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Laddie Meyers
“We used to shoe our own horses when we were girls, my sister and me—” And looking at the fragile skin drawn tight over swollen knuckles— I believed it was true. “It’s hell to get old, this horse was my brother’s favorite— he died a year ago.” I looked away, reached for comforting words as tears filled her eyes. | |
My nippers clicked together and the morning breeze carried the rumble of a distant Burlington Northern freight. Her horses were old and thin and thin and crippled, Should have been put down long ago, I thought, but who am I to say what’s best? “This sorrel has no teeth— he cracked his hip last winter, they retired him—gave him to me, but I got hurt and don’t ride anymore. Do you think he needs to be trimmed?” “You might remember him, His name is Laddie Meyers— he was a race horse, then they roped off him. Maybe I could trim him myself one of these days when I feel good. He has to spread his front legs like a colt to get the grass.” I looked into a kind eye straightened a tangled mane I knew Laddie ten years ago— He’d turned a thousand steers, a sign at his proud owner’s barn boasted that their place was the home of top AAA Laddie Meyers. “He needs to be trimmed,” I told her. “And for this horse, there’s no charge.” |
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