Northern Cross

Epilogue

The gravel crunched beneath my feet, the clip of the lead rope jingled on the brassware of the halter. A whistle rang through the empty air, replied to by the snort of an old white gelding ad the hoofbeats of his smooth trot.

He went lame after another year of showing. His racing days had destroyed the chance of ever making his career long, but he had never failed me once throughout his entire life. He was kept onto pasture for another two years, until we realized he would be on and off lame until the day he died.

Now he was an old gelding, who spent most of his days in the back pastures, grazing away with his fellow retirees. On the good days, when he wasn't lame, I would take him on a bareback trail ride, and we would canter through the trails, like the old days when we cantered the cross country courses.

He never was the same after going lame. He missed the long workouts, the sweaty summer afternoons, the competitions, the travelling. He would scream and scream and scream until we couldn't hear him anymore when the trailers left the barn to go to another show. He would stare at me, riding my new thoroughbred lease, his eyes filled with longing.

I wished too that one day he would be better. That one day, we could show again. But the years flew in and out the door, and soon, he was too old to compete, even if he did ever recover from the mysterious lameness.

He met me at the fence today, and allowed me to halter him. I draped the lead over his back and bent down, feeling along his legs for heat. Nothing. I lunged him, and he showed no signs of lameness.

With a stupid grin, I fastened my helmet on my head, then made the lead rope into reins on his halter, before leading him out of the pasture, mounting up, then heading off at a trot towards one of the ex-cross country courses.

We cantered through the trail, moving freely through the fields. Happy tears fell down my face, remembering the days we cantered through the complicated courses, the days we won. The experiences we were able to share. Nothing would ever compare to those.

I have no regrets in buying the mud stained, skinny, unpredictable off track thoroughbred.

You can never judge a book by it's cover. Sometimes it really turns out to be good.