Page 8 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

Ugh. Committing crimes is hard.

It occurs to me then that my boyfriend has been accused of a crime he didn’t commit—embezzling company funds. In order to get him free of the jail cell he’s stuck in. . .I’ve just committed a real crime.

But as long as I stay safe myself, it’s a crime without a victim. The owners wanted the stallion gone, and now he’s gone. They won’t even have to pay to dispose of his body. I’m really doing something good—giving this animal a shot at life,andsparing the owners the vet bills and burial costs of the stallion.

So why do I feel so terribly bad about all of it?

I’m probably just worried that I may be putting Steve in a bind. I flip to the AM satellite radio station, hoping a talk show might distract me. Only, every channel I try has people yapping about more horrible things happening somewhere in the world.

“—wildfires in California and parts of Idaho are spreading. It’s strange to see them this late in the year, but if climate change has taught us anything?—”

“—another earthquake, this one close to the last. Wyoming almost never sees major quakes, and this one’s on the wobble line for what constitutes major, but its genesis is a fault that hasn’t really seen any activity in centuries, as far as we can tell.”

“—sharply rising rates of violent crime in?—”

I shut the radio off, but sitting in silence makes for a very,verylong drive home. When I finally turn onto the small road that leads to Heaston’s property, I’m exhausted. My shoulders are stiff, my head’s pounding, and I’m beginning to think this was a very, very stupid plan.

What if, when I go to unload this horse, he doesn’t act at all like the calm, sensible guy who got on? What if we’re back to the dragon who snapped at me and tried to kill me? What if, instead of being a promising prospect I might sell, this horse tries to end my life, and I’m either injured, or stuck calling Steve and confessing that I’ve gotten in over my head?

I’m nervous enough that I decide to dose the big beast with Dormosedan before unloading. He’s not stomping, he’s not screaming, and he’s not kicking, but I’m still nervous. He must’ve been slated to be killed for a reason. It takes me two minutes to run to the tiny office on the end of Tim’s house, enter the keypad code, and swipe a tube of gel from the cabinet. As I walk back, I dither about the amount.

Unlike wormer, horses have to absorb the gel under their tongue or on their gums. If he swallows it, it won’t work well at all. I’m a little nervous that he won’t stand politely and let me give it to him through the window, but if he does, do I give him one or two milliliters? Ugh. Maybe this is why I didn’t make it into vet school. I’m just no good at this kind of stuff, and I dither far too much.

In the end, I decide to give him the full dose. If he’s a little drowsy, I can stay with him in the stallion enclosure longer. It’ll take more time, but that will give me a chance to get to know him better.

Plus, I’ve had quite a while to get really nervous and second guess this stupid decision. I reach through the window, talking to him while I do. “Alright, boy. I have to do this one little thing, and then I’ll unload you. It’ll just take one second, and it won’t hurt.” I pause with my hand under his chin. “Don’t bite me. Okay?”

He stares at me calmly. No stomping. No snapping.

I inhale, and then I stick the plunger under his tongue. I expect him to throw his head up, or toss his face around, or really anything to try and dislodge my tube.

He doesn’t. He just stares at me, and it almost creeps me out. He looks. . .more sentient than a horse usually is. He looks like he understood everything I said.

“I’m sorry for sedating you,” I say. “I’m nervous you might try to break away from me when we unload.”

Now he tosses his head, and he seems to be trying to spit the gel out. Stupid, idiotic horse. Luckily, there’s not much gel, and it’s a little viscous—hard to dislodge. With the way I smeared it around under his tongue and on his gums, I doubt he could avoid it if he had a compelling reason.

While I wait for it to take effect, he stomps, kicks, and screams.

“I know you’re sick of being in the trailer,” I say. “And I’m truly sorry. But you’re very large, and I’m very small, and if you misbehave, you could hurt me badly.” His stomping does lessen a bit, and although he’s still got flaring nostrils and rolling eyes, he seems a little less insane.

Finally, enough time has passed that I decide to go ahead and try to unload him. I wish I had someone here to call. I wish I hadanyonehere to call, but I can’t explain where he came from, and anyone from the vet practice would have alotof questions for me to answer. Questions Ican’tanswer.

My heart’s racing as I unclip the bottom of his halter from the lead on the trailer clip. I reattach his lead line and swing the line up over his back. He does look a little drowsy, which is exactly how he should look after taking a full dose. I carefully open the back of the trailer, watching for signs of frustration or anger, but he’s standing still and steady. I unhook the latch on the bar that’s tied into the middle of the trailer, freeing it, and it swings wide.

Now comes the pivotal moment.

I say a little prayer that he’ll back off nicely. I’ve seen plenty of horses shoot off, damaging themselves or their owners, but he doesn’t. He turns his head slowly, realizes he’s free, and backs off. Quickly, but not dangerously so.

Then he turns his head toward me.

I snag his lead and start to pull him toward the far right side, angling toward the small stallion enclosure Tim has. His practice uses this as an overflow quarantine when necessary, so I remember him saying his horse setup’s a write-off. I was glad he had the property, and I was even happier when he told me I could keep my mare and gelding here. It gives me somewhere to board that’s not so expensive I can’t justify keeping both my horses close.

And it gave me an excuse to come over more often at first.

Luckily my mare and gelding get along like peanut butter and jelly. They both rush the adjacent fence line as we approach. My mare, Millie, calls loudly. My old gelding, Chromey, simply follows her to the edge.

I had hoped the other horses would reassure Mr. Highstrung, but Drago goes the other way. As we approach the gate for the stallion pasture, his nostrils flare, his eyes roll, and he generally begins to act as if he wasn’t sedated at all.

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