White Wings, Part 2

In several jumps over ramps his feet were more than a meter off the ground, so that you could swear he was flying. He descended in a delicate arch and landed lightly on the tips of all four paws. His wings had grown till they were longer than he was, but he rarely opened them. When he did open them, it was usually a reaction to some sort of stimuli, such as being startled.

"I need to attach a jack-in-the-box to your collar," I told him, "and open it by remote when you're in mid air." He cocked his head like he was trying to understand me.

About a week later I found him outside staring at something, his wings at full attention, tips pointing skyward. I approached with too much haste and not enough caution, for when I got close a cobra's head whisked past my leg, a near miss. Before I could unholster my weapon the great animal ripped its head off with one snarl, then looked at me and wagged his tail. Pleased with himself, he proceeded to destroy what was left of the snake by tossing and clawing it like a cat with a rubber mouse.

The next morning I could not find him. I looked everywhere. No one in the stone city ever stole anything, so that wasn't one of my worries. I went to the end of the flower garden and peered out as far as the eye could see. Sighing, I turned toward the house, then gasped. A large furry white surprise was sitting on my roof, watching me and panting.

"You get down from there!" I laughed. The great dog pawed at the edge of the roof and whined.

"If you can get up there, you can get down," I argued.

He answered with a saucy bark. I got an idea.

"Dinner!" I called loudly. He did not need dinner at mid morning, but if he'd only fly I'd feed him two dinners, just for today.

He got excited and started to bark. I slapped my thighs and whistled. The wings opened. I snapped my fingers and cupped my hands like I was holding a savory treat. He began to hop up and down near the guttered edge.

"C'mon," I urged.

He barked rapidly, turning in circles.

That evening as I scribbled in my personal journal I remarked in my notes how difficult it had been to get down a ladder while carrying a large, wiggly, energetic, hungry dog.

The White Wings

"Shh! Follow me!"

He seemed to think he knew something interesting. Slight of frame as he was (and also of stature), he had no trouble slipping into the cave's entrance.

Not far along the passage the cavern widened slightly. Soft leaves and dried grass formed a sort of nest in a hollow tucked against a wall of cool, smooth rock. A sleeping heap of white fur turned out to be five adorable puppies. They were about the size of wolf cubs, but more resembled German shepherds. I lifted one out of the nest and examined it. To my surprise two small, soft, feathered white wings were attached to either side of its well muscled shoulders.

I returned it to the nest, but the man rattled off a series of unintelligible words and signed with his hands that I was to keep one. I guessed the extent of his English must have been a few key phrases, because whatever he was saying was very elaborate if I could only have understood it. I reached for my wallet and started to count out several large bills.

"No!" he said plainly, and again began rattling some very complicated phrases.

"You..." The man struggled to think. "...save...small...man," he said with great effort. "You..." He pointed to the dogs, and then to me, over and over again.

The little boy had fallen out of a ten story window in the ancient city of rock. Had I not been in the right place at the right time I wouldn't have broken his fall. As it was, we both tumbled to the ground and got concussions.

Ah, the cruelty of it! If I were to refuse his generosity, all the work would be undone. It had taken me five years to find the city, and it had been with great difficulty that I had won over the trust of its inhabitants. But now, if I accepted this puppy, this oddity, I knew that I could never go back to the "normal" world, for the dog and I were sure to become inseparable, and the people of my world would hound me endlessly for his oddness, trying to steal the dog, or his picture, or my time.

It really was a simple choice: commit to this world and stay forever, or lose my chance to learn about a place most thought did not exist.

Hiding my reluctance with a grateful smile, I scooped up an armful of fur and wings. The creature began snuffling my chin with kisses.

With a low bow, the little man led me out of the cave, and I began mentally making a checklist: dog food, bed, leash, shots...

Hoarse Swap

Swap meets have been my favorite semi-annual event since I discovered them as a teenager. Upon entry at the gate, where you fork over a few dollars to get a car full of people in, you are greeted, overwhelmed, by the scents and sounds. Hickory smoke (headache, yes, but still sweet), crowing roosters, funnel cakes, clucking guinea fowl, hamburger stands, honking geese (and cars), bustling shoppers (some who occasionally spit or cuss), traders, barkers--

Barkers. A barker is a salesperson whose methodology includes talking proficiently, talking for a long time, and talking pleasantly to passersby, proclaiming the goods to be sold and their virtuous properties. I observed some barking, then picked it up. It really works. When you engage people, you are at least ten times more likely to snag a sale.

This swap meet I was handicapped severely: I had come down with laryngitis. If I tried really hard I could occasionally force an audible whisper, which would use up all my vocal powers for the next half hour.

This swap meet was different in another way: I was moving to a less rural area, and I had to find a home for my dog. He was a farm dog, rough and ready, large and active, and a small home or a caged life was just not acceptable for him. I had to find a farmer who'd let him run with the cattle and sleep in the barn.

I put up signs on the back of the SUV explaining why I was giving away the dog. Many passersby oohed and ahhed over the dog, especially when he did a trick that he'd taught himself: he sat beside me and rested his paw on my hand.

"Aww," they'd say, "they're holding hands."

I'd smile and nod, unable to say anything.

As the day wore on and lunchtime came and went (I gave the dog half my string cheese), I decided to take him for a walk and see if I could find anyone who'd make a good candidate. I attached a sign to his back that read FREE and set out walking, with this beautiful, flashy, black and white dog tugging at the leash. I knew it would be hard to let him go, but I reminded myself of the story of how Moses' mother put her baby into a basket, and how it was for the best, and I pressed on.

Some of the people I passed had also seen him holding hands with me, and evidently had not read the sign explaining why I needed to give him a new home. All they saw was a person giving away a loving animal, and their eyes said traitor. Some of those people actually hated me, and I wondered why they thought they had any right to judge me. I couldn't have spoken up for myself if I tried, so I ignored them and pressed on.

I paused to look at some handmade wooden puzzles. I felt sorry for the man, retired and supplementing his income by making them. If I have time when I get back to the car, I may return and buy one, I thought. All of a sudden many people were frowning and growling at me. I turned to see the dog, nervous from the long car ride, relieving himself in the middle of the gravelled walkway. If I'd had on my person the wherewithal to clean it up, I would have. And if I'd known he was going to do that, I would have moved him to a better place. But neither were the case, so I walked onward, followed by many a hateful stare.

After all the aisles, after all the hate, after all the people who were sympathetic but unable to help, at the head of the last aisle my feet were turning towards the car, and my weariness became insistent. Yet somehow, intuitively, I said out loud, "If I don't go down this aisle, I'll never find him a home." I pressed on.

The aisle I hadn't wanted to go down was sparsely populated with people who had little or nothing to sell. I preferred main paths to little out-of-the-way ones as a matter of policy. I traveled all the way down one side of it and halfway back up the other side, where sat a kindly looking man in the back of a pickup truck, who hollered out to me, "Come here!"

I smiled and brought the dog over. His young grandson looked pleased. I liked the man, and I liked the child.

"Do you raise those?" he asked.

"I used to," I said in a preciously forced whisper.

He petted the dog. "I've been wanting a pup sometime. He's a fine dog. I was going to get your number and ask for a pup out of him."

The "free" sign had slipped. When the farmer petted the dog his hand discovered it. He lit up with gladness.

"You're giving him away?"

"I'm moving," I whispered. "He needs a larger place to live."

"May I have him?"

I nodded, smiled, handed him some vet records, and watched as they loaded him into a cage in the truck. Silently I thanked God, and gladly I went home to nurse the headache that was fast approaching from the smell of hickory smoke.

Writer's Block

"That coffee was cold!"

The ceiling reverberated. Newspapers flew in a circle, split apart, and floated downward in separate sheets onto the matted rust colored carpeting.

"Don't you know it isn't polite to throw things?" said Angie.

"What isn't polite is to throw hard things, like this paperweight, at people, or windows, or other living things," said Mr. Morgan thoughtfully. "To throw something soft and harmless is not wrong, so long as it hits no one."

"Perhaps so," replied Angie, "but there are now newspapers all over my side of the office. Can you guess who's going to pick them up?"

A voice near the doorway startled her. "I am!"

The youth proceeded to collect the papers, and carted them off like he'd just found a treasure.

"He uses them to cover the mahogany table when he paints those confounded models of his," Morgan explained. Calmly he returned to his papers.

"Ms. Mark," he said without looking up, "do you think you could find me a genuinely hot cup of coffee?"

"And since when does renting three and a half rooms from you make me your housekeeper?" she queried.

"It doesn't," he replied. "I was only inquiring. I would rather buy it from you than lose the time it takes to walk to the Sun Deer."

Angie considered a moment. "If it's all the same," she said, "though it's tempting to take advantage of your lack of time and make a few dollars, I'll decline. It would be good exercise to walk, and might inspire you to heights of still more colorful and creative work."

Still looking down and still writing, with his left hand he displayed a fan of five one hundred dollar bills.

"A cup of coffee, please, Ms. Mark," he said.

"Sorry," she replied, "no deal."

Morgan looked up. A glimmer of smile played on his lips.

"I'll walk," he began, "if..."

"Yes?"

"...if you will come with me. My treat."

Angie thought a moment. "I'll go, if..."

"If?" he frowned.

"If Toby comes with us."

"Twelve year olds don't drink coffee..." began Morgan.

"This one does!" hollered a voice down the hall. "The lady at Sun Deer puts chocolate in mine, and lots of cream!"

"He's got my creativity," Morgan muttered, straightening his desk and grabbing his hat and cane, "but he bears his late mother's affinity for chocolate."

Author's note: The story is actually about an author's struggle with himself. His reasoning mind (Angie) struggles with his passionate mind (Morgan) while his inner child (Toby) picks up the pieces and/or tries to entertain himself.

Roar in the Night

She was eleven, very imaginative, and very much into books. One particular historical biographical series told a bit of a tale about mountain lions, and described their unsettling screams in the night as they looked down out of trees on unwary passersby.

Autumn came, and the daylight shortened. Now she needed a flashlight to go out and feed the chickens. And normally this was fine, except that by now the mental images and horrific sounds described in the book made her tremble at what might be out there somewhere in a tree.

Maybe if I wave my flashlight beam in circles like a disco, she thought, whatever is probably not there will be too scared to come near. The large, sturdy lantern made a splendid light show, and she stepped towards the pen with a bucket full of chicken feed, feeling confident.

Screams ripped the air. The chicken feed flew up then down and scattered on the walkway. Trembling, she stumbled back up the way she'd come, falling several times. It had come from the large oak in the front yard.

Screams rang out again, making her hair stand up. She felt like vomiting. She fell against the front door, holding onto consciousness by sheer willpower.

Then she heard something that made her feel foolish: the last set of screams was followed by a familiar "who who who." Who knew that owls who are frightened by a lantern beam can scream to scare the daylights out of the sturdiest of hearts? Not to mention those less sturdy and more creative.

As time went by there were many screams in the night, belonging either to bobcats or to owls. She often dealt with them by imitating them and screaming back. It worked. You couldn't feel scared when you could make a bigger, badder noise than the animal was making.

Howls of coyotes were not frightening. She always felt they were her friends. She especially liked to stay out late on a moonlit night and listen to them. They were melodic, musical, sweet. She never lost a single hen or single head of livestock to them, whatever the reason, and whatever the neighbors' reports of their tenacity.

Shooting stars, once one had gotten over the surprise, were beautiful and amazing, brighter than lightning and almost as quick. Though they didn't scream they sometimes made her scream if they startled her.

One of the more frightening things was the cat. The cat was a very good mouser and a very devoted friend, but one thing she did that was almost unbearable: she'd sit atop a wooden post above six feet high, and remain there with her silently glowing eyes, looking for all the world like an owl or a mythical beast. You could walk right under her and not know she was there, and if you happened to look up the sight was initially surprising.

Now, the old timers of the region didn't help anything. They'd swap stories that were about 45 percent fictitious, about four foot high wolves and cougar tracks in their yards. Occasionally a lone rogue cougar could hypothetically come so far south from his native grounds, but it was highly unlikely. And there were no wolves in this region. Coyotes, yes, and maybe a stray dog gone wild, but definitely no wolves.

And even if there ever were a wolf, by all means you could flash your lantern at him.

The Clunky Horse

B. Buck was a long legged half mustang. He had a broad, flat head, long ears (especially for a horse), and a black dorsal stripe.

He was as lazy as the day was long.

Every time I wanted him to go and would dig in my heels it did very little good. Even heavy cowboy boots did not induce him to move beyond an oddly gaited, knock-kneed walk.

Special horse shoes did not significantly improve his stride. One good thing, however, was that he rarely spooked, so a rider could feel reasonably safe from being thrown or run away with.

Being green broke when I received him, I had to introduce him to many things he hadn't seen before. He took his training well and made himself at home, but there was one thing he did that makes me laugh even today.

A tiny, six-inch-wide ditch drained water off the hill. One day I rode him up to it, and the horse promptly stopped. It was running, but as I said it was a very tiny little ditch.

"Giddy up," I said.

He acted nervous. I had never seen him like that before.

"Giddy up," I repeated, and pressed my heels into his sides.

His legs began to tremble.

"B. Buck..." I began.

With the speed and swiftness of a deer, the horse leaped over the ditch as though it were a large waterway. I was just a young person, and had never jumped a horse before (or since). That was fun.

Thanks, B. Buck, for the good jokes and your soft, velvet nose. Whereever you are, may you live in peace. If there's heaven for horses, I hope you're in it.

Ignorance is Bliss

A possum (yes, I know that's "opossum" but all the locals leave off the "o") raided the chicken house night after night. Once the ghastly, white faced, sharp fanged, stupid, hissing, rocking, filthy creatures had discovered my chickens, nothing deterred them. In a single night four hens were beheaded and then left. It couldn't have killed one and finished eating it--he had to take one bite of four different hens, my fine, beautiful, multicolored Araucana Easter egg hens.

The only solution was to lock them up at night. Most of them roosted at night anyway, so it was only a matter of catching a few stragglers, tossing them in the door, and bolting it. The possums couldn't open the door, and I stopped losing chickens.

One tired night I forgot to lock them in. The possums didn't forget, and I lost some more. It became imperative not to forget even once.

Storms would sometimes arrive one right after the other in a steady succession that kept up for hours, even days. Now, the chicken house was at the crest of a hill, next to a tree line that had been struck several times by lightning. Examining those trees was mighty awe inspiring, especially the ones that had become a scattered pile of splinters. Being reluctant to go up there during severe thunderstorms, and having experienced them in long successive chains that continued long into the night, I was left with a dilemma: risk lightning, or lose my chickens. I watched eagerly for hours, hoping it would let up for even a few minutes, but every time one storm moved out another moved right in. My stomach hurt at the thought of both dangers, one of which I would have to choose by nightfall.

Finally in late afternoon all the thunder stopped. I looked outside. The atmosphere above had a reddish tint in a sky wide, impenetrable cloud bank. I watched for several minutes. No lightning.

I ventured out. I stopped by the dog pen to get my faithful border collie. The dog, quite uncharacteristically, refused to come out of her house. After much coaxing I gave up and went on without her. (I will always ever after trust a dog's good instinct.)

The wind became strong. I ran. A gust of it knocked me to the ground. I got up and ran some more. Turning a corner revealed in the southern sky a large, twisted mass of slowly circulating clouds that formed a black, nasty tower from ground to sky. An older, wiser person would have known what that was, but I was fifteen and a novice, more concerned with avoiding lightning than the cloud. I kept a close eye on it, caught all the chickens in record speed (especially since none of them had roosted yet), and ran for the house, fighting the wind.

The pillared cloud moved off to the north east, doing no damage. As if to mock me, within an hour the sun came out, and we had a lovely sunset full of vivid colors and gentle breezes.

The Musicians of the Hills

The moist, tree pollen scented wind threw small boughs and branches skyward under the blurred and watery light of a cloud-covered moon. Lightning flashed silently, too far away to be heard. He laid his hand on a wet tree trunk and tried to keep from slipping on the slimy wet moss underfoot.

Normally he'd be asleep at this hour, but something had awakened him and had sparked his curiosity into a fully fledged forest fire. For some inexplicable reason he felt he would cease to exist if he did not find the source of the sound he'd heard.

It was delicate, but not a tree frog; loud, but not a screech owl; frightening, but not a bobcat, coyote, puma, or bear; musical, but not a katydid or cricket; strong, but not a deer; intelligent, but not exactly human.

The notes were elusive. They seemed to come from the pond. When he neared the pond, however, he heard them towards the head of the spring-fed creek. When he approached it again, they paused for a moment, and then continued from the deep, rocky ditch between two extremely steep hills, where if one were not careful it might be possible to step into a nest of pit vipers. The fire within that compelled him to seek the sound felt as if he'd sooner do just that than deny it the journey. He went on.

Now it seemed to come from the tip top of an isolated bluff. Thunder from the far away storm became slightly audible, and the winds grew even rougher. Immune to any danger except that of stopping, he climbed. His fingers were barely able to keep hold of the rock face. Gravel and earth rolled beneath his feet, and the stone was carpeted with wet moss and grimy rotted leaves--no easy hold. He inched to the top, victorious in small steps. He was nearly there. The sound did not abate. This time it did not move. The eerie notes poured forth as he surmounted the crest of the bluff and found--the neighbor's dog.

Frankie was a large, protective golden retriever who had been a help to all the community, a friend of children, and the guardian of his house and yard. The fact that the dog had died three years ago did not seem to affect him as much as it should have. The great dog gazed at him with its deep yellow eyes and seemed to recognize him, then continued in a long, musical howl.

He noticed a bluish light in the valley on the side opposite the one he'd climbed--a steady glow as of the moonlight, yet softer. Musical notes now faded, now floated up out of its center.

Slowly his eyes accustomed. He began to see several forms taking shape. One was an old man in blue jeans and a wide brimmed hat. His fingers gripped a sweet, polished fiddle which he played devoutly. The second and third had flutes, a fourth held an old guitar. Three women played mellow mandolins. A drummer held his sticks in solemn silence, as though this song had no room for him. One very fat man in glasses played a jug, and two gaunt lads held jaw harps to their mouths. A little boy somberly coaxed the music out of his harmonica. A very wise looking woman wrestled a large accordion, and wielded it as though her strength were exceedingly great.

He wanted to retreat, but the force that drove him there refused to allow his feet to move. The dog nuzzled his hand, and its breath was warm. It stepped forward and then paused, looking at him as if to say, "Come on!"

"Well, look!" said the fat old man. They all stopped. He felt thirteen faces and a dog staring at him. He walked forward in a shuffling, half apprehensive fashion, convinced they were ghosts and not convinced they had good intentions.

"Play," said one of the lanky lads, and from somewhere he found a guitar thrust into his hands.

"I haven't played in years," he protested.

"Play!" they all repeated.

He found he had the rhythm of a rock star, and the agility of a classical musician. The strength of a dozen warriors coursed down his arms, and the attitude of a hundred winning teams sang in his voice. The guitar expressed every happy moment he'd ever had and a million he'd never known. The musicians began dancing wildly to its music, leaping from rock to rock and over tree stumps and bushes. He found he could not stop playing, and he played for a very long time.

When he finally felt the time to end was now approaching, the storm clouds had passed to the south with very little rain, and the sun's first blood red rays burned through them.

"Thank ye," said the fiddler as he took the guitar with a country sort of nod. "That'll do."

He now felt as weak as a newborn kitten. He found he was wrapped in a coat that clung to his shoulders, and he pulled it loose with a great amount of effort. It stuck to him as he fought to free himself. He gasped for air. The coat was not a coat, but a sheet, a sheet soaked with sweat. He threw it off and found he was at home in bed, with the remnants of a storm rumbling south, and blood red rays of sunlight peering through the window.

"Well," he said to himself, "I've sweated out the fever. I guess I'm going to make it."

The Burro

Climbing a hill was no easy task for the burro, but he plodded on steadily. He would have liked to eat the green grass he walked on, but duty came before filling his stomach. He hoped at the end of the day his destination would include more of the same delectable looking vegetation for a sundown browse.

Time and climb later his wish was granted, and he grazed eagerly. The flies buzzed at his ears. He flicked them away and hoped in the cool of the night their wings would stiffen and refuse to carry them till sunup.

A small creek ran nearby. Vernon dipped his nose in the water and lipped playfully. Water spiders darted across the surface of a rocky pool.

Something didn't sound right. He sniffed the wind and listened.

No owner.

If he'd been a rowdy donkey, his owner would have used a bridle, and eating grass would have been more challenging.

If he'd had the tendency to wander away from camp, he would be tethered right now, eating only what the rawhide rope allowed.

He tenderly stepped over and around the owner's fallen tent. The scent of his rider was still heavy on the empty pair of boots and dust smeared blanket.

He listened to the wind. Silence ruled. Even the forest birds held back their songs and hid their rustic feathers.

Days went by. No owner returned, and no other human arrived. The grass and the creek were enough, and he may have stayed at that campsite longer if it had not been for one thing: a bear.

The bear nosed and overturned every one of the pots, pans, blankets, and spoons. He ate very portion of leftover bacon and chewed up one of the boots. Finding it inedible, he decided to see what a donkey smelled like, and whether it was good to eat. Vernon walked a few meters, then grazed with one eye on the bear. It again approached. He again moved away. Time and time again it tried to smell the gray burro, till at last its temper flared and, one snarling the other snorting, the ass easily outran the omnivorous beast.

When his head quit stargazing and his snorting ceased, the donkey found himself in a wide meadow. Butterflies busied themselves with wildflowers. Taller grasses grew in bunches. Seed heads waved and beckoned him to nibble.

He did nibble. While chewing his eighth sweet seed head he found he was not alone. The presence seemed quite familiar and he was eager to keep on chewing, so he let the girl slip her hand in his halter. Her soft voice tickled his ear, and he nosed her affectionately. Her arm smelled like flowers.

She patted his wide, furry forehead.

"Where did you come from?"

The donkey went on eating. She pulled a soft pink scarf from her pocket and strung it through the halter.

"It's not much of a lead rope," she admitted. "Somebody must be missing you."

Vernon was missing somebody himself, but seeing her made his heart ache a little less.

The overflowing animal shelters were glad to let her keep the burro while they kept an ear out for any missing animal reports. The local sheriff had just about the same idea.

Vernon himself was pleased. The barn lacked nothing, and the well bred ponies in the other stalls didn't mind him being there.

Soon the girl was taking him for long walks along a garden path. He enjoyed nibbling leaves and stretching his legs, and the stone pavement was a friendly file to his tough unshod hooves.

Then one day she slipped a bridle on his shaggy head and led him to the practice arena. The floor of it was made of delightfully soft and supportive dirt. The girl weighed no more than a feather when she slipped aboard his bare shoulders, and the felt he really could run with her forever.

She did something no other owner had ever done, and it make him feel like he had springs in his legs. Her legs and feet bumped against his sides, urging him forward, but with her hands she held his head until his nose turned downward and his neck formed an arch. His terse legs danced, and at a decided moment she released his head and dug in her heels with a sharp cry of "Hyah!" Dirt flew behind them and the ring sped past as the wind blew his coarse and shaggy mane in winding circles. Even when he had run away from the bear he'd not attained such speed, and he was delighted. So was the girl. Soon he could do the barrel race faster than most ponies because of his tendency to be surefooted and his excellent memory.

A man was watching them. As they slowed and then halted his eyes smiled.

"No one can bring out the best in them like you can, Jo," he said.

"What good is it to teach a burro to race?" said a saucy voice behind him. "He'll never win."

"It's really none of your business," said Jo.

"Uncle Bob," persisted Felix, "what good is it to teach a burro to race?"

"Until some owner claims him, that donkey belongs to Jo. It is neither my business nor yours what she wants to do."

"Thank you, Uncle Bob," she said.

"Aunt Hin says to come in for cinnamon rolls," said Felix sulkily.

The next time Jo and Vernon were at the barrels, Felix appeared aboard Grand Marshall III, a stunning, flashy, white-streaked, leggy three year old pony. Just at the point where Vernon reached his highest speed they flew past him in haughty delight. Jo didn't let it bother her, however. She kept right on with the exercises without showing the slightest hint of annoyance.

"Fifteen laps? No way!" Felix protested.

"Why not?" Jo smirked.

"The races are not that long. Why? I already beat you. Haven't had enough?"

"You wouldn't beat us if the race were fifteen laps. My burro's in condition now; he obeys me perfectly, and if you want to settle the matter then put your pony where your mouth is."

"No way."

"Chicken!"

"Am not."

"Younger brother is a chicken," she sang.

"Jo's pony is a jackass," he replied.

True to form, Felix caved in. Marshall pulled ahead and stayed ahead for three laps. By the fourth he was lagging, by the fifth no more bragging. Vernon's even, steady lope and untiring endurance showed the pony to be what he was: a speedy winner in a short sprint. Longer races went to the burro. Day after day Felix tried new horses and new techniques. He watched Jo gather the burro, and copied what she did. He found when he did this his ponies had springs in their heels, and they always passed the burro for the first few laps. The more they ran against him, the greater their endurance grew. Instead of faltering in the sixth, their lead remained until the eighth or ninth lap, depending on the pony.

That spring the junior barrel events arrived. Felix and his ponies took many firsts and seconds. In the past he'd never won anything above fourth place.

Jo eventually left the horse events behind to pursue her education in law. Her brother raised and trained many champions, and his ranch and training grounds became famous. People came from as far away as Europe to purchase ponies.

Jo visited the burro once a week. She provided for his care at the ranch.

Her brother thought she was sentimental. He never thanked her for pushing him into excellence and never gave it much thought. All he seemed to care about was pursuing fame and money.

On a mid-Atlantic flight his heart gave out. He'd grown fat and a bit lazy, leaving all the physical tasks to the hired trainers. The ranch was left in his will to Jo, who returned home to care for the ponies.

Her law office could now be handled by the young trainees, plus her help by phone, fax, and coming in for three hours a week. She decided to open the doors of the ranch to allow kids to visit and interact with the ponies for a low fee to help offset the costs of running it. She had a separate barn where kids were allowed, plus three that were off limits, so that horses who were in gestation, nursing foals, and skittish colts could remain undisturbed.

Many gentle colts were sold. Many kids' hearts grew warm from loving something other than themselves. Two foster kids stayed on at the farm, and loved Jo like a grandmother. Her wisdom and her calm, patient demeanor rubbed off on all who spent much time around her.

Coco the Faithful

Coco was a border collie in training. She showed promise as a stock dog, being both obedient and willing to grip, a term that means nipping the heels of livestock on command. Some dogs won't do it.

The ice storm was one that most folks don't forget. All the roads and sidewalks were solid, slippery ice for over two weeks.

During that two weeks I stayed at home and minded the stock, there being very little for me to do at work, since very few customers were showing up.

Now it just so happened that there was a very deep dip leading to the door of the barn. I carried a sharp stick for digging into the ice, and I wore knobby boots. Even so the going was difficult.

The dog had less trouble walking on the ice than I did. She seemed almost to enjoy taking her daily run on it.

It was a good thing that day her daily run coincided with my getting stuck by the barn. That tiny bit of a hill had gotten so slick that with my stick, my boots, and all my knowledge, I could not get up it. I even tried to crawl up it on my hands and knees. It was very short, and I could touch the level ground on top with my hand if I reached, but it was to no avail. I was stuck.

I called Coco. One of the commands she'd learned was "walk on." To those of you not familiar, it means approach the stock. It's sort of like "mush" to a sled dog. I held her collar and said, "Walk on!" She ran, and I held onto her while crawling alongside. With her help I reached the top, up and out. I ran to the house and got a hammer, and roughed up that ice so I would not get stuck again.

Coco, if there's a heaven for dogs and you can hear me, God bless you.

Beau the Blue Dog

He started as a wiry little puppy with a stubby tail. He was a beautiful blue merle with black spots and a brownish face. At a very early age he learned to understand what I said. He tried to follow me through a gate; I told him not to come in. He started obediently to walk back to the barn.

"Don't go away," I said, "Just wait for me."

So he did. He turned around and came back, and sat by the gate till I was finished.

He was tough. He would take on opossums and snakes, moles, voles, and shrews, raccoons, repairmen, and foxes. Yet he had a softer side.

By the ducks was a scrap pile. In the scrap pile were some melon rinds. Beau used to steal them and chew on them.

One day a beautiful female chihuahua came out of the house. She pranced in her fenced yard, looking about and sniffing the wind. Beau came right up to the fence, melon rind in his mouth.

I watched closely. A blue heeler is so much larger than a chihuahua, and he might hurt her even through the fence, I thought.

He dropped the rind and pushed it. He pushed and pushed till it started to slide under the fence. He didn't stop till it was on her side.

The little chihuahua picked up the melon rind and trotted off with it, head held high in the air, looking for all the world like it was a treasured prize. Beau had given her a gift.

The Unruly Mare

The large mare leaped, head down, rear legs thrown halfway into a kick. She spun, muscles taut, flanks covered in foam. Her eyes were wild with rage, mouth open and gasping, flared nostrils spraying droplets of saliva mixed with sweat. I looked at her thick, golden coat.

“How much?” I asked.

The farmer regarded me as one whom he had just met emerging from an institution for the mentally challenged.

“Now, I won’t bicker with you,” he said.

“I’m sure of that,” I replied. “How much?”

He pulled his hat down lower as though to shield his eyes from some bright light I couldn’t see.

“She does have good papers,” he reminded me.

“I am aware of that, Mr. L. And seeing that she has obvious behavior problems hasn’t deterred my interest. But the price may.”

“Four thousand,” he said slowly, and looked away as though dreaming.

I started to leave.

“Three thousand eight hundred,” he offered.

I didn’t stop.

“Thirty-two hundred,” he said.

I stopped. “I thought you said you weren’t going to bicker about it.”

“What’s your price, then?” he growled.

I stared into his tiny brown eyes.

“What will yours be if she tears down another fence or injures another worker? What will it cost you to keep her any longer?”

He looked at the ground.

“Take her for nothing,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “I have good use for her, and I’m not going to have you asking for her to be returned once I’ve gotten her problems worked out. I’ll give you one thousand dollars.”

“Heh. If you think you can work with that mare, you’d better have good insurance.”

I ignored his comment and wrote the check.

“How are you going to get her home?” he said.

I threw a rope around her neck.

“You forgot how you’re going to get her into the trailer,” he pointed out.

I snapped the end of the rope to another rope that led to a winch inside the trailer. Slowly I shortened it, a couple inches at a time. She threw her head and pulled back on all four legs, yet little by little she could not help but get closer. Finally I drew her in and shut the door. The floor of the trailer rattled and echoed with her hoof beats, but she could not get out. I stroked her fur in my mind, and combed her mane with my eyes. It would happen. It was only a matter of time.

The Birthday Party

"You forgot Aunt Agatha?"

The questioner seemed incredulous.

"I did not forget her. I just got busy and remembered a little late."

"But she will be here in an hour!"

How Katie always worries. I knew I could fix this problem. I knew just what to do. I went to the garage, dusted off an old sign, and put it up near the mailbox.

"I don't see how having a garage sale at this hour of the day is a good idea," stated Katie blankly. "And what about our aunt?"

"It'll all work out in the end," I said. "Now let's find her some gifts."

The desk drawer yielded a new pad of paper and some fine unused pens. My purse closet held several purses I had yet to use, from which I chose a simple black handbag. I hadn't yet opened two bottles of lotion, so I put one into the bag and wrapped it all up together.

"Okay," said Katie, "so you've gotten a gift. What about cake? Decorations? Guests? And she's coming in half an hour."

The doorbell interrupted.

"Is this the garage sale?" A lady of fifty or more, gracious and intelligent, peered from under a blue sun visor.

"Do come in," I said.

The lady looked around, wondering what was for sale. I let her wonder.

"Have a seat," I said, motioning toward the table. "This garage sale has refreshments."

The doorbell rang again. I motioned Katie to answer it and went into the kitchen to see what I could do. The doorbell rang twice more in the ten minutes it took me to peel and slice a tray of cheese and fruit. By the time I returned to the table Katie had them all seated, looking a bit bewildered. I placed it upon the table and strode hurriedly to the closet.

Some of the leftover Christmas and New Years decorations were generic enough for anytime festivity. I picked the plainest ones.

"I've almost got the sale ready," I explained to the ladies as I danced about with my decorating. "I apologize for not getting my ducks in a row sooner. Thanks for your patience."

I sneaked out the back door on tip toe to the mailbox and back, and stowed the garage sale sign in the nearest closet.

The doorbell rang.

"Aunt Agatha! Come in!" said Katie.

"Right in here!" I hollered over her shoulder. The aunt slowly made her way to the table. She sat down heavily and smiled.

"I'll be right back," I said. I ran into the other room, brought out all the purses, and told the ladies to choose one, on the house. Soon everyone was smiling and clutching a clean, new, fresh scented handbag. My aunt opened her gifts. She seemed pleased.

Soon everyone ate and was done, and I thanked the ladies and bade them farewell. My aunt was the last to go.

"Thank you," she said in her usual thick and winded voice. "I know I'm terrible with names, and you were so good not to embarrass me about it. You two are my best nieces."

We both smiled and watched her leave, relieved.

"Next year," said Katie, "I'm having her to my house."

"Let me know if you need any last minute ideas," I grinned.