Horses

“Shhh… everything’s going to be OK,” Natalie promised the foal A light breeze tousled Natalie’s long auburn hair as she ran through the woods. The canopy of leaves above shielded Natalie from the sun beating down. Natalie loved the outdoors and was thankful that she had finally finished her chores so she could have fun. “Neigh!” Natalie heard a strange noise. What was a horse doing in the middle of a forest? Cautiously, Natalie walked toward the sound. She peered over a large log that had fallen in a recent storm, and gasped. A chocolate-brown foal with white markings lay on the forest floor. Its back left leg was bent at an angle that couldn’t be good. The foal was struggling to stand up but collapsed in the dirt every time. Natalie tentatively stretched out her hand. The foal squirmed away and started neighing frantically. “Shhh… everything’s going to be OK,” Natalie promised the foal. “Natalie! Where are you? It’s lunchtime!” Natalie’s mother called. “I’ll be right back,” said Natalie. Then she rushed home, hoping that the foal would be there when she returned. *          *          * The hubbub of normal life at Natalie’s farm made it easy for her to slip outside unnoticed. Quickly stripping a piece of linen from the washing line, Natalie left her home and dashed back to the injured foal. It took her a while to relocate the animal but its distressed wails helped. Once she spotted the horse, Natalie leaned down and wrapped the linen around the foal’s broken leg. The poor creature lashed out with its hooves, trying to dislodge Natalie’s hand from its leg, but Natalie held on tight. She slowly eased the leg back into its right position, then stood back to admire her handiwork. “There, there, little one. It’ll all be OK,” Natalie murmured, stroking the foal’s head softly. Natalie had experience with animals from working on her farm. Her family made their money by raising foals, then selling them once they were old enough. The cow milk and chickens’ eggs also helped rake in money, but the horses were what Natalie’s family was known for. It was clear to Natalie that without help the foal would only survive a few more days. Natalie guessed that it had only recently been weaned from its mother’s milk. A gut feeling told Natalie that she was the one who had to take care of this animal. If her parents knew, they would surely make her get rid of it, for the market was only willing to take in purebreds, which the foal most certainly was not. Natalie would have to sneak food out of the house to give to the animal. If she got caught, there was no telling what would happen. “First things first,” Natalie said aloud. “I have to give you a name.” The trees rustled as the light breeze picked up again. Natalie, of course, had never ridden the foal but could tell by the way it was built that it had a smooth gait. “How about… Runs Like the Breeze?” Natalie suggested. “Breeze for short.” The foal whinnied and Natalie took that as a good sign. In her family, they never named the horses. Her father said that if they did they would just become attached and the day when they had to sell would be harder. Natalie didn’t care. She thought that everything should have a name. Eventually, Natalie walked home. The next morning she would go back to the foal with a blanket and food. That night Natalie dreamt of riding Breeze along the beach, wind whipping through her hair and waves crashing on the shore. *          *          * “Wow! You sure are hungry. Slow down!” Natalie laughed as Breeze inhaled the apples and hay. Breeze paused for a second and looked up with a piece of hay dangling from his mouth. Natalie wiped it away, giggling. It had been a week since she had found Runs Like the Breeze, and his appetite had really taken off. Natalie loved the horse but a nagging feeling deep inside of her kept on asking, “Won’t they notice the food is disappearing?” Natalie pushed the feeling away and continued talking and laughing with the foal. Finally, Breeze stopped eating and snuggled into the blankets that Natalie had laid out in a hollow log. Breeze’s leg was healing quickly and Natalie was happy about that. Still, she worried about what she would do once Breeze was all better. Breeze had really grown attached to Natalie and would never run off without her. Natalie was glad but she kept on wondering if it was really fair. Once Breeze became a full-grown horse he shouldn’t have to be cooped up. Just looking at Breeze told Natalie that he was a wild horse. Would he really enjoy having an owner? Breeze’s breathing became slower and steadier so Natalie knew he was asleep. She sat for a while, stroking Breeze’s flank and listening to the birds. As the dusk shadows fell she stood up and started for home. “Where have you been?” Natalie’s mother, Mrs. Merriman, exclaimed. “Mama’s been worried sick,” said Natalie’s sister, Maybel. “I was just taking a walk,” Natalie replied. “Well, tell me before you go,” Mrs. Merriman said and walked away. When she was gone Maybel said, “I know you’re hiding something, Natalie.” Natalie was shocked. Maybel couldn’t find out about Breeze! “No, I’m not!” Natalie protested. “Fine, but I’m watching you,” Maybel said and stalked off. Natalie couldn’t believe it. Only a week had passed and she had almost lost Breeze. *          *          * “Come on, Breeze. It’s time to go,” Natalie said, leading Breeze deeper into the forest. His leg was healed completely as if there had never been an injury in the first place. Maybel had followed Natalie one day while she was visiting Breeze. It was only a matter of time before Natalie’s secret leaked out to her whole family. Once they got a hold

The crowds roar for me as I step on the track. I listen, and I arch my neck and dance as my groom leads me down the stretch. Mike, my jockey, sits still on my back and listens too. But I know he is excited. I can tell by the way he grips the reins, clutching them firm. I prance a little more to assure him of my confidence. Now my groom unsnaps the lead rope, and Mike stands in the saddle and lets me break into a canter. We are approaching the starting stalls, and other horses and riders canter past us. Some are nervous and skittish, so that an assistant must lope out on his own mount and steady them by the bridle. I continue my canter down the track. I know what is expected of me. We jog past the starting gate. Mike lets me go a little more before turning me around. We slow to a walk. An assistant trots up beside us, and he leans over and takes hold of my bridle. Again I stretch my legs and dance. Slowly, all the racers turn and are ponied up to the stalls. We have the number four post position. The assistant lets go, and Mike steers me towards my stall. A starting handler takes my reins and leads me in. The gates are closed behind me. I feel Mike’s hands leave the reins for a moment as he reaches up to pull his goggles over his eyes. Then they are back again with a ready hold. I flick my ears down the row at the sound of more gates being closed, one by one. Nearly all are in position now. Jockeys shift, horses stamp. I relax and feel Mike let out a breath as well. We know what to do. Mike keeps me steady, but I can sense his tingling excitement Everyone is still now. The air is electric. Even the crowd feels it, and a shout surges from them… Riiiiiiing! The gates slam open, and for a few moments I see the track, clear and unoccupied before me. Then horses begin to crowd forward and bunch at the rail. Mike eases me to the back, some lengths behind the pack. I prick my ears and settle into that long, slow gallop I know so well. “…Zenyatta’s dead last, Zenyatta’s dead last early…” The voice of the announcer fades in for a moment, but then it is lost again in the thunder of hooves. Mike crouches in the stirrups, his hands, legs, and whip motionless. I keep a steady stride, watching the rumps of the horses ahead rise and fall, rise and fall. A little farther on, I feel the bit moving in my mouth and Mike’s hands rubbing against my neck. It is my signal. I extend my stride. We sweep by the first horse with no trouble and settle in second-to-last. Mike keeps me steady, but I can sense his tingling excitement. *          *          * The pack ahead begins its sweep around the first turn. I follow unhurriedly. We come out of the turn easily and I continue to breeze. I watch the jostling of the horses ahead and I am glad we are in the back, where I can concentrate and prepare for my real run at the end. We are closer to the pack now, only a length or two behind the racer in front of us. The second and final turn is approaching. Still I wait for the signal. We swoop around the turn. Now it is a straightaway for the wire. The drone of the announcer becomes momentarily audible. “…if she can win this, she’ll be a superhorse…” Mike gives me my cue a second time. I glance at the outside of the pack, for that is where I usually go, but this time Mike steers me towards the inside rail. The horses are breaking, and there is a hole there wide enough for me to slip through. I take it. Now I am in the middle of the pack, and I can feel Mike glancing around for another opening. There! Something is opening up on the outside. I prick my ears up and head for it. A horse rushes into our way, and we have to go around. But now the track is free and clear before us. Mike urges me with his hands and his whip. I fly over the ground. My strides lengthen and push me forward with ever-increasing speed. We are gaining… gaining… gaining… The crowd screams, but the voice of the astounded announcer sails above it all. “ This—is—un—be— l i e v e- a – b l e ! ZENYATTA!” We flash under the wire, half a length in front. Mike punches the air with his fist in victory. The feeling is surging through him, and it makes me want to gallop further, but he eases back on the reins. I slow, even though I love the soaring sensation of running. The race is over. And when a rider lopes over to lead us to the winner’s circle, Mike takes off his helmet and lifts his eyes to heaven, thanking God for once again giving us wings. *          *          * On November 7, 2009, the Breeder’s Cup Classic was run at Santa Anita Park, California. The winner was the first female horse to ever capture that race—a five-year-old mare named Zenyatta. She was undefeated. In 2010 she went on to win five more races, all piloted by jockey Mike Smith. She retired in November of 2010 with a total of twenty starts and nineteen wins. Later, she also won 2010 Horse of the Year. Though her brilliant career is over, she will remain in our hearts for many, many years to come. Long live the Queen. Mary Jessica Woods, 13Frankfort, Illinois