Most Horses Are Born Without Stripes

Most horses are born without stripes. Those who do have stripes are not horses at all. I am not a horse. That much, I am sure. But maybe, just maybe, anyone could be a horse if they tried hard enough.

And boy, did I try.

It was quiet at the ranch. Birds chirped from their perches in nearby trees, while coyotes yapped from somewhere beyond the dull fences of the paddock. A constant hum of cicadas filled the backdrop of the soundscape. My tail, short and skinny without much hair but the tuft at the end, swatted at pesky flies as I grazed. Dry grass swept against my ankles at every step. A cloudless sky stretched above me, filled with the radiating heat of the afternoon sun. A thick layer of dried mud clung to my pelt and clotted my short, bristly mane, which I was convinced could defy gravity the way it stood on end. I hated it. Not so much the mane – though I hated that too – but the grime. It trapped me in a horrible itchy cocoon of discomfort and misery. And yet, I kept it. I kept myself in this awful cocoon, maintaining a constant layer of grime on my coat.

"Y'know, Pais," Betsy often said with a gentle smile that never quite touched her eyes. "Everybody already knows you're a zebra. You don't needa hide it. B'sides, its such a shame to go coverin' up those pretty stripes."

I wondered about that often. Why did I hide my stripes? It was an answer I could never quite put into words. Yet, somewhere deep down, I already knew. But before I could even think of what to say next, Maverick, the owner of the ranch, stepped out of the barn with a saddle in his arms and a bridle hung over his shoulder. He swung the gate open, and his gaze wandered the paddock before landing on me with a look of intent that I'd come to recognise quite well.

When I met his gaze, my head lifted, and my ears swiveled to point at my rear. A feeling of dread settled in the pit of my stomach. I bit back a curse. This time, I thought. This time ill do it. I must. It's the only way.

Walking in my direction, the rancher set the saddle down in the grass a couple paces away and took the bridle in his hand. His steps were cautious as he approached, his free hand outstretched.

"Easy, boy," he said gently.

I tensed, my hooves shuffling uneasily. My instinct screamed to run, and my legs yearned to kick and bolt as far away as possible. My ears lay flat against my neck, my jaw tight and my eyes wary. I willed myself to heed to his words. This is Maverick, said the same voice in my mind in a desperate plea of rationality. You know him. He's safe. The other horses don't have any problems with it, so why should you?

He lifted the bridle to my face. The bit clanged awfully against my teeth as it shoved itself in my mouth. The discomfort that this stupid piece of metal brought me was worse than twenty years of mud-covered fur. Worse than two years under the blazing sun. The leather straps of the bridle wrapped my face, making sure to poke my eye and bend my ear painfully in the process. Suddenly, the saddle was thrown over my back. In an instant, my body reacted before my mind, sending a powerful kick into the empty space behind me. The saddle thudded in the dirt, and before I knew it, I had sped halfway across the paddock. The bridle shook loose, clanging one last time against my teeth before falling to the ground.

"These damn zebras," Maverick cursed in outrage, slapping whatever he had been carrying into the dirt. "That's it! I've had it wit'chu!"

I could almost see the steam rising off Maverick as he snatched the saddle and bridle from the dirt and stormed over to Maybelle.

Maybelle, much like the other horses, had been watching this whole ordeal from her patch of grass some distance away. Her unsteady eyes followed the rancher, her ears turning and her tail swatting this way and that. Paisley noted how her emotions painted themselves on her face; an unmistakable "uh oh" expression with a mixture of dread, confusion, and a little fear. It was a feeling I could relate to.

Maverick threw the saddle onto Maybelle's back – a little more forcefully than when he had done it to me – and yanked the sinch tight. The rest of the tack followed suit, and in one swift motion, he stepped into the stirrup and swung his other leg over her back. On his way out, he grabbed some rope that hung over a fence post and slammed the gate shut behind him.

With a spur to the gut, the two sped off into the prairies.

-:-

It had been hours since they left. By then, the sun had begun to sink into the hills, filling the sky with its yellow glow. The cicadas had stopped their steady buzz, and the birds, the ones that hooted and crowed, replaced the ones that sung and chirped this afternoon. The coyotes continued yapping somewhere out in the prairies, and my sharp ears caught a single distinct yowl of what I suspected was a large cat stalking through the grass.

Maverick and Maybelle returned with another horse I had never seen before, which they dragged into the empty paddock next to ours. As soon as the lasso came off the newcomer's neck and the gate shut behind her, she darted along the fence, neighing and kicking and throwing a fit not unlike how I had behaved this afternoon. There was a wild look in her eye that filled me with curiosity.

Later that night, after the light of the sun had long since vanished and the ranch was sound asleep, another horse emerged from the darkness. Except, he was not a horse. He had stripes.

Overwhelming curiosity drove me right up to the fence until my chest pressed against the wooden beams. With my ears perked and my eyes wide, I watched him lift his nose to catch the scents in the breeze. He nickered to Gypsy, the new recruit, and she paced impatiently along the fence in response.

Slowly, cautiously, he came up to her enclosure; to the gate that kept her there. To my surprise, he managed to pop open the latch with his mouth and the gate swung open. Gypsy bolted without a moment's hesitation.

The stranger looked at me for a long moment. His expression I could not decipher before he turned and walked away, disappearing back into the darkness.

After what felt like another whole eternity, Betsy's voice broke the silence.

"Y'saw him too, didn'tchu?" she said from somewhere behind me.

I nodded, unable to tear my eyes away from where they had been. Only then, had I noticed it had begun to rain. And for the first time in my life since I was a foal, I did not scramble to shelter or roll in the nearest mud patch. I didn't even care if the mud on my coat washed away.

Suddenly, a panicked neigh pierced through the quiet and I whirled around just in time to see Maybelle buck a puma off her rump and bolt as far away as possible, making enough noise to jolt everyone else awake. Much like Maybelle, Buck and Chico woke in a panic, rearing and neighing and skittering away from the cat.

The puma landed in the grass with a thud. It recovered quickly and began to prowl our paddock with its head low and ears up. Its eyes eventually settled on me.

When I met its gaze, my ears flattened against my neck and my tail lashed at the air. The cat made a wide arc around me - or tried to at least - but my reflex kicked in again and I charged straight at it. As I did, I noticed vaguely the trickle of rainwater down my body as it thinned away my mud-cocoon.

The puma darted out of the way, narrowly avoiding getting trampled. While my back was turned, it took the opportunity to latch onto my rear and dig its claws into my upper thigh. Right away I was bucking like crazy, trying and failing to shake it off. With an angry huff, I rolled onto my back and back up again. The puma did not get crushed, unfortunately, but it did lose its grip when it hit the ground. It scrambled back up before I could stomp it and hastily retreated as I chased it back out the open gate, nipping at the air mere inches from its tail.

I did a victory bray, a sound I had detested for most of my life. It was very un-horse-like, and if anything, I sounded more like a donkey than a horse. But today, I didn't care. Again, I felt the muddy water continue to trickle down my legs, and I relished in the rare feeling of having fresh air grace my fur, my skin. I had almost forgotten how good it felt; how liberating it was. I swung the gate shut, and when I turned to face the horses, I noticed faint white lines on Betsy's otherwise pitch-black coat. Had they always been there? Wait a minute...

Maverick stumbled out of the house in his pyjamas and cocked the shotgun in his hand. "What in tarnation is goin' on out here?" he demanded.

Betsy broke into a whinnying, rearing cheer. The horses joined in.