Heart and Soul (rewrite)

Chapter Twenty One

It began with coughing. If I moved too much and stirred the thin blanket of hay atop the wooden floorboards into raising dust, I would find myself struggling to breathe, while racking coughs rushed through my body. Soon, they began to hurt. They would come more and more often, until I didn't even have to move to have an attack. My eyes stung, and it felt as if I couldn't drag enough air into my lungs. My nose was constantly running.

The old man never noticed. It wasn't as if he didn't care for me, he would spend hours running his calloused hands across my chestnut coat, musing aloud at the white scars  that marked my legs, shoulder, and sides. He would brush me until I shone, and always checked my hay and water, but he never heard me cough, as he was nearly deaf. And he never saw the straining of my sides as strange. It was clear to me he never owned a horse.  But he did everything in his power to make sure I was as comfortable as I could be, given the situation.

About two weeks into my stay I was resting in my stall, watching the man haul my water bucket to the spigot to fill it. Suddenly, he dropped the bucket, and retched. Vomit and water mixed into a sickening solution in the dusty hay, and the man crumpled to the ground. By then I had dragged myself to my feet, wheezing from the exertion, and watched him. When I could breathe again I nickered, but there was no response from the prone figure.

This was bad. The stench of death had already begun to leak off him, and without my water the burning in my throat was becoming painfully worse. I paced side to side, kicking up dust and coughing, even going so far as to kick at the boards that made the walls of my stall in an effort to escape. The thud of my hooves against the rotting wood shook loose a rain of dust, that settled upon my coat, bringing on another bout of chronic coughing. That wouldn't work. I looked at the stall door. It was only half of one, and the top half was open. The opening was wide enough for my plan. At least, I hoped it was. I called to mind the already foggy memories of Molly. I turned soft, arching my neck, and performed a rein back. I gathered myself, steadied my ragged breathing as much as possible, then rocketed forward. My hooves hit the ground once before I pushed with my hind legs and took flight.

I had just begun extending my forelegs for the landing when my motion suddenly stopped. With a throaty gasp I lurched forward, my momentum attempting to carry my through. But my barrel was firmly lodged in the door frame. No matter how I twisted or kicked or struggled, I couldn't escape. My battle with the door sent dust floating down from the rafters, triggering another attack. As my diaphragm contracted to push the air out of my lungs in a massive, painful cough I slid out, landing upon the floor none too gracefully. I kicked my legs free and jumped to my hooves, making a break for the door.

I burst into sunlight, inhaling the fresh, cold air gratefully. That, of course, brought on a new fit of coughing. I began my new adventure at a slow walk, focusing on my breathing. I wandered through plowed fields and trimmed backyards, as my breathing grew softer and more normal. Without the constant dust to irritate my lungs, I recovered quickly.

Of course, a horse wandering through the woods and fields of rural Pennsylvania is sure to garner some attention. Within days, a rescue team tracked me down, and caught me. I went along easily, tired of exploring and ready to rest somewhere safe. I sure hoped they found the man who had so kindly cared for me.

A bumpy trailer ride saw me in quarantine, contentedly resting in my stall. One of the volunteers came to my stall and pushed a carrot through the bars. Her hair and skin were dark, and she spoke to me in a different language; one that was strangely familiar. She would call me 'pequenacita' and 'noblecita' and all manner of names, all, I felt, were very flattering. But to the other volunteers, she spoke only English. She quickly became my favorite, and when the day came for me to be checked over by the vet and declared healthy, she held my lead rope.

Finally out of the stall, I glanced around me. The aisle was packed dirt, pitted and uneven. The stalls were dilapidated, but every horse I saw was sleek and fat, and always immaculately clean. The vet checked me over, running his hands over my body and musing at my scars. He flipped my lip up and read the tattoo aloud, as another volunteer scribbled the digits on a sheet of paper. He ran his hands up and down my legs, across my withers, down my hindquarters, and even risked being bitten to feel between my forelegs.

"She looks healthy and sound." He began as my favorite volunteer fed me carrots. "No odd lumps or bumps, normal t.p.r, and the blood work came back looking fantastic."

The leader of the rescue, a thin, willowy woman named Margo, mentioned my coughing, which had reared its ugly head again.

"Probably heaves. It's like asthma, but for horses. Get her outside as soon as possible, even if she's in a field by herself. As long as she can see the other horses she'll be fine."

The next day saw me outside, dancing excitedly as Esperanza, my favorite volunteer, fought to keep me under control. She opened the gate to an empty field and turned me around to face her. Before she slipped the halter over my head she placed her hand on my muzzle and rubbed gentle circles.

"Charm is a pretty name, pequena. But, judging by the scars, your life was not easy." Although I trembled with excitement, I stood still while she continued. "They say you are a Thoroughbred. Let me see you run!"

And she slipped the halter over my head, stepping away in one fluid motion. I spun around, and surged forward. But I couldn't gather enough speed to gallop, as the field was small, so  I had to settle for a fast canter. Esperanza laughed, leaning on the fence to watch. When I had lapped the field I returned to her, dancing around, touching my nose to her face, chest, hands, and shoulders. When I tried a playful nip she swatted at me, sending me off again, squealing excitedly. Margo called for her and she called a goodbye over her shoulder, heading back for the old barn.