The Dream Horse

By Robin Docherty

There was no shame in last place, not more than the averted eye and the quiet un-mention. Slumped shoulders of dejected gamblers clutching pocketbooks, yes, but their ire never against the animal—always ahead, onto the next race, the next odds.

A few times she made it on television, even, a few spirited runs; always pricking her owners' ears with pride at the mention of her name when commentators saw her bringing up the rear. No records nor prize pools, but just for the love of it, the hoofbeats and the hay and the high-noon sun overhead.

Still, healthy and good-natured, a powerful stride and wide stance even as a foal. A piety and grace in her, pounding hooves, and gay enthusiasm. With each shake and whinny through each summer, their love for her grew. Just a little training, they were told, and she'd be near the front.

But she ran only for fun. A filly, with a keen eye and even temper, all too happy to follow instruction, but never with the vigor of the colts around her. Still, she earned her spot in the starting gate on those few, televised occasions. Good genes, they said of her, veiling the polite criticism of her poor record.

No, they finally admitted, her results were mediocre. But with her build and gentle eyes, she was only in need of the right stud and thus they could together create a teachable yearling, capable in body and spirit alike. No wins for her, perhaps, but with sires of competitive spirit, her foals gave gamblers much to cheer, and cheer they did, lending her, by way of motherhood, the credit the grooms of her youth knew she was due. She bore winner upon winner and was, all-of-a-sudden, sought by owners of great stallions, her name only once removed from the winner's circle time and time again.

It was just after her nineteenth winter, a chill clinging to the fir trees. Scarves of snow ringing sturdy trunks. Gifted with the grace of retirement, it was a passive afternoon run. Her breath clouded before her snout, and the familiar swing of her head put a smile to her groom's lips. She nickered and he felt the thrum of the noise in her flank.

'Round a thicket they came and chance reared its ugly head and slipped underhoof. The groom felt her stumble and immediately she began to bray and whinny and squeal, a bolt of stomach-churning fear lancing down his spine. He called the truck and a stable hand, and together they extricated her from the gopher hole, her leg twisted strangely at the knee in a way that made the stable hand avert his eyes.

They thought she might make it. Slings and medicines and x-rays and surgeries and prayers, but all of it for naught. The veterinarian smiled with gently-creased eyes, attempting politeness by way of matter-of-fact honesty. Her owner's hands reflexively clenched one another, a soft, worried whinny from the other side of the stable. The groom stood by, knowing it would be his task to better prepare her owner for the coming inevitability.

It wasn't much of a track—roughshod dirt in a lazy oval just outside the stables—but then she wasn't a runner anymore, either. The awkward, limping lap took a few somber minutes. The veterinarian lightly protested but gave up quickly, her sentimentality getting the best of her professionalism as she saw the creature try, leading the groom as best she could rather than the other way around. It had been a stable hand's idea, her owner nodding, yes, yes, one last time, but it was the creature's desire most of all.

Steam clouded 'round her nose in the crisp morning air as she avoided the injured leg. The veterinarian could already see signs in the other three limbs that they were taking up the slack and worse for it. The groom gently led her back and the veterinarian set her down in the warmth of the hay. Tears all 'round, pricking the eyes of owner and stable hand alike. She bayed softly as the veterinarian took from her bag the syringe of purple. It's time, she said.

A cloud of breath and frosted memory, gilded in snow and pedigree. A starting gate marks the beginning, but a tear-on-cheek and name whispered in love mark better than any finish line, the end.