Amy's Sunday
Though it wasn't quite midmorning, the brilliant blue sky stretched as far as the eye could see, from the tops of the Canadian Rockies to the gently rolling foothills. There was still a nip in the air, a clean, sweet freshness that came with spring in bighorn backcountry just west of Sundre. The snow was finally gone, leaving the grasses a golden brown and scattered bogs of thick mud. Sprigs of bright greens dotted the landscape with a promising tickle of the rebirth to come.
As most Sundays, Michael and Gwendolyn were on a slow, deliberate ride in search of the latest band of wild horses spotted and posted on the web. He never tired of seeking and finding these majestic creatures wandering over the country side, grazing, playing, running, and, sometimes, fiercely fighting.
Some chased money, others fame, still others love, he was contented to chase wild horses. Though chase was hardly right term for Michael, steward was more apropos. Sometimes he took pictures or videos with his phone, but mostly he just wanted to watch them with his own eyes, hear them with his own ears, care for them with his own hands. Each interaction neatly cataloged in his brain, written in his journal, retrieved at will.
"Well. Gwendolyn. Today we are in luck." Michael said quietly to his trusted horse, adopted as a skittish foal from an auction during the annual Alberta government cull. The pair slowed their step to observe. Michael drew his binoculars to get a better view.
Just beyond the ridge, in the meadow below, a band of three chestnut mares each with a filly foal and two yearlings, both colts, were accompanied by their lead stallion. The massive white stallion, stout with his thick winter coat and his long, gray mane and forelocks, stood on cautious watch, as the others grazed seemingly unconcerned. The foals each a caramel color, stuck close to their mother's side, alternated between play, nursing, and rest. The two male yearlings were comical as they played a game of tag, darting recklessly between the other horses, slamming into each other, then rolling on the ground, only to switch the role of IT and start again.
"Do you miss it, my pretty girl? The freedom?" He asked her. She didn't respond, she just stood, unmoved, watching as he did, swiveling her ears to hear every sound, twitching her nose to inhale every scent. Michael tenderly petted Gwendolyn's neck, her long mane as they enjoyed the sight for close to thirty minutes.
Then suddenly, startled by something unknown, the nine took off, running towards the wooded hillside, trembling the ground with the sound of their hooves.
"Well. That was very good Gwenie." He smiled. "Let's get on to the sanctuary." He turned her reins back toward the path from which they came, back to his truck and trailer.
As long as he could remember, he had been drawn to, consumed by wild horses. Growing up just outside of Pike River, his dad was responsible for the management of wildies, as they were commonly known, that ran through the area, riverbanks, pasture lands, rocky hillsides. As a career employee with the Alberta Environment and Parks Department in the Feral Horse Management Division, Michael senior, dubbed Mickey due to his larger than life ears, dedicated his life, and by extension, by osmosis, dedicated his son's life, to horses.
Mickey oversaw culls, vaccinations, adoptions, rescues, anything and everything. If the situation involved the wildies in his assigned jurisdiction, he was there. He fielded calls day and night from the area's residents and tourists. Whether the issue originated from an inflamed rancher whose grazing lands were destroyed by the roaming equine, a farmer whose fences and crops had been trampled, a overzealous tourist who wanted to adopt a wild horse, or a concerned local who spotted a new band in need of rescue, Mickey was the trusted expert, the empathic listener, the problem solver who navigated the sometimes very difficult divide between the wildie enthusiasts, detractors and everything in between.
Mickey was the only parent that Michael ever known. His mother, Allison, was just 18 years old when she died just days after his birth. So Mickey, barely an adult himself, still reeling from his unexpected loss of his beloved wife, strapped his infant child to his chest and went back to his menial job as custodian at the department. His superior, who took pity on him and his motherless child, reassigned him to the Feral Horse Management Division call center to accommodate the grieving widower and son. And every day after, Mickey devoted himself to his ever expanding job, to the wild horses, and to his only child.
So almost from birth, Michael was there, tagging along, side by side with his dad, watching, listening, learning, helping, growing into the man he would eventually become. His deep love and respect for his dad and wild horses charted the course for his life.
As most Sundays, after their search for horses, Michael trailered Gwendolyn a few miles east to the Alberta Sanctuary for Horses. He donated his one day off to the volunteer organization knighted by the Alberta government to capture, domesticate, and rehome these wild horses to keep the wild of population in check and healthy.
"Hey Michael." Paul Tibbetts, ASH's president, a fit but weathered man in his 60s, greeted Michael as he exited from his truck with his vet bag.
"Hey Paul." The two men shook hands, then headed towards the barn.
"Any luck?"
"Yeah. We saw the White Stallion band just west of Cat Spine in the meadow. All three mares have healthy filly foals. The two colts from last year were still with them. All looked healthy. Some winter slimming."
"Bad?"
"I've seen worse. But I could definitely see some ribs. With the spring they will fill out again."
"Good." Paul rubbed the back of his neck. "What about the adolescent stallion? The black and white one?"
"Didn't see him. Maybe he found another group."
"Hope so."
"So, introduce me to this beauty?" They stopped at the stall door of a young horse, a beautiful dappled grey with light eyes, dark socks and black hooves. Michael deposited his bag on the ground.
"This is Silvie. The Murphys' brought her in last night." Paul explained.
"Well, hello Silvie. I am Michael...my. I must say. You are indeed beautiful, aren't you girl?" He reached out his hand slowly, letting her sniff him, decide if he was worthy. She took a half step back, just out of his reach, staring at him intently.
He chuckled good naturally, then continued his one way conversation with her, "Good girl. Good to be extra cautious with strange men." His body relaxed, his eyes softened, but he did not move away. Her ears swiveled toward him, an encouraging sign.
"She was attacked. Maybe by a mountain lion of some kind. See her hindquarters. Claw marks, both sides. Sarah saw her standing along side the gravel backroad to the river bend."
"Hmmm." Michael tilted his head slightly to each side so he could get a better look at her wounds. "Definitely some type of big cat. Look at those claw marks. Some are pretty deep."
"Yeah. Poor girl." Paul added.
"Oh girl. That looks pretty painful. Huh? I am so sorry." Michael said softly. "If you let us, we will take care of you."
A low, soft nicker escaped her throat, signaling that she warming to him.
"Silvie. This is what Paul and I will do. We will flush your wounds with a diluted disinfectant. This will remove the dirt, retard any bacteria and start the healing process. That may be a bit uncomfortable at first..." The young horse exhaled heavily, then shook her head, side to side slowly, unsure.
"I understand. But it's necessary. We don't want an infection. I promise that we will be gentle and go slow." He tried to reassure her.
"Next. And this is the good part. We will apply a warm poultice of blue clay, eucalyptus oil and fresh ginger. That will feel good. It will sooth your pain and help your wounds heal quickly." She nickered again, responding to his words.
"Ah. Sound like a good plan, huh?" He smiled as she stretched her nose to him, her whiskers just barely touching his hand, tickling him. Then ever so slowly, one inch at a time she moved closer until she pushed up against her stall door.
"You are a good girl. Thank you for trusting us. We won't let you down." Michael almost cooed.
He pulled a Canadian Mint, the pink peppermint flavor, from his pocket catching her attention. Slowly, he removed the wrap then held the mint to her. Her soft lips nibbled at the confection, then pulled it into her mouth. She exhaled quickly out her nostrils, ruffling his hair slightly, then nuzzled his ear.
He laughed, delighted that she seemed to accept him, as he petted her neck, played briefly in her mane. With his hand, he checked her temperature, "No fever Silvie. That's very good."
He watched her chest, her respiration also appeared normal. "Your respiration is regular too. Very good."
"Good to hear Michael. Are you ready to check out her wounds?" Paul asked.
"Yeah. More importantly, is she ready?" He continued to petted neck. "How was she when the Murphy's brought her in? How about when you put her in the stall?" Michael asked not taking his eyes off his patient.
"She was weirdly calm." Then he added, "I think she was in shock."
"Not surprised. Poor girl." He tilted his head side to side, trying get a better look from the stall door. "I don't see any other wounds from here. Guess she was attacked from behind by a young cat. An experienced one wouldn't have even tried." He paused.
"Yeah. That would be my thought too." Paul agreed.
"She probably took off running, likely after a swift kick with her hind legs to her attacker. Looks like a single grab. Or so I hope. What do you think?"
"Yeah. A single attempt. And I don't see any teeth marks. Do you?"
"Nope. Not yet." He turned his conversation back to the young horse. "Silvie. You are one brave girl. Lucky too. Aren't you?" She began to lick her lips, chew every so subtly, the sign that he waited for.
Paul smiled. "Think she's ready."
"Good girl Silvie." Michael took a deep inhale through his nose, then exhaled through slightly parted lips. "Silvie. I am going to open the stall door slowly, then join you in your stall."
He did exactly as he said, entered her domain. She remained calm, but watchful, curious accepting of his presence, his gentle touch, his warm, light tone.
"Good girl." He repeated softly. He ran his hand across her back, down her side, stomach, legs looking for other wounds, all the while observing her movements, sounds. Pleased, he found no other wounds, big or small.
"Silvie, you must have kicked your attacker hard to get free. Didn't you?" He shook his head as he imagined the attack. "Freedom is not always easy, nature isn't always kind. Is it?"
She shook her head, seemingly comprehending his words. Over the next hour Michael and Paul, irrigated and cleaned her wound, made and applied the poultice.
"Silvie. You did so well. Thank you. Now get some rest." Michael rubbed her neck one more time, got his bag and headed out the barn door with Paul.
"Thank you Michael. I really appreciate it."
"Sure thing." He paused then added. "Paul. Put some bergamot or chamomile in her night feed. Tomorrow, I'll come by after class to check on her." Michael instructed.
"Michael. Thank you. But, we'll take care of her. And. Promise to call tomorrow evening and let you know how she's doing."
"I know you will Paul. Thank you. We'll talk tomorrow my night then." Michael shook his hand, got in his truck and drove toward the Cowboy Trail south to Calgary.
With Gwendolyn in the trailer and nothing pressing him, Michael drove just below the speed limit. Old Delta blues were playing low on the radio. As he got closer to his destination, Johnny Lee Hooker began to belt out his favorite song, I'm in the Mood. Naturally he cranked up the volume, tapping his hands on the steering wheel in rhythm.
Up in the distance, he saw it. Plain as day. "Well, I'll be darned. Some things never change!" He laughed out loud, remembering the last time he rescued him in the middle of nowhere. Smiling, he slowed down his truck, pull off the highway. He couldn't believe it. Sitting the road's berm was a blue 1953 GMC truck with its hood up. "Just like vet school."
He quickly shutoff the engine, pulled his keys out of the ignition, shoved them in his pocket. He checked his side mirror, before he opened his door, exited and walked leisurely up to the side of the truck, "Ty Borden! What in the world are..." then he stopped as he looked behind the hood. Clearly, the woman crouched over the engine was not Ty.
"Oh. I am sorry. I thought you were Ty..." He stammered, back away slightly, not wanting to intimidate, then offered. "Um. Need help?"
"How do you know Ty?" She blurted out, ignoring his actual question. She rarely heard his name. They had lost touch, it had been years since they had spoken.
"Ah. We met in school. Vet School that is." He said, trying to be reassuring, explain the connection. He could only imagine how she might feel, some strange guy approaching her in the middle of nowhere.
"Oh." She responded, not sure what to say next.
"Please forgive me. I am Michael Barnes." He held his hand out to her.
"Hi. I am Amy. Amy Fleming." She smiled, as she shook his hand. "Nice to meet you."
He figured so much. She was all Ty could talk about for years, and still did, though rarely. She was as pretty as he described. "Well, um. Ms. Fleming. May I help you?" He swallowed.
"Amy. Please."
Then she shook her head, No. "I can manage. Really. But thanks. My grandfather is on his way." She said without concern.
He nodded, then smiled as he reminisced. "Old Blue always gave Ty fits in school. I have no idea how many times I had to jump this truck, or tow it or even bring Ty parts." He laughed.
She smiled faintly. "Yeah...she is not very reliable. I have been thinking of selling her. But..." her attention drifted off, as did her words.
"She'd be hard to sell. She's a classic." He threw his two cents in.
She nodded, agreed absently. "Yeah. She really is. Plus. She holds a lot of good memories. For me."
He nodded.
She smiled. "Funny. I knew Ty for years. Even through most of his vet schooling. I never really met any of Ty's classmates." For the first time, that struck her as odd, not knowing his vet school friends. Then she remembered. "Well. Except for Cassandra Fay Odell. Do you know her?"
"Hmm. Her name doesn't ring a bell." He shook his head. "I was pretty heads down in school though." He explained.
"I think she was a year ahead of Ty in school." She added, then changed the subject back to Ty, she hesitantly asked. "Um. So. Were you close?" She paused. "You and Ty. I mean, in school?"
"Close? We were study and lab partners." Then he added. "It was a busy time for both of us, you know, school, externship, something was always going on. We didn't do much together outside of school."
"So you are a vet?" She asked.
"Yes. I am. I teach at the school. I specialize in horses."
"How about that! Me too. I mean, I work with horses. I mostly rehab and train them. Sometimes I rehome them." Then she clarified her statement. "I am not a vet. But. I have been thinking about taking classes though."
"Oh? What are you planning to study?"
She hesitated, "Well. Still just thinking. But maybe some business classes. Maybe animal behavioral classes."
"Small world! I teach UCVM's class in Equine Behavior and Nutrition." He exclaimed.
"Yes. It is a small world. Funny. I was driving around campus today. Just, you know, to check things out." Then she shook her head, laughed at herself. "I took a wrong turn out of the parking lot and ended up heading north instead of south. Then I turned around then. Oh well."
"That happens. I still take wrong turns after all these years, especially when I have something on my mind." He said with a calming, reassuring tone. "Life is full of chance meetings."
"Yeah." She pondered that for a moment. Then she hesitantly asked. "Have you seen him lately? I mean, Ty. Do you keep in touch?"
"It's been a couple of months since we saw each other, I suppose. At a Vet conference."
"How is he?" She asked earnestly.
"He's good. Pretty busy. He's in Vancouver by the coast. But we generally talk every week or two."
"Glad to hear it. Tell him I said hello." She said sincerely.
Just then Gwendolyn whinnied, and stomped in her trailer. "Oh that's Gwenie, my horse. She been in the trailer for a while. She's telling me that she needs to stretch her legs."
