The Brutal Telling

Her dream. A horse of her own.



As a girl she’d ridden. With the wind in her hair and the leather reins light in her hands she’d felt free. And safe. The staggering worries of an earnest little girl forgotten.



Years later, when dissatisfaction had turned to despair, when her spirit had grown weary, when she could barely get out of bed in the morning, the dream had reappeared. Like the cavalry, like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, riding to her rescue.



Horses would save her. Those magnificent creatures who so loved their riders they charged into battle with them, through explosions, through terror, through shrieking men and shrieking weapons. If their rider urged them forward, they went.



Who could not love that?



Dominique had awoken one morning knowing what had to be done. For their sanity. For their souls. They had to quit their jobs, buy a home in the country. And have horses.



As soon as they’d bought the old Hadley house and Roar was working on the barn Dominique had gone to find her horses. She’d spent months researching the perfect breed, the perfect temperaments. The height, weight, color even. Palomino, dapple? All the words from childhood came back. All the pictures torn from calendars and taped to her wall next to Keith Partridge. The black horse with the white socks, the mighty, rearing gray stallion, the Arabian, noble, dignified, strong.



Finally Dominique settled on four magnificent hunters. Tall, shining, two chestnut, a black and one that was all white.



“I hear a truck,” said Carole, taking her daughter-in-law’s hand and holding it lightly. Like reins.



A truck hove into view. Dominique waved. The truck slowed, then followed her directions into the yard and stopped next to the brand new barn.



Four horses were led from the van, their hooves clunking on the wooden ramp. When they were all standing in the yard the driver walked over to the women, tossing a cigarette onto the dirt and grinding it underfoot.



“You need to sign, madame.” He held the clipboard out between them. Dominique reached for it and barely taking her eyes off the horses she signed her name then gave the driver a tip.



He took it then looked from the two bewildered women to the horses.



“You sure you want to keep ’em?”



“I’m sure, thank you,” said Dominique with more confidence than she felt. Now that they were actually there, and the dream was a reality, she realized she had no real idea what to do with a horse. Never mind four of them. The driver seemed to sympathize.



“Want me to put them in their stalls?”



“No, that’s fine. We can do it. Merci.” She wanted him to leave, quickly. To not witness her uncertainty, her bumbling, her ineptness. Dominique Gilbert wasn’t used to blundering, but she suspected she was about to become very familiar with it.



The driver reversed the empty van and drove away. Carole turned to Dominique and said, “Well, ma belle, I suspect we can’t do any worse than their last owners.”



As the van headed back to Cowansville they caught a glimpse of the word stenciled on the back door. In bold, black letters, so there could be no doubt. Abattoir. Then the two women turned back to the four sorry animals in front of them. Matted, walleyed, swaybacked. Hooves overgrown and coats covered in mud and sores.



“’Twould ring the bells of Heaven,” whispered Carole.



Dominique didn’t know about the bells of Heaven, but her head was ringing. What had she done? She moved forward with a carrot and offered it to the first horse. A broken-down old mare named Buttercup. The horse hesitated, not used to kindness. Then she took a step toward Dominique and with large, eloquent lips she picked the sweet carrot from the hand.



Dominique had canceled her purchase of the magnificent hunters and had decided to buy horses destined for slaughter. If she was expecting them to save her, the very least she could do was save them first.



An hour and a half later Dominique, Carole and the four horses were still standing in front of the barn. But now they’d been joined by a vet.



“Once they’re bathed you’ll need to rub this into their sores.” He handed Dominique a bucket of ointment. “Twice a day, in the morning and at night.”



“Can they be ridden?” Carole asked, holding the halter of the largest horse. Privately she suspected it wasn’t a horse at all, but a moose. Its name was Macaroni.



“Mais, oui. I’d encourage it.” He was walking round them again, his large, sure hands going over the sorry beasts. “Pauvre cheval,” he whispered into the ear of the old mare, Buttercup, her mane almost all fallen out, her tail wispy and her coat bedraggled. “They need exercise, they need good food and water. But mostly they need attention.”