When we walked through the old barns at the back of the run-down track, my eyes set-upon a chestnut mare. On her stall, hung a sign warning handlers of her habit of biting. (I often felt the same.) Labeled “mean,” the horse was destined for the slaughter pen.
Dad headed up to the lounge to place his bets and enjoy a tumbler or two. I hung back, claiming that I just wanted to continue my tour of the barns, as promised in the bargain to come along today.
He disappeared from sight. I snuck back to the red mare’s dusty stall.
I checked the aisle of the barn - no one appeared to be around. I took the mare from the stall with only a halter and rope, hopped onto her bare back and we walked calmly out the back gate. No one followed, or even seemed to notice.
The rear of the track lined a huge meadow. After we sauntered through the opening, I nudged the mare into a full gallop. She took off like a rocket. I had never been on a horse so fast - bonded now by running the race of our lives. We were free!
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A writer of words in northern WI with a small family and a large menagerie.
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