Stay With Me

Important Author's Note at the bottom.

Meeting

As the emaciated thoroughbred limped off the trailer, head hanging low, dull eyes, and protruding bones as if a walking skeleton, the girl standing there holding the lead line to the other rescued horse gasped and blinked the tears out of her eyes. Thinking of his poisoned life, from the racetrack to the abandoned and starved fields with eleven other horses to fight against for the bark of trees, eating their own manure for survival, and the water that were up to their knees, it broke her heart and had her secretly whispering an oath to promise his life to go up hill from here. An oath that promised him a better life and the love and care he needed.  From the horse that looked near death, the rotten skin, the starved body, the swollen ankles, and the flies that seemed to swarm only him, there was a glint in his eyes; behind the famished gleam was a look of gratitude, a look of happiness and knowingness that we were there to help.

“I’ll give him a fifty/fifty chance of survival. Even if he does, don’t have a clue what you are going to do with him. No one wants a 17 hand tall, starved Thoroughbred on their hands, especially one that will probably just pull money out of your pocket and be unrideable after everything,” a lady said, looking questionably to the director of the rescue.

“I’m giving him a chance, Lara. That’s what everyone will think, and this is why he is the one. Out of all eleven horses on the scene up at the SPCA, he was the worst one, cribbing on the pole, already looking like he was embracing death. Give him a chance; he was the first I picked. Then came the other two over there,” Cynthia said pointing to the other two much smaller Thoroughbreds. “That one came right up to me at the fence. I could basically tell he was calling out to me ‘Take me home, please. I’ll be a good boy, just take me home.’ How could I have denied? He was also with the other geldings, so I picked the worst after him.” She pointed at a nineteen year old, scraggly thoroughbred that seemed as if daydreaming and with his ears slightly pinned back.

“Riley! Take these two to the pasture; Wiley and Cypress are already in the round pen. Then take out some Timothy and T/A hay from the feed and sprinkle it about in the pasture. Get them moving and comfortable. I’ll deal with this one, here,” Cynthia asked.

“Yes, ma’am!” replied the girl who was holding the lead rope to one of the two. She carefully grabbed the other nineteen year old and held them each on different sides.

“Now you listen here, if you two spook or nip one another I’ll be thoroughbred sandwich. Just walk past this turnout and you’ll be at your new home until someone comes by and sees the pretty glint in your eye. Then you will be whisked away to a forever home that you horses deserve,” Riley stated firmly, trying to give a kiss the one of the two. He quickly jerked his muzzle to the side, causing the girl to bark a laugh. “I understand, personal space and all.”

Once she reached the pasture, seeing Wiley and Cypress – the original rescued pair that work as the advertisement for fundraisers and trained therapy horses – sticking their head way up high, in that regal arch of masculinity. 

“Poor you two! Having been locked away in a cramped round pen and then having crazy people allowing new horses to invade your home that you can't protect? What is this madness?” the girl teased the two.

She walked the two new horses around then slowly released them. They immediately paired up and went to go venture to the herd leaders. Wiley was the head dominant, while Cypress was second in command. They arched their necks further, touching noses. Then, Wiley squealed and lunged to the younger fellow. He retreated reaching out to kick, lucky unharmed and the fencing still up as a decent barrier.