Squire.”
“Um…sure,” I say. I look in alarm toward thehouse, wondering if I can stall a bit because now I’m at least as concerned about the child as I am about the horse.
“Hang on,” Eugenie says before turning and disappearing inside the house. When she returns, a man’s flannel shirt hangs around her shoulders.
“He’s this way,” she says, walking past me and down the stairs.
She leads me around the side of the house toward a white cement-brick building that looks like a garage. I limp behind, as quickly as my hip will allow.
She comes to a stop outside the garage. It’s even more dilapidated than the house—surely the horse isn’t in here?
I glance at her with wide eyes and step up to the doorway. That’s when the smell hits me.
“Sweet Jesus!” I exclaim, stepping back and gagging. And it’s not just that I’ve been primed by Fear Factor —the interior reeks so fiercely of ammonia my eyes and nostrils sting.
“I know it’s not the cleanest,” she says.
“Not the cleanest?” I stare in disbelief. She gazes at the ground in either indifference or defiance.
I throw her one final look of incredulity, take a deep breath, and step inside.
There’s one window at the very back of the cement brick structure. By its dim light I make out an enclosure and step closer.
It’s a makeshift stall set up in the corner, the boards nailed haphazardly to a wooden post. I catch sight of white hide and a single shining eye. I’m almost out of oxygen, but I lean forward and peer through the slats.
Inside is a tiny creature, no more than thirteen handshigh, bedraggled, and clearly skeletal despite his hugely distended belly. His feet are completely obscured by slimy muck. It’s at least a foot deep.
I’ve run out of breath without noticing and gasp in a lungful of contaminated air. I turn back to the doorway, toward the woman who lets him live like this. “Get him out of here.”
“What?”
“Please. Just get him out,” I say, staggering past her to the fresh air. I stand doubled over, hands on my thighs, struggling for breath.
Eugenie disappears around the side of the building and returns with a piece of knotted twine.
“What’s that?” I say, pointing at it.
“It’s a halter.”
“No it’s not.”
“It’s all I’ve got,” she says.
She approaches the stall slowly, timidly even. She fumbles with the latch, which appears to be stuck. The second she gets it open, the pony blasts through the door and out of the building. His parting gesture is to shoot a hind hoof at my face—I fall back against the outside wall to avoid being hit.
Despite his initial steam, he comes to a stop about thirty feet away, at the first clump of sorry grass.
His legs are wet and dark almost up to his knees. His hipbones stick out like wings behind a belly as grossly swollen as Maisie’s. He eyes us warily, swirling his ropy tail in circles. Out in the open, he looks so much worse I realize I can’t possibly leave him here tonight. The paddock wouldn’t hold him, and there’s no way I can allow him to go back into that garage.
I spin around to Eugenie. She’s scowling into the wind, hugging the flannel shirt against herself.
“What?” she says, as though she has no idea.
The second I get out of here, I’m calling Child Protective Services.
I turn away from her and step toward the pony, carefully, approaching from the side. He keeps working the tuft of grass, but his left pupil is aimed right at me. When I get within eight feet his ears fall back.
“Easy, boy,” I say, stopping. “Easy.”
I take a few tentative steps forward, holding out my hand.
He lifts his muzzle a few inches from the ground and holds it there, pinning his ears. Then WHOOSH! A hind leg snaps out, narrowly missing my ear.
“Whoa!” I take a long step backward and look over my shoulder at Eugenie, who is still scowling. “Got any grain?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“What the hell is
“Um…sure,” I say. I look in alarm toward thehouse, wondering if I can stall a bit because now I’m at least as concerned about the child as I am about the horse.
“Hang on,” Eugenie says before turning and disappearing inside the house. When she returns, a man’s flannel shirt hangs around her shoulders.
“He’s this way,” she says, walking past me and down the stairs.
She leads me around the side of the house toward a white cement-brick building that looks like a garage. I limp behind, as quickly as my hip will allow.
She comes to a stop outside the garage. It’s even more dilapidated than the house—surely the horse isn’t in here?
I glance at her with wide eyes and step up to the doorway. That’s when the smell hits me.
“Sweet Jesus!” I exclaim, stepping back and gagging. And it’s not just that I’ve been primed by Fear Factor —the interior reeks so fiercely of ammonia my eyes and nostrils sting.
“I know it’s not the cleanest,” she says.
“Not the cleanest?” I stare in disbelief. She gazes at the ground in either indifference or defiance.
I throw her one final look of incredulity, take a deep breath, and step inside.
There’s one window at the very back of the cement brick structure. By its dim light I make out an enclosure and step closer.
It’s a makeshift stall set up in the corner, the boards nailed haphazardly to a wooden post. I catch sight of white hide and a single shining eye. I’m almost out of oxygen, but I lean forward and peer through the slats.
Inside is a tiny creature, no more than thirteen handshigh, bedraggled, and clearly skeletal despite his hugely distended belly. His feet are completely obscured by slimy muck. It’s at least a foot deep.
I’ve run out of breath without noticing and gasp in a lungful of contaminated air. I turn back to the doorway, toward the woman who lets him live like this. “Get him out of here.”
“What?”
“Please. Just get him out,” I say, staggering past her to the fresh air. I stand doubled over, hands on my thighs, struggling for breath.
Eugenie disappears around the side of the building and returns with a piece of knotted twine.
“What’s that?” I say, pointing at it.
“It’s a halter.”
“No it’s not.”
“It’s all I’ve got,” she says.
She approaches the stall slowly, timidly even. She fumbles with the latch, which appears to be stuck. The second she gets it open, the pony blasts through the door and out of the building. His parting gesture is to shoot a hind hoof at my face—I fall back against the outside wall to avoid being hit.
Despite his initial steam, he comes to a stop about thirty feet away, at the first clump of sorry grass.
His legs are wet and dark almost up to his knees. His hipbones stick out like wings behind a belly as grossly swollen as Maisie’s. He eyes us warily, swirling his ropy tail in circles. Out in the open, he looks so much worse I realize I can’t possibly leave him here tonight. The paddock wouldn’t hold him, and there’s no way I can allow him to go back into that garage.
I spin around to Eugenie. She’s scowling into the wind, hugging the flannel shirt against herself.
“What?” she says, as though she has no idea.
The second I get out of here, I’m calling Child Protective Services.
I turn away from her and step toward the pony, carefully, approaching from the side. He keeps working the tuft of grass, but his left pupil is aimed right at me. When I get within eight feet his ears fall back.
“Easy, boy,” I say, stopping. “Easy.”
I take a few tentative steps forward, holding out my hand.
He lifts his muzzle a few inches from the ground and holds it there, pinning his ears. Then WHOOSH! A hind leg snaps out, narrowly missing my ear.
“Whoa!” I take a long step backward and look over my shoulder at Eugenie, who is still scowling. “Got any grain?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“What the hell is
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