Summer of the Horse by Donna Kane

Author:Donna Kane
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horses, literary, memoir, British Columbia, Donna Kane, Muskwa-Kechika Management Area, Horsemen and horsewomen, human-animal relationships, trail riding, packhorse camping
ISBN: 9781550178203
Publisher: Harbour Publishing Co. Ltd.
Published: 2018-03-03T05:00:00+00:00

I ready myself for the challenge of Bucky.

Thirteen

First Day on Comet’s Trail

In order to hose Comet before I go to work each morning I have to set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. The irony of keeping trail time when I’m at home is not lost on me: it’s one more tick on the list of all the travesties made against the summer I thought would be mine. But I know the indignity I feel is really borne of something else—I don’t want to be responsible for Comet’s demise. I am terrified I will fail.

One good thing about my anxiety is that when the alarm goes off, the adrenalin rush of my fear makes it easier to get out of bed. I look out the window. Not a cloud in the sky, the morning light touching the blades of grass, the leaves of the weeping birch, as if night were a filtration system, sifting away the impurities of each day and returning a distilled, pared light—photons shed of mass. I grind coffee beans and turn on a kettle of water before putting on my jacket and my gumboots. See you on the flip side, I say to my empty coffee cup.

To get to the Quonset where Comet’s halter and vet supplies are, I walk past old lilac bushes and copses of willows. The yard was landscaped when we bought the place and it’s one of the things that made me want to buy it. The apple trees and flowerbeds all follow the natural curve and slope of the ground. The yard has an expansiveness to it. When I look back at the farmhouse, it makes me think of Andrew Wyeth’s painting Christina’s World. Except that I am not as far away from the house as Christina was in the painting, and we’ve painted our old farmhouse a pale yellow with orange trim. A few years ago, Wayne installed an underground watering system, and we’ve attached the hoses that lead to Comet’s corral to the faucet next to the vegetable garden, the one nearest the Quonset—Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey, I say to myself to make sure I’ve turned the tap in the right direction.

The door of the metal shed squeaks on its hinges and bangs shut behind me. I wonder if Comet has heard this and if he is glad someone’s come or if it has put him on edge. I’ve set up the supplies on an old table. Before Wayne left, he and Brian constructed a small shelter at the other end of the building, the two metal doors pulled open so Comet could come in from the corrals. I fill the oral syringe with the liquid antibiotics, grab the bottle of Fura-Zone, the jar of Swat, and put a few horse treats in my pocket. I think of my neighbour Joyce, who trains horses and says, “I don’t do treats.” I will do whatever it takes to get Comet to like me. I can hear Wayne saying, “It’s not a question of like.

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