imprinting,” I explained, “is touching the foal, handling her kind of like a mare would nuzzle her foal. Native Americans used to talk to horses before birth, then handle the foals all over the first few days after birth. That’s imprinting—showing foals that even though you’re a human, you’re a friend, and they can trust you.”

  “Far-out!”

  “Not so far-out,” I said. “I’ve hardly touched the foal. She’s still scared of me.”

  An owl hooted.

  Catman hooted back, holding up the two-fingered peace sign to the invisible bird. “Peace!” he called out.

  Peace. Why couldn’t I be more like Catman? More peaceful? A lot of unpeaceful things had happened in the past year, including too many fights with my dad, too much friction with his friend Madeline, and too many problems at school.

  Note to self: New Year’s Resolution #2: I, Winnie Willis, resolve to be more peaceful.

  I leaned back and gazed at the sky. My arm had finally stopped hurting where Amigo bit it. Twinkling stars sent down sparkles across the snowy pasture. Bare branches made purple, wavy shadows on the glittering snow, patterns in dapple-gray, like Gracie.

  I breathed in crisp, fresh air, earthy smoke from someone’s chimney, Catman’s musky smell, leather, and horse. Horse nickers from the barn blended with winter sounds—snow crunching, branches creaking and complaining, wind whistling through the eaves.

  It was working. Peace. I was entering a new year, a peaceful year. Everything would go smooth as snow, starting right now. Peace. I could feel it in my bones.

  Bam! Bam bam!

  Inside, Annie Goat pawed the stall floor.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  The pawing turned into kicking. The stall door rattled as the goat’s kicks grew louder.

  I tried to ignore it. Peace. Feel it in my bones.

  Nickers whinnied. She stamped the ground. A cat screeched. The goat cried.

  Thump! Thud!

  Somebody screamed.

  I jumped up. Cats flew in all directions.

  I raced inside the barn just in time to see the stall door fly open under the goat’s hooves.

  “Annie!” I cried, jumping into the stall. Nickers and Friendly scuffled to the far corner.

  “It’s breaking out!” Madeline Edison’s cry filled the barn.

  “Winnie!” Dad shouted. “Do something, for crying out loud!”

  I raced to the busted stall door, throwing myself between the charging Annie Goat and the screaming Madeline Edison.

  Annie stopped and lowered her head. She pawed the ground like she was a bull getting set for the bullfight of her life.

  I stared back at her, waiting, my mind racing. Peace? Feel it in my bones?

  Note to self: Never trust your bones.

  I couldn’t help wondering if anyone had ever broken all of her New Year’s resolutions before it even got to the new year. Or maybe they didn’t count until New Year’s Day?

  Annie Goat’s beady eyes locked onto me as she pawed the ground.

  “My baby horse!”

  I hadn’t even seen Mason behind Madeline and Dad. He’s small for seven, and his voice is as thin and wispy as his angel-blond hair.

&nb
sp; I took my gaze off Annie to look over my shoulder for Mason.

  Big mistake.

  Annie charged.

  Madeline shrieked.

  “Stop that goat!” Dad shouted.

  Bam! Amigo kicked his stall door.

  Mason ran under my outstretched arm, stumbling past Annie and toward the foal.

  “Don’t, Mason!” I cried, jumping between Annie and Mason.

  Mason lunged at the foal. He was just trying to hug her, but Friendly didn’t know that.

  Neither did Nickers. She snorted and flattened her ears back, warning off anybody who threatened her baby.

  “Mason!” I yelled.

  He bumped into the foal.

  The foal, knocked off balance, plopped backward onto her rear end.

  Nickers reared.

  “Mason, get out!” I screamed. Forgetting all about Annie Goat, I ran after Mason.

  Annie charged past me.

  Stamping and shuffling went on behind me.

  “Madeline!” Dad screamed.

  I turned in time to see Annie and Madeline crash into each other like two battering rams. Annie won. Madeline’s feet left the floor. She tumbled backward, flying into Dad. They both went down.

  “Go, horsey!” Mason cried, as if he and the foal were the only ones in the barn.

  The foal sat in the middle of the stall like an overgrown dog.

  Mason stood on one leg next to the stunned foal.

  It took me a second to figure out what he was doing. He was trying to mount. He wanted to ride Friendly!

  Nickers, teeth bared, wasn’t about to let that happen.

  “Mason!” I shouted as loud as I could, “Get out of the way!” I grabbed for him. Missed. My elbow caught his shoulder.

  He lost his balance.

  And I shoved him away as Nickers raced beside the foal.

  Mason plopped down in the straw bedding, just like the foal had done.

  “You can’t ride a baby horse, Mason!” My heart was pounding. My hands shook, and so did my voice. “You could have been hurt! You shouldn’t have—!”

  I stopped. The barn had grown silent, except for my screaming.

  And Mason was still.

  I peered through his thick glasses at blue eyes that had turned to ice. He sat perfectly motionless, his little legs sprawled in the exact position as when he’d landed.

  I glanced up at Catman, who was biting his lower lip and staring down at Mason.

  Nobody moved in the stallway. Even Amigo kept quiet in the next stall.

  “I’m sorry, Mason,” I said. “I know you didn’t mean anything.”

  Mason didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at anything. His eyes were locked on nothingness. And he wasn’t there.

  “I-It’s okay, Mason,” I muttered. I knew better than to yell at him. It can take days—months even—for Mason to get over stuff. I’d worked hard to get him to trust me. My throat burned, and I wanted my words back.

  The foal struggled to get up. It took two tries for her to push herself up on her wobbly hind legs. She and Nickers took off for the rear of the stall.

  “See, Mason? She’s fine.” I squatted next to him.

  Blank eyes stared out. He’d made his own escape.

  “Is he all right?” Madeline called. It sounded like she was struggling to get up too. “I’m coming, Mason!”

  That was the last thing I needed—Madeline Edison. She’s more afraid of horses than Lizzy is.

  “Come on, Mason,” I said, lifting him off the ground. He’s lighter than a sack of feed, but he felt stiff as a hay bale. It was like he didn’t even know I was holding him.

  Catman came over and took Mason from me. “Hey, little man. Let’s split this scene.” He hoisted Mason onto his shoulders and slipped out of the stall.

  I took a deep breath and followed them.

  In the stallway Dad was brushing straw off Madeline’s pink ski pants.

  She ran to meet Catman. “Are you all right, honey?” She lifted Mason from Catman’s shoulders. Madeline Edison is very strong for somebody so skinny. Her stocking cap fell off, freeing bright red hair to sprout around her face. “You’re safe now, Mason.” Her voice trembled. “You didn’t get hurt, did you, sweetie?”

  Mason didn’t answer. Now he stared toward the foal. He was shivering, his eyes wide as a frightened stallion’s.

  I glanced back at the foal. She was shivering, her eyes wide too, as she stared back at the little human who had tried to ride her.

  They were squared off at each other, like boxers gone to separate corners to wait for the next round.

  Madeline put Mason down, but he didn’t go anywhere.

  “I was afraid this whole business was a bad idea, Jack,” she said to Dad, as if I weren’t there.

  “Well, we’re all pretty rattled now, Madeline,” Dad said, pulling a piece of straw out of her tangled red hair. “Why don’t we go inside where it’s warm, and we can talk about this calmly?”

  Dad reached down and patted Mason on the back. “I’ll bet we can talk Lizzy into making us hot chocolate. What do you think, Mason?”

  Mason didn’t answer.

  “It’s all my fault,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just didn’t want—” I stopped myself before I said didn’t want Mason to get hurt. I knew that was exactly what Madeline worried about every single day—that Mason would get hurt.

  I couldn’t blame her.

  Mason has a lot of problems. Something happened to him when he was a baby, something Madeline won’t talk about. And whatever it was hurt his brain. Neurological damage, Dad calls it. He says Madeline is trying not to be overprotective, but it’s not easy.

  “I know you mean well, Winnie,” she said. Her mouth twitched. I think it was her way of trying to smile. She wiggled her nose, like she was about to sneeze but couldn’t. It made my eyes water. “It’s just that I can’t have Mason around wild animals if—”

  “Yeh-eh-eh-eh!” Annie let out a cry from somewhere outside the barn.

  “Annie!” Between Mason and the foal I’d forgotten the crazy goat.

  Dad stood by Madeline and Mason, looking like he was ready to fend off dragons.

  I dashed out of the barn, around the corner, and—whack!—smack into Eddy Barker.

  Barker had a squirmy black puppy in one hand and the goat in the other. “Lose something?” he asked.

  “Barker!” I cried, taking Annie by the collar.

  Eddy Barker may be the nicest person in Ashland, maybe in all Ohio. His wool mask was pushed back on top of his head. Thick black hair pushed through the eyes and nose holes.

  “Your granny’s goat is something else, Barker,” I said, struggling to hold on to her.

  Catman appeared. “Hey, man!” He lifted the dog from Barker’s arms and held the puppy against his cheek. “Irene’s?”

  Barker nodded, meaning the puppy was one from Irene’s litter. Barker had trained the chocolate Lab for his little brother Mark. When Irene had puppies, Mark got to keep one.

  “Mark named him Zorro,” Barker explained. “We’re trying to get him used to people. Whenever he’s not with Irene, one of us is holding him.”

  I elbowed Catman. “See? That’s like imprinting. Getting him used to people.”

  Dad and Madeline wandered out of the barn with Mason between them.

  “Hi, Mr. Willis! Ms. Edison! How are you doing, Mason?” Barker called.

  Dad and Madeline waved at him, then made their way over to us.

  Annie jerked to get away from me, but I held tight.

  Catman showed Zorro to Mason, but Mason didn’t even seem to notice the puppy.

  “The little fella looks healthy, Eddy,” Dad said, scratching Zorro’s head.

  “He’s doing fine,” Barker said. “I’m headed over to Pat’s Pets to noseprint him.”

  “Did he say noseprint him?” Madeline asked Dad.

  Catman gave Barker the dog back. Zorro wagged his little tail and licked Barker
’s chin.

  “I take imprints of all our dogs’ noses. Each noseprint is unique. No two alike. Like snowflakes.” Barker stared up at Madeline. “What happened to your chin?”

  I looked, and there on Madeline’s chin was a big Snoopy Band-Aid. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. I must not have looked up far enough.

  Catman slipped his arm around Annie’s shoulders and stooped down to a frog position. “Chill, hairy dude. I’ll escort you to your pad.” Catman frog-walked Annie to the barn.

  “Thanks, Catman!” I called after them.

  I moved in for a better look at Madeline’s Band-Aid.

  She fingered the Band-Aid as if she’d forgotten it was there. “My invention.”

  “You invented the Band-Aid?” I asked. She didn’t seem rich. Someone who invented Band-Aids should be rich.

  “The trampoline suit,” Dad said, as if that explained everything.

  Madeline’s eyes got glassy, sort of like Mason’s. “I’ve almost got it. A whole-body suit made of a synthetic I’ve come up with—bounceon. My manufacturing slogan is ‘In the trampoline suit, falling is half the fun!’”

  “It looks like a scuba-diving suit, but the bounceon makes you bounce. I’ve seen Madeline fall backward off a stepladder and bounce back to the first rung!” Dad was whispering, like this was top-secret stuff.

  Madeline paced, dragging Mason along with her. She reminded me of a nervous American Saddle Horse yearling.

  “I never should have gotten injured,” she muttered. “Not from a frontal fall.”

  “Maybe if you made the bounceon thicker?” Dad ventured.

  Madeline fingered her Snoopy Band-Aid as if she hadn’t heard Dad. “I’ve got it! The bounceon! I need to make it thicker! And wear a better helmet with a chin strap.”

  It made me mad that she acted like thicker bounceon was her bright idea.

  A horn beeped. I recognized the ba-ru-ga of the Barker Bus, an old yellow van that Mrs. Barker drives around, filled with Barker boys and dogs.

  I wondered if Madeline knew my dad had invented the dog seat belts in that van.

  Mrs. Barker waved and ba-ru-ga-ed again. She’s so patient though, that even the horn honk sounded nice. Both she and Barker’s dad teach at Ashland University—exotic courses like art and African-American literature. But she still finds time to drive her kids to everything.