Heart and Soul (rewrite)

Chapter Eight

I had found my calling. As the polo season progressed the games grew tougher, the ponies smarter and stronger, the riders more competent. Now, I couldn't always ride a horse off the line, though I tried my best.

Although I galloped in polo, I could never reach a full out sprint. I never had time. We would shoot off after the ball, and I would just begin to open my stride, then Mom would pull me up to turn, or I would overshoot the ball.

When I wasn't playing and I stood at the trailer, my lead rope held by Owen or Annie, depending on who was doing what, I watched Rex or Doxie with envy. They would gallop full force down the field, never having to stop until they did a full lap. When Annie would untie Doxie and leap on board I would nicker.

Take me. I can run too.

One day, my chance came. Doxie had come out of the field lame, a rock lodged in her shoe, so she couldn't come. She stayed home with Rex, while Paloma, Vikingo and I trailered to the field in relative silence. We unloaded, and a boy biked up to Annie.

"My Dad got a brand new polo pony from Argentina, and he's so fast, he can leave all your horses in the dust."

Annie being Annie stuck out her bottom lip. "Doxie is the fastest horse I've ever ridden. And I've ridden a lot of horses."

Ten year olds, I've discovered, are the equivalent of yearlings. They brag, stretch the truth, make bets, and have boundless energy. They're some of my favorite people.

The boy snorted. "Prove it."

"Doxie got hurt." Annie replied, and the boy snorted again. I could tell he didn't believe her. But I wanted Annie to win this bet, so I whinnied. She looked at me, and a smile came over her face as realization dawned. "But Charm is a close second!"

Second? I could beat the socks off Doxie. They scheduled a race at midnight, as neither of them were supposed to ride us. I played that game decently, but my mind was on the race. When we came home and I was turned out I practiced lengthening my stride, but the field was too small to reach top speed. Doxie laughed at me.

"Getting ready for a race? You're a polo pony now, in case you forgot!" She chuckled to herself from where she stood below the twisted oak three.

"I know." I grumbled, knowing she would jealous if she found out Annie was riding me.

That night, at midnight, Annie crept out of the house. She arrived at my stall and rubbed my nose.

"Ready, Whiskey girl?"

She hummed my song as she put on her light saddle and rummaged for a big enough girth. I was reminded of my times at the track before a race, the grooms buzzing like bees around me. She fumbled with my bridle in the dark, and the throat latch ended up twisted in the process, but within ten minutes she was buckling her helmet on and leading me to the block.

We met in the fields behind Annie's farm, a rolling sea of grass hidden behind hills. It was perfect. I snorted and pawed, sensing Annie's nervousness. Sensing the embarrassment if she lost.

The boy appeared a few minutes later, perched atop a skinny grey stallion. His head jerked up when he spotted me and he began to jig, snorting. The boy yanked harshly on the severe bit in the grey stallion's mouth and he squealed, threatening to rear. I stood quietly now, watching him, unconsciously angling my hindquarters away from him.

"Ready?" The boy asked, struggling to hold the horse. Annie nodded, patting my neck.

"On my mark." He began, crouching over the horse's neck, but still keeping a tight grip on the reins. Annie mirrored him, but held the reins loosely. She trusted me. "Get set." I tensed my muscles, sensing the tension. The stallion was becoming upset, pawing viciously, snorting and squealing, staring at me. The boy suddenly slammed his heels into the stallions ribs and the horse erupted forward.

"Go!" He called over his shoulder. Annie growled, then her heels whispered up my sides.

"Come on, Whiskey! Let's show them what a real horse can do!"

I rocketed away so quickly Annie nearly toppled off, but she leaned forward, wrapped her hands in a chunk of my mane, and squeezed me again.

I complied, feeling the wind in my tail and hearing it roar in my ears, telling me how glad it was I was back. I opened my stride even more, catching up the stallion. My muzzle was just behind him, then at the point of his hip, then at the boy's stirrup, then at the stallion's shoulder. The boy thumped the stallion in the ribs again and the grey horse spurted forward, but I could tell he was more interested in me than a race. He was a polo pony, not a blue grass Thoroughbred. I was bred and born to win, he was bred and born to play.

I overtook him and extended even more, and soon he was well behind me. Annie ran her hand down my neck, still clutching the reins. We passed a pink ribbon billowing in the cool night air and she stood up in her stirrups to pull me up. I fought her for a few strides, then fell into a trot, and finally a walk. She gave me my head and I stretched my neck, breathing hard, exhilaration flooding my veins.

The grey stallion galloped past the pink ribbon, and spooked violently as it fluttered into his sight. He stepped quickly sideways and the boy was dislodged, at which point the stallion came at me. I gave a solid kick and heard it connect in his chest and he fell back, puzzled. Annie flapped her arms at him and he spun around, taking off, and was lost to sight in moments. The boy gave a cry of despair.

"Home's miles away! I'll never make it back before sunrise."

Annie sighed, then pushed me sideways towards the boy.

"Get on, I'll take you home."

Ten year olds, I've discovered, are the equivalent of yearlings. They brag, stretch the truth, make bets, and have boundless energy, but their capacity to forgive is enormous. They're some of my favorite people.