Thirteen
THIRTEEN
Strings,
I’m on the roof at the moment. Sitting up here, I can see the fields behind the house stretching out, rolling and dipping with gentle hills. Here in just a bit, the sun will slip behind the horizon and the sky will explode with color, especially your favorite. That’s when the nighttime song begins. The bird and ranch sounds fade and the nighttime critters start their gentle roar. When I listen closely, I hear the high notes, the low, the harmonies, the rhythms.
I can’t help but think of you. The pink sky, the song all around—seems like the evenings at the ranch were made for you, Strings.
Full disclosure, I also like being on the roof because Cooper will walk right by and never see me up here. Ha ha.
Alright, as promised, I’ll tell you about my horse, Tillie.
A few months back, I was at a feedlot with Judd. We were there auctioning off some cattle. And I’d brought my savings to see if I could find myself my very own horse. Well, there was a bay mare pacing alone in a pen (bay means brown with a strong black hue, almost black mane and tail). I crept as close as I could, making sure to keep out of her reach. She was stamping the ground and tossing her head. Whoever owned her before had hurt her. I knew because she had tiny white scars all over her flanks, a few on her withers. Like someone had hit her with something and broken her skin, over and over. Patches of her mane were missing, and her ribs were visible, too.
No one was going to buy her. Horses like her were snatched up at low prices by slaughterhouses. If I didn’t do something, she’d be carted off to Mexico and turned into meat patties. I know that’s the way of things in this industry. Some people see the animals as work tools—once they break, they’re thrown away. For example, you’ll see a lot of injured or geriatric horses dumped at feedlots. No one talks about it, but we all know where they go. I hate it. Doesn’t seem fair for an animal who has faithfully served their entire life to get tossed out like a dull blade.
Looking at her, so young and full of life, I knew I had to do something. I got a second chance coming to the ranch, and I wanted her to have that, too.
Judd spent two hours trying to talk me out of it. Said, “I ain't drivin’ all the way back out here ta try'n sell her again. Ya know if ya don’t get her trained—which ya won’t—you’ll have ta shoot her. Big hole ta dig, son. Back-breakin’ work.”
I found another horse, a painted gelding. Almost bought him, but I couldn’t. Compassion twisted in me to the point I thought I was going to be sick. I knew I’d regret walking out with anything besides her. Since no one else was bidding, I got her at a steal.
Getting her into a trailer was a disaster. Judd was cussing the horse, cussing me, but I didn’t care. I had no plans to dig a hole.
Tillie just needed a friend. For a whole two weeks, I sat on the fence near her. Then I started creeping up and offering apples. Usually chunk by chunk scattered through the pasture between her and me. Once she realized I wasn’t going to hurt her, she let me get a little closer everyday. It took me a lot of nights and a whole lot of apples to get her to let me touch her between the eyes. But now, when she hears me whistle, she flips her tail.
Cowboys have a habit of clicking their tongues constantly around the horses. I figured out pretty fast that Tillie doesn’t like that. Whoever hurt her must’ve made that sound or maybe even had a hand clicker. I stopped using it immediately when I saw how agitated it made her. Won’t lie, it is a hard habit to break. But she likes being talked to. So, I talk to her in as gentle of a voice as I can.
Everyone around here knows Tillie is my horse. Maybe it’s weird to love a horse, but I do love her. We don’t have everything perfect yet, but all the training will come with time and a lot of patience.
Does your family have any animals?
I laughed reading about your sprinkle obsession. I’ve always thought they kind of taste like dye, maybe? I cannot fathom eating them by the handful. Ha ha. I shouldn’t be surprised though. You love color—it only makes sense you’d like the way color tastes, too. From now on, any time I see sprinkles, I’ll think of you.
To answer your question, my favorite ice cream flavor is Praline Pecan. But maybe that’s because it’s the only flavor my Gran will buy.
We are branding new calves this weekend. I hate branding, so I'll be looking forward to your letter. Hope yours is fun.
I have to go because it’s getting dark now. And your song is playing. I’m going to listen for a while then head inside.
Scribbs