"You don't need to help me. I've got this. After all, I'm an expert when it comes to horses." Maise's tone is sarcastic and a bit annoying. She and I just reached Monkey's stall. Maise's holding a red groom box in her hand. Inside it is the curry comb, the hard brush, the soft brush, the hoof pick, and the comb. I bet she has no idea which brush comes first. This is why I don't like kids anymore. They think they know everything. They are the reason I'm scared of horses.
Maise enters Monkey's stall and sets the box beside her ankle.
I back away from it and hold up my hands. "Cool, if you think you've got it, I'll leave you be." I get no more than five steps away when I see Mrs. Susie standing in the hallway with her arms crossed.
She glares at me, and I shiver. Fine, fine. I return to the stall but stay a fair distance from the door.
Maise points her nose at the ceiling. She steps out of the stall to grab Monkey's halter and lead rope from his wooden tack stand beside it. They're sitting on an English saddle, white riser pad, black girth and bridle, and a green saddle blanket. She puts his halter on and ties him up to the stall.
Maise pulls the curry comb out of the bucket. It's small, black, and round-shaped. She smirks and starts to brush Monkey's right side in short, circular strokes. This little devil is so showing off.
"Now that you're scared of horses, Miss Stella, it looks like I need to do all the work," she says.
My cheeks puff out. "I'm not scared of horses."
"Then prove it."
I freeze at Maise's words. Now she's taunting me? And I thought Mrs. Susie was a pain today. I won't give myself to a smart-aleck little girl, though.
I scoff and duck into Monkey's stall.
Instantly, he bops me on the head with his chin and pushes me against his water bucket. He scratches his nose on my back. Well, it's a coincidence that he has an itch right now. He nearly dumps me into his water as if I'm the victim of an elementary school dunk tank.
"No!" I say, and I hurry out of the stall.
Maise merely laughs. "I thought you were supposed to be the adult here." She returns the curry comb to the bucket and drags out the hard brush.
I scoff and think to myself, Why did I decide to come in again today?
After grooming comes tacking up.
Maise sets the saddle blanket, riser pad, and saddle down fine on Monkey's back but struggles with the girth. Oh, I hate it when horses do this. They are not the biggest fans of the girth, so they try to puff out their bellies to make it more difficult for us.
I take a deep breath and ask Maise, "Do you want me to help you?"
"I've got it," Maise argues, but she continues to struggle.
There is a look of amusement in Monkey's eyes. What a stubborn horse. It's like he's begging me to put on the girth myself.
Finally, I sigh and slip back in. My eyes catch a rat in the corner of his stall.
It grooms its nose and scurries under Monkey's belly. Horses are big chickens, so Monkey whinnies and kicks the wall as soon as he sees it.
The rat makes haste to get the heck out of dodge, as does Maise.
"What's going on?" I hear Mrs. Susie ask.
"Sorry, Mrs. Susie. Monkey just saw a rat," Maise answers.
"Where's Stella?"
"She's still in his stall!"
I'm trapped in the back corner. Every time I try to sneak by Monkey, he tries to kick me with his back feet. No, no, no! Not again! Holding my arms out to my sides, I press my back against the wall.
Mrs. Susie soon appears at the door. "Stay calm, Stella. I'm going to get you out." She attempts to come in, but Monkey again whinnies.
"Please," I beg. Memories of the accident replay in my mind.
I just finished tacking up a horse for a lesson. Everything was going A-Okay, but then a bunch of kids started to shout at him, unaware that I was still inside the stall.
The horse behaved insufferably. I tried running out, but he sucker-kicked me with his back hoof, right in my left arm. His horseshoe clipped my skin, and the impact was so extreme that I flew out of the stall and crashed into the tack stand, which knocked me unconscious. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital from a two-day coma. That happened exactly six months ago from today.
I think Monkey feels my fear. He calms down and peers over his shoulder at me. Horses may be stubborn animals, but they sense emotions. Monkey unties his lead rope with his teeth and slowly approaches me.
Mrs. Susie and Maise watch open-mouthed from the other side of the stall.
I can't believe what's going on.
Monkey's hooves pick up dirt, which collides with my pants.
Warm tears run down my cheeks. I can taste their saltiness. I slide down the wall until my backside hits the sawdust. It's official; the horse will turn me into the blue-plate special.
I wait for him to break my other arm, but he never does. Instead, he lowers his head and comes eye-level with me. I have a clear view of his underbody: the two chestnuts on his legs—where the horse's third toe used to be hundreds of years ago—and his swishy, midnight tail. His eyes tell me what he's thinking. He's sorry for scaring me.
The feeling deep in my gut returns. Now I know what it is. Monkey and I share a connection.
I lift my hand and move it toward his nose but back out at the last second. I make a run for it and duck into the barn's bathroom.
The room is small and dusty. A chair is in the corner beside the door, and the sink is across from it. Above the sink is an old mirror, and the toilet is parallel to it. A goofy picture of two toddler cowboys is on one of the room's walls. It's always been my favorite photo in the barn because it reminds me that I was very young when I started riding. Just looking at it, I relax.
I rub my finger across one of the babies' Caucasian skin, red hat, and blue overalls. Closing my eyes, I press my forehead against the photo.
I can't give up hope. That interaction with Monkey tells me that my love for horses is somewhere deep inside.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
