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Margaret Schnall: The next part of "All the Dead Horses" . I did make some minor changes in the earlier parts (I'm assuming they're still available or I can repost them if this needs to be reintroduced)
Gloria Wagner took great pride in her family’s heritage. She liked to point out to anyone who cared to listen, or couldn’t escape, that her great grandmother was a Gunn. And that Emily Dickinson’s grandmother was a Gunn. The implications were enormous.
Gloria was also descended from one of the original settlers in the area that became the town of Prescott. When searching for a new name for the moribund Stony Trails Stables, she had first selected “Founder Fields” so that she might “pay homage to her illustrious ancestor”. Iris had carefully reminded her that ‘founder’, being a serious disease of horses, was probably not a good choice. Although it was probably better than misspelling of the business’ previous name on the original sign at the end of the drive: “Stony Trials”.
The two women paused at a paddock where a young stallion stood contemplating a mare two paddocks away.
May looked at the little horse, who had given up on the mare and had returned to his hay.
“It would really suck if I had to find another place.” She looked back at Iris. “I’m not sure I could keep my business going.”
“I’ll see what I can do about Gloria. She just doesn’t think to tell me anything. And then when stuff hits the fan, she insists she already told me.
“Anyway, I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Thanks, it’s appreciated.”
Over May’s shoulder Iris could see a man approaching the paddock.
“Oh, it looks like Dennis is here to see his investment. I’d better get back to the barn, good luck.”
Dennis stared morosely at his four year old Hanoverian stallion prospect. Finishing his morning hay, the dark bay Cameo was a gleaming picture of health in the early autumn sun.
The young horse displayed classic Hanoverian type: sturdy with substantial bone, the arch of his neck blending into a well angled shoulder and short back. All in all, a handsome horse, all 14.2 hands
[1] of him.
The source of Dennis’ mood was that nobody would be interested in a Hanoverian sire that was such a small horse.
[2] And getting the breed inspectors to approve him seemed a dismal prospect. His investment in the promising, well-bred weanling didn’t seem to be working out. At four years the horse had already done most of his growing and wasn’t likely to increase significantly.
May could read Dennis’ mood. She knew he was thinking about cutting his losses and May was loath to lose a good client. A good client being one that paid bills on time and didn’t bug her too much.
“Cameo’s really doing well, his counter canter is getting pretty solid and I think I’ll introduce flying changes next month,” she offered.
Cameo had left his hay and was investigating Dennis’ coffee cup. Dennis moved the cup to his left hand, but Cameo was undeterred. He young stallion nosed at Dennis’ pockets, looking for carrots. There usually was a carrot. Or an apple. Or candy.
Dennis __ earned a good living as an equine dentist. It kept him on the road most of the time, but he was able to stop in about once a week. For the past year he’d been making noises about selling the young horse. But May knew he was fond of Cameo who’d follow him around like a big dog.
May debated having him ride his own horse. For all his horse experience, very little of it was as a rider and the colt was green enough for occasional unpredictability. And, even with Cameo’s well-sprung ribs,
Dennis’ feet would hang well below the little stallion’s belly. Truth be told, he was a bit small for May as well.
Still, May had hopes to compete the horse in recognized shows. If he did well, he might attract a buyer, while at the same time advancing May’s reputation as a trainer. She just needed Dennis to continue to pay the bills. She had proposed this plan to Dennis a month before, and was still waiting on an answer. While Dennis was making up his mind, May had decided to go ahead as though the plan was set.
As Iris returned to her barn, she noticed Lydia’s pick up truck as well as Ron’s car in the parking area. Ron had, no doubt, timed his arrival to coincide with Madeline’s lesson. He liked to observe, and later, tell Madeline where Lydia had it wrong. He had once contradicted Lydia during a lesson and she had torn him a new one on the spot, beginning with “Ron, you’re a moron.” And then she got nasty.
Floyd thought Ron had gotten off easy, remarking, somewhat cryptically Iris thought, “You don’t screw with Lydia. She’s got a swamp behind her house.” What puzzled Iris about that was that she had been to Lydia’s home, and there was nothing behind the house except the six – stall barn, paddocks and a board fenced pasture. No swamp.
The upshot of this was that Ron now avoided direct contact with Lydia, which suited her just fine. He generally waited until the lesson was underway before taking up a position near ‘B’
[3] by a large oak tree. It looked like he was ready to hide behind the tree if Lydia got too close.
Today’s lesson hadn’t really begun yet; it looked like Madeline was still in the warm up phase.
Iris walked into the barn to find Floyd and Ron in what was looking like a heated discussion.
She recognized the tone of the conversation; Ron was probably trying to ‘help’ Floyd again. The last thing Floyd ever wanted was Ron’s help. Ron’s idea of ‘help’ was to nag someone someone into taking on a large project, and once the project was underway, disappear.
“Well, Ron, you really don’t need to worry about it.”
“That red maple is dangerous, it’s poisonous,” insisted Ron, pointing in the general direction of the road, his eyes wide in as expression that Iris associated with incipient mental illness.
Ron was on his toxic tree
[4] rampage again and Iris decided to jump in; she’d seen Floyd use a chain saw and it wasn’t anything she’d care to see again.
Even dead sober the man was a danger to every fence post, shed, and car in the vicinity. Horses generally stayed out of the way when Floyd had a chain saw.
“If you guys are talking about the maple at the end of the driveway, even if it ever fell over, it’s not tall enough to reach any of the paddocks. And, it’s not a red maple, it’s a Norway maple that happens to be red.”
Ron frowned. “I’m sure you’re wrong.”
Iris felt determined to stand her ground on this one. She realized that she would be the one doing the bulk of the work. She decided to take a page from Lydia’s book.
“Ron, you’re a moron.”
Ron stared at her as though she’d announced her upcoming trip to Mars.
“Madeline is expecting me,” he declared and retreated from the barn.
Iris glanced at Floyd to find him grinning at her. He’d been present the first time Ron heard a speech beginning that way. “Ooooo.”
[1] Horses are measured in hands: from the ground to the highest point of the withers. A hand is four inches and the dot is not a decimal point; rather, 14.2 is 14 hands, 2 inches.
Spoken: “He’s fourteen-two.”
[2] Hanoverians are large horse, typically in excess of 16 hands. A horse that measures 14.2 is, by definition, a pony.
[3] A dressage ring is marked by the letters AKEHCMBF, designating specific spots on the border of the arena.
The large dressage arena also uses RSVP.
[4] The red maple, Acer rubrum , is toxic to horses if they consume the wilted leaves.
