The Gift

Kristina Bush

One cool spring morning, my dad poked his head into my bedroom and chimed April dropped her foal! This is a very tactile country expression for the birth of a four-legged creature whose mother is tall and too agitated during birth to usher the little one gently into its first meeting with the earth. But life is resilient. At my first attempt to race out the back door, mom chided You put on a real pair of shoesno flip-flops in the pasture. I made the quick, clumsy exchange and bolted down the slope of the back yard to the pasture. At first sight, I stood breathlessly. Id never seen a majestic creature in such raw infancy. Her nose was very wet as it pushed puffs of fog forward and out through the chilled, dewy air. Her eyes shined just as wetly as her nose, but, hooded in sweeping lashes, they gave the unassuming gaze of a giraffe calmly surveying the savannah. She must have been born an hour or so ago, for some of her fur was still matted and damp, while some had the fuzzy, light look of a fresh bath. The lean muscle of her long, slender thigh met her protrusive hip bone and finished with a tail like a toddler's ponytail-- springy, and altogether ready to dance. Blinking out of my awe, I switched off the electricity of the fence and climbed through the wires to meet the mare and her infant filly. My feet crunched over the frosty crust of the lumpy mud, grass, and manure before reaching the mare, the fur of her neck still wavy with mother's sweat of labor. "Good job, Mama," I crooned as I stroked the flat of Aprils cheek. I knelt beside the foal in my pajama pants and laid my hands tentatively on her side. She startled, then complied. She was soft camel-colored with an auburn mane and tail and a single white dot on her side where I laid my

cheek and inhaled deeply. How could something so new already exude the sweet smell of hay and oats and fur and dirt? "So, what do we call her?" my dad asked through a smile. "Dot," I answered quickly, softly. "We'll call her Dot." She was my first baby horse and I was absolutely love-struck. I always wanted a horse to connect with at such a young age, a horse to grow up with. I wanted to lie down with her in the stable, her soft ribs gently rocking me as she breathed in and out, in and out, the intoxicating fragrance of fresh straw and sunlight beaming through the cracks in the barn walls lulling us both to sleep. I wanted to have that kind of trust with a full grown horse-- that special bond that transcends species and inspires heartbreaking novels. Unfortunately, I was too young to know that life is not a storybook. As the days lengthened and the mercury rose through the summer, I spent every waking moment with her. Her mama, April, should not have foaled at her age and did not have the energy to play with her. After nursing, she would nudge or kick Dot away, preferring to stand alone and rest between feedings. I was thrilled at the opportunity to be Dots playmate, chasing her around the pasture and trilling with laughter when she chased me back, kicking up tufts of grass as she sprang away sideways and circled back to nuzzle my tee shirt sleeve. She thinks Im a horse! I would brag to my parents and siblings, sure they would be jealous that wed developed such a special bond. One ninety degree day, as the sun settled over Adams field and the muggy heat began sinking into a dewy evening, I carried a load of fresh hay down to the back pasture. As I lowered myself to step through the fencing wires, Dot approached me by prancing sideways, already eager to frolic

after a long, hot day of rejection from mom. Before I could stand up fully to greet her, I felt a hard pinch on the side of my arm. Ow! I yelled, dropping the hay flakes to rub my arm, which began to bruise immediately. Did you just bite me? She jumped and sprang away, cheerily inviting a playful chase. I picked up the hay and continued toward the manger as she approached again, this time turning just a few feet away from me and kicking me in the hip with her hind legs. I stumbled and nearly fell, backing away as I saw her turn to approach again, this time more boldly than before. I ran and dove through the fence wires in time to dodge her third advance. You taught her to horseplay with humans, said dad as I begged to go into the pasture for the next mornings feeding. She needs to settle down for a while, and I dont want you getting hurt in there. Meanwhile, Aprils health was declining. She was shedding excessively and her ribs were becoming more visible through her hide. Her teats hung exhaustedly from her underbelly, selflessly providing more nourishment to her budding offspring than she could spare. Her eyes became dazed, unfocused, as they dispiritedly observed nothing beyond the ground before her. Over the fence, I lifted handfuls of bright green grass, juicy red apples, oats coated in molasses anything that would tempt her to take sustenance. She was unmoved. Unlike a human, an animal knows when it is time to die. At the first sight of Dot eating oats in place of mothers milk, the call was placed to Dr. Trupianos country veterinary office. My parents sent me to a friends house to stay the night so I wouldnt see Aprils half-ton body dropped clumsily to the ground with a lethal injection before being loaded onto a flatbed truck and sent away for processing. I was eight years old, and I knew exactly where dead horses were shipped. Before I left, my mother and I took her for a farewell walk around perimeter of the house. She moved along slowly enough for me to sob into her neck, her broad shoulder, her flat cheek, her soft muzzle.

After one too many bruised tailbones and bitten fingers, it was decided that Dot needed to be broken by a more experienced trainer. My parents found a buyer and I watched through bitter tears from the front picture window as they loaded her into a rusty, dull red trailer and hauled her away to her next home. I imagine that shes somewhere now, eighteen years oldbeyond middle aged but younger than her 22-year-old mother who literally gave her life that she might live. I hope her barn has worn wooden slats for the sun to beam through, flies buzzing in and out of the windows and fresh straw wafting through sleepy air. I hope she learned the boundaries and the boundlessness of human affection, and that someone might lay a cheek on that small white spot from time to time and breathe in her sweet smell. I hope that they still call her Dot.